CHAPTER 141: DESTINY

Compared to the chaos brewing outside the castle walls, the interior of the royal Eldros stronghold exuded an eerie and unsettling calm—like the eye of a hurricane.

Guards clad in polished, ornamental armor stood at attention, their spines as rigid as spears, eyes blank behind visors that gleamed under the soft glow of enchanted chandeliers. They were like statues—beautiful but empty, their stillness mocking the turmoil beyond the walls.

Within the grand halls, ministers and courtiers wandered freely, dressed in layers of silk and jewels that caught the flickering firelight. Their laughter rang through the gilded corridors, echoing off marble columns and stained glass murals. Goblets filled with rich, spiced wine clinked in celebratory toasts. Murmurs of gossip and indulgent banter passed from one smiling face to the next, as if the capital wasn’t on the verge of annihilation.

It was almost as if they existed in a bubble sealed off from reality—a realm where death was merely a rumor, and despair, an unpleasant myth.

At the heart of this illusion, in the inner sanctum of the royal chambers, sat Roosevelt Eldros—the king of Eldros and father of Darius. Draped in flowing robes laced with golden thread, he reclined on a high-backed throne shaped from blackwood and obsidian, his posture as relaxed as if he were overseeing a festival, not a kingdom in collapse.

An indifferent smile curved his lips, but his eyes, sharp and calculating, betrayed a storm of thoughts beneath.

In his hands, he cradled two slender wooden sticks—each inscribed with faintly glowing runic symbols. The air around the sticks shimmered faintly, charged with a mysterious energy.

As Roosevelt gently rubbed his fingers along the surface, the runes began to shift—rearranging, reforming, aligning with a will of their own. Bit by bit, the fragments fused into an abstract image.

Lines extended and intersected, and what first appeared to be nothing but gibberish slowly transformed into something more focused... something insect-like. A long, curved shape took form—narrow and sharp at the tip.

A mosquito’s proboscis.

The king narrowed his eyes, bringing the strange relic closer to his face. The subtle scent of old wood and spiritual residue wafted up as he studied it in silence.

"What is this?" Roosevelt muttered, voice edged with confusion but also a flicker of unease. His tone was calm, yet the frown that crept onto his face betrayed otherwise.

In all his calculations, in all the enemies he’d foreseen—rebellious nobles, rival kingdoms, seers who spoke in riddles—none looked like this.

The image wasn’t a direct answer. No face, no name. Only a symbol.

A clue.

He let out a breath, gaze turning inward.

Perhaps the artifact hadn’t shown him the adversary, but a harbinger. A warning.

The two wooden pieces in his hand weren’t simple toys, nor were they mere divination tools—they were ancient relics, once wielded by the founder of the Eldros bloodline. Known in legends as the "Dice of Reversal," they were said to hold the power to defy even destiny, to bend fate toward the user’s will... or to show the one thing they needed most, whether it be truth, deception, or salvation.

But their answers always came veiled. Symbolic. Cryptic.

Roosevelt clenched the sticks tighter, their glow pulsing slightly at his touch.

A mosquito’s proboscis... why that?

He leaned back in his throne, eyes flickering with dangerous curiosity.

Perhaps it was time to consult the old archives beneath the castle.

Perhaps the dice had whispered of an enemy unlike any he had ever known.

And that meant... his carefully crafted plans may no longer be enough.

Just as the king was lost in contemplation, the massive doors of the royal chamber creaked open with a slow, ominous groan, as if reluctant to disturb the stillness within.

A figure stepped through the threshold, cloaked from head to toe in a thick, dark robe. The heavy fabric swayed slightly with each step, brushing softly against the pristine marble floor. Only a pair of hollow eyes peeked through the hood—murky, glazed over like the glassy orbs of a dead fish. They carried no spark, no light—just the unsettling emptiness of someone long devoid of joy or fear.

King Roosevelt Eldros didn’t even look up at first, clearly annoyed by the interruption. His fingers, still lightly brushing the rune-covered wooden sticks, slowed their motion. His eyes narrowed, as if the very presence of this newcomer was an unwelcome blemish on his perfect calm.

"What is it?" he asked, his tone clipped and dismissive, like a man shooing away a fly from his wine.

The cloaked figure immediately halted a respectful distance away, lowering his head. Even the folds of his hood seemed to shrink in submission.

"My apologies, Your Majesty," the figure said, voice low and cautious, like dry leaves rustling in a forgotten corridor. "But all the Stage 3 beings of the Eldros continent await your appearance. They have gathered in the Hall of Echoes."

