The sun dipped low behind the towering spires of the Seventh Realm's palace, casting long shadows over the grand entrance steps where Emperor Ryon paced restlessly.
The marble beneath his boots felt cold, but his growing frustration burned hotter with each passing hour. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon, waiting for the news of distant No Man's Island. He is anticipating the island to reveal some sign, some trace of the half-million soldiers he had dispatched.
"They should have come back by now," Ryon muttered under his breath, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
The golden light of evening bathed the palace grounds, but no messenger had come, no sign of the army he sent to seize control of the teleportation gate. It was as if the wind had swallowed them whole.
A faint sound of footsteps echoed behind him. One of his advisors approached hesitantly, bowing low.
