Maxwell von Pontes, once a towering symbol of Ferraclysm's unassailable might, now knelt in the dirt. His breaths came in ragged gasps, each one a sharp reminder of his shattered pride. The ground beneath him was scorched and torn, the battlefield a grim testament to the overwhelming power that had been unleashed. His once-pristine robes were tattered, and his mana reserves—seemingly infinite to most—were drained to the dregs.
He dared to lift his gaze, only to meet the cold, calculating eyes of the man who had brought him to his knees. Arthur Nightingale. A boy, not yet twenty-one, stood unbroken amidst the wreckage. His posture was relaxed, his breathing measured, the faint sheen of exertion on his brow the only betrayal of the fierce battle that had raged moments before. Arthur stretched his neck, rolling his shoulders with a calm that sent a chill down Maxwell's spine.
"You truly are a fool, Maxwell," Arthur's voice rang out, low and unyielding, cutting through the stillness like a blade.
Maxwell clenched his fists, his fingers digging into the earth. A mid Immortal-ranker, an 8-circle mage who had been courted by Archmage Charlotte herself to join the exalted Tower of Magic—reduced to this. His lips trembled as he tried to speak, but no words came. He could still feel the echoes of the power Arthur had unleashed, a force that had defied all reason and expectation.
His mind reeled. How?
Arthur began to pace around him, his steps deliberate, his presence oppressive. "You overestimated yourself," Arthur continued, his tone almost conversational. "And underestimated me."
Maxwell's heart thundered in his chest. The humiliation of it all was almost too much to bear. His mind flashed back to the beginning of the battle—the confidence he'd felt as Ferraclysm's forces had mobilized, the towering fortress of Aegis soaring into the sky. They had been untouchable, or so he'd thought. But Aegis had been reduced to rubble in moments, the fortress that symbolized Ferraclysm's supremacy nothing more than a grave marker for their arrogance.
And now? The remnants of Ferraclysm's vaunted adventurers lay scattered, broken, and defeated.
Maxwell's breath hitched as he laughed bitterly. "I understand now," he muttered, his voice hollow. "This battle... it was never one we could win."
Arthur halted in his pacing and tilted his head, as though examining a particularly interesting specimen. "You're right," he said, almost kindly. "It wasn't."
Maxwell wanted to scream, to argue, to demand answers. But the truth was undeniable. This wasn't just a defeat. It was a systematic dismantling of everything Ferraclysm stood for. No strategy or tactics had been enough. The fortress had fallen. Their forces had been obliterated. And now, even Maxwell himself, a mid Immortal-ranker, stood drained and powerless before a boy barely into adulthood.
"Too strong," Maxwell whispered to himself. His own words felt alien to him. When had he ever thought someone was too strong?
Arthur stepped closer, his presence suffocating. "I won't destroy Ferraclysm," he said, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "Instead, I'll make you an offer."
Maxwell's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. "An offer?"
Arthur crouched slightly, meeting Maxwell's gaze directly. "Become my subordinate guild."
The words struck Maxwell like a physical blow. Subordinate guilds. Ferraclysm had plenty of them—smaller guilds bound by contracts and legal agreements to serve their interests. But this? This was unheard of. One of the Twelve Great Guilds, a subordinate?
"You're insane," Maxwell growled, though his voice lacked conviction.
Arthur merely smiled. It wasn't a kind smile—it was sharp, knowing, the smile of someone who had already won. He straightened and pulled a sleek device from his pocket, tossing it to Maxwell. The older man caught it reflexively, though his hands shook as he activated it.
His breath caught.
Displayed before him were four names: Luminalis, Skyveil, Pyronis, Chronovant.
"Impossible," Maxwell whispered, his voice trembling. These were not just guilds—they were peers, titans among the Twelve Great Guilds. And according to the device, each had already signed subordinate contracts with Noctalis.
Arthur's voice cut through Maxwell's shock. "They've already joined me. Now, it's your turn."
The holographic display shimmered, taunting Maxwell with the truth. He stared at the names, his mind racing. When? How? Noctalis had moved in the shadows, playing the game of power with a subtlety and precision that even Maxwell, with decades of experience, hadn't anticipated. The realization hit him like a hammer: Arthur Nightingale already had the Empire dancing in the palm of his hand.
Maxwell exhaled shakily, his shoulders slumping. His pride warred with his pragmatism, but there was no choice to be made. Ferraclysm was broken, its future uncertain. And the boy—no, the man—standing before him had proven himself more than capable of forcing his will upon even the mightiest.