The king’s brows twitched ever so slightly. The ever-looming moment had arrived.

He slowly set the carved wooden relics down on the silk-covered table beside him, their strange runes still faintly glowing with shifting light. The half-formed image of a mosquito’s proboscis shimmered for a brief second before dissolving into unreadable lines.

Roosevelt leaned back into his ornate throne, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

So... it begins.

But then, as if snagged by a loose thread of thought, he turned his gaze back to the hooded man and asked with a calm that carried weight, "Is there any news about Crown Prince Darius?"

The words were simple, almost casually delivered, yet they struck the hooded figure like a blade between the ribs.

He stiffened. Visibly. A nervous twitch ran down the side of his jaw, barely contained. His throat bobbed as he swallowed dryly, dread leaking through every fiber of his body.

That good-for-nothing bastard, he cursed internally. Where the hell did he vanish to?

No matter how many eyes they sent out, no matter how far their search extended—through the towers of the capital, across noble estates, even into the restricted zones—they had found nothing. Not a single trace. As if the Crown Prince had been swallowed whole by the world itself.

And now, standing here before the king’s cold gaze, the truth felt heavier than the royal robe draped across the king’s own shoulders.

The silence lingered just a bit too long.

Or perhaps, they weren’t unaware.

Perhaps they simply didn’t care.

Beyond the royal chambers, inside a towering ceremonial hall lit by soulfire lanterns and engraved with the sigils of the Old Monarchs, a long obsidian table stood at the center—its surface filled with shadowy reflections of the seated figures.

There were over twenty of them.

Titans of their time.

Legends whose mere names could shake empires and cause kingdoms to tremble. Some were ancient rivals, locked in blood feuds spanning generations. Others were old friends—long parted and newly reunited.

And yet, none dared to rise. None dared to embrace, argue, or clash.

They all waited.

Waited for one man.

The King of Eldros.

Their expressions masked a whirlwind of emotions. For now, etiquette demanded silence, but telepathic exchanges surged between them in a storm of private voices.

"Old Cougar Windcorer... I can’t believe you’re still alive," said a muscular, bald Stage 3 warrior, his gaze fixed on a petite woman with piercing violet eyes. "I thought you’d died in the Golden Void Forbidden Zone."

The woman gave no reply. She merely blinked—eyes calm, unbothered. She had survived worse than whispered rumors. And this was not the place for idle chatter.

Across the table, an elderly man with a mane of snow-white hair swept his withering gaze across the room. His nostrils flared in contempt.

Fools. They have no idea what they’re walking into.

They had arrived with grand expectations, yet none sensed the deeper truth. None recognized the scent of veiled danger in the air—none but him.

And then he saw it.

A shadow stretching across the entrance.

A tall figure moving with calm steps, yet exuding a pressure that weighed upon the air itself.

The white-haired man’s lips curled into a stiff smile.

"The King of Eldros is finally here," he muttered, voice low but resonant with quiet dread.

Unlike the others, this man had not come out of loyalty or duty. He had come despite the gnawing feeling in his gut—the primal sense honed through centuries of conflict that something was deeply, irrevocably wrong.

He had received the king’s invitation and known, from that very moment, that danger lay ahead.

But he came anyway.

Because one does not ignore a summons from a man who holds fate in his hands.

Forty-Two darted through the corridors of the wooden castle, her bare feet barely making a sound against the smooth, polished floors. For once, she was free—no orders to follow, no watchful eyes scrutinizing her every move. The burden of hierarchy, of titles and decorum that suffocated her in the Undead Realm, was nowhere to be found here.

She grinned.

This strange mortal world was chaotic, yes, but also exhilarating.

Her oversized cloak flapped behind her like wings as she ran past confused guards and giggling maids, an ice cream cone clutched triumphantly in one hand. The soft sweetness dripped down her fingers, unfamiliar and thrilling. She didn’t even care. Today, she was a girl—not a weapon, not a shadow, not a numbered name whispered in fear.

Just a girl with ice cream.

As she reached a sunlit courtyard, Forty-Two came to a sudden stop, her nose twitching in delight. She raised the cone, ready to devour the creamy prize.

Then froze.

Her head snapped upward.

The air shifted. The light dimmed, just a little—barely noticeable to anyone else. But she felt it. A familiar pressure brushed against her senses, faint yet unmistakable. The icy delight melted between her fingers, forgotten.

Her lips parted in disbelief. Her voice was soft, barely a breath.

"...What is she doing here?"

A chill ran down her spine.

The carefree day had ended.