"Fine," Maxwell said at last, his voice heavy with resignation. He activated the holographic document attached to the device, his mana signature glowing as he finalized the agreement.
Arthur smiled again, this time with genuine satisfaction. "A wise choice."
Maxwell's hand trembled as the document's glow faded, signifying its completion. Bound by a tight legal agreement, Ferraclysm was now a subordinate of Noctalis. It wasn't a mana oath, but the contract was airtight. There would be no escape.
Arthur turned, his coat swaying as he began to walk away. "Welcome to the future, Maxwell," he called over his shoulder.
As Maxwell sat in the dirt, staring at the device in his hand, he realized two things: he had underestimated Arthur Nightingale. And the world he had known was changing faster than he could ever have imagined.
__________________________________________________________________________________
My preparations had been meticulous, each step calibrated to perfection. The pieces were falling into place, as though the very world had conspired to align itself with my ambitions. Aetherite, the most precious resource the world had seen in centuries, was mine to control—a monopoly so absolute it choked the competition before they could even gasp for air.
Four of the Twelve Great Guilds, pillars of the Slatemark Empire's economy and power, were now subordinate to Noctalis. Luminalis, Skyveil, Pyronis, and Chronovant—names that once commanded reverence—had bent the knee, enticed by the promise of fair terms, unfettered access to aetherite, and an escape from the stifling sanctions imposed by the imperial family. The very rules of the game had changed, and they had been wise enough to join the winning side.
And then there was Ferraclysm, the so-called jewel of the Twelve Great Guilds. Its crown had been shattered, its fortress crushed under the weight of its own arrogance. Maxwell von Pontes, with all his Immortal-rank strength and monumental pride, had knelt. Ferraclysm, the strongest of them all, had been brought to heel.
This was no mere victory. It was a symphony of domination, and the final notes rang clear: Noctalis was already stronger than many of the Twelve Great Guilds combined.
But this was only the beginning.
It was time for Noctalis to ascend beyond comparison, to claim its place as the greatest guild in the world. The remaining guilds would fall in line—some through negotiations, others through subjugation. They would be absorbed one by one until the Twelve Great Guilds were no more than an echo of a bygone era, their legacy subsumed into the future I was creating.
And then, when Noctalis stood unchallenged atop the world, I would turn my gaze higher. To the throne. To the Emperor himself.
But the Emperor was not the key.
No, the linchpin of all this had been the Chancellor of the Slatemark Empire, Lady Amelia. The youngest chancellor in history, her mind sharp enough to cut through steel and her influence unparalleled within the labyrinth of imperial politics. She had been instrumental in ensuring Noctalis avoided any legal pitfalls, her support quiet but decisive. In return, I had given her more than enough to justify her gamble—an alliance that was as lucrative as it was strategic.
It was a delicate dance, and Amelia played her role flawlessly. But for all her brilliance, she was not my ultimate adversary. She was, at most, a piece on the board—albeit a powerful one. The real challenges lay ahead.
I exhaled deeply, my breath fogging the cool air of the Noctalis command chamber. The room hummed softly with the glow of holographic displays, charts and projections whispering of future conquests. The path forward was clear, but the weight of it settled heavily on my shoulders.
"Was this also under your calculations, Art?" I muttered under my breath, the name echoing in the quiet room.
Art—the mysterious entity that seemed to have orchestrated so many of the events in my life. Was I playing his game, or was I finally breaking free of it? The thought gnawed at the edge of my mind, but there was no time for such musings. The stage was set, and I was both the player and the pawn.
Taking over the Twelve Great Guilds wasn't hard. Not truly.
The hard part was next.
I closed my eyes, the image of her face burning into my thoughts.
Elara Astoria.
The key to avoiding the disastrous civil war that loomed like a storm on the horizon. Her engagement to Prince Valerian Slatemark had been carefully engineered by forces far more powerful than me. Breaking it would be akin to setting the Empire itself on fire.
But it had to be done.
I opened my eyes, resolve hardening in my chest. The displays flickered, casting faint shadows across the room, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath.
"I will save you, Elara," I said aloud, the words a promise to her and a challenge to myself.
The path ahead was shrouded in uncertainty, fraught with dangers and impossible choices. But I would walk it, step by step, even if it meant tearing down everything the Empire stood for.