When the totem signed the contract, a great disturbance occurred in a vast city of a thousand towers. Among them, eight towers loomed higher than the rest, their sheer presence radiating immense power. The magic energy surrounding these towers was so dense it could be seen with the naked eye—shimmering currents of light pulsing through the sky.
Each of the eight towers was pristine white, adorned with intricate golden runes that glowed faintly along their walls. They stood arranged in a perfect hexagonal formation, encircling an inner city devoid of towers. Beyond them, the rest of the city sprawled outward, its skyline filled with countless smaller towers.
Suddenly, one of the eight towers—the Tower of Prophecy—began to shine. A golden radiance surged from its peak, and in an instant, a massive beam of light erupted from the tower, piercing through the clouds and vanishing into the depths of space.
The phenomenon was visible across half of the Montreal Continent, and the sheer force of the magic fluctuations could be felt even beyond the continent's borders.
All across the city, murmurs and discussions broke out.
"What just happened at the Tower of Prophecy?" one man asked in confusion.
"Did someone advance? Or was it the result of a failed experiment?" another speculated.
An older scholar furrowed his brows. "I know this occurrence. The last time something like this happened was five thousand years ago."
A curious listener turned to him. "How do you know that?"
"It's recorded in my family's library," the scholar replied. "The last time the tower shone like this, it was because the Tower Master received a prophecy."
Gasps spread through the crowd.
"What kind of prophecy?" someone asked urgently.
Another voice answered, hushed but tense. "Are you talking about the prophecy that foretold the Zerg invasion?"
"Yes," the scholar confirmed. "The last great prophecy warned of the Zerg's arrival. And exactly one hundred years later, they invaded our world."
"But we won that war, didn't we?"
A grim expression crossed the scholar's face. "No. We neither won nor lost. The Zerg were never truly defeated. With the help of the Abyss and Hell, we managed to push them out of our world, but they remain just beyond, waiting for their chance to return."
A heavy silence followed his words.
"Then… does this mean the Zerg will invade again?" someone whispered.
"Either that," the scholar said gravely, "or something even worse is coming."
The Tower of Prophecy
At the very top of the Tower of Prophecy, in a grand chamber bathed in golden light, an old man with long white hair and a flowing beard hovered in midair. His purple robe shimmered with traces of magic, his entire body glowing with residual energy.
Around him, several robed figures stood in silence, their gazes filled with a mix of concern and anticipation. Each of them wore deep violet robes, the emblem of their status within the tower.
As the golden light slowly faded, the old man's body shifted upright, his feet touching the ground. His eyes remained closed for a brief moment before suddenly snapping open.
The instant he did, seven figures entered the room, all clad in the same purple robes. Among them was a teenager, his expression impatient.
"Hey, old man," the boy said. "What prophecy did you receive?"
A young woman with fiery red hair and golden eyes shot him an exasperated look. "Zilon, have you forgotten? Out of all of us, you're the oldest."
Zilon scoffed. "I told you already, I'm only sixteen!"
A burly man beside him let out a deep chuckle. "Yes… Sixteen. Plus one thousand, two hundred and fifty-eight years."
Another man, his golden hair gleaming in the dim light, sighed. "Can you all stop bickering? Let's hear what Brion has to say."
The old man, Brion, raised a hand, silencing them. "Everyone except the Tower Masters, leave."
Without hesitation, the robed figures standing inside the chamber bowed respectfully and exited.
Here's an improved version with better structure, smoother dialogue, and clearer exposition:
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The moment the last person stepped out, a golden barrier rose around the room, sealing its eight remaining occupants inside.
Zilon crossed his arms impatiently. "Alright, old man, start talking."
Brion, however, ignored the ancient mage who still acted like a teenager. His expression was solemn as he finally spoke.
"In ten years, a great battle will erupt—one involving the Humans, the Blood Race, the Golden Fighting Race, the Sword Angel Race, the Deep Sea Sirens, the Abyss Demons, Hell, the Heavenly Centaurs, the Divine Snake Race, and the Five Elven Clans."
A woman with a soft demeanor, her light green hair cascading over her shoulders, frowned. "Why? And where will this battle take place?"
Brion's eyes darkened. "Sylvion, have you ever wondered why the eternal storms over the Siren Ocean have disappeared? Why the Sirens have suddenly allowed us to cross the ocean and explore the Pride Continent?"
The golden-haired man's eyes sharpened. "You're saying this is about the Pride Continent?"
The burly man scoffed. "That continent is barely a tenth the size of our own. It has no significant resources. Why would the top races fight over it?"
Zilon smirked. "That only means there's something hidden there… something worth starting a war for."
Brion raised his hand, and a shimmering phantom image appeared in the air. It depicted ten Three-Eyed Shamans, each possessing a different-colored third eye glowing on their foreheads.
A man with spectacles and a scholarly air-adjusted his glasses. "The Three-Eyed Race of the Pride Continent… we received reports about them. What about them?"
Brion turned to him. "Jacques, what's your assessment of their potential?"
Jacques pondered for a moment. "They are a race with extraordinary magical talent."
Brion waved his hand again. This time, the third eye of the ten shamans detached from their bodies, floating midair. As the shamans' forms faded away, the nine eyes aligned in a semicircle, resting upon the head of a massive, spectral serpent. Above the snake's head, a tenth silver eye radiated an eerie glow.
Everyone in the room stiffened.
"The Nine-Eyed Chaos Snake…" they whispered in unison, either aloud or in their minds.
Brion's expression was grave. "During the Zerg invasion, the Nine-Eyed Chaos Snake was severely injured and took refuge on the Pride Continent for 2,000 years."
Jacques' breath hitched as realization dawned. "A being that predates the creation of the world… staying in one place for so long… it must have left something behind."
At his words, the entire room fell silent. Then, all at once, the six remaining figures felt their breath quicken, their thoughts racing.
Zilon clenched his fists. "Old man, stop dragging this out! Just tell us already!"
Brion exhaled deeply. "A Chaos Divine Pool—formed from the Chaos energy and the blood of the Nine-Eyed Chaos Snake."
The moment he spoke, every mind in the room went blank. Then, one by one, their eyes burned with undeniable greed.
A Chaos Divine Pool.
An artifact of unimaginable power—something that could drive even the most rational beings to madness.
Bathing in the Chaos Divine Pool could transform one's body into a Chaos Body, granting the ability to survive in the Chaos Realm beyond the world. It could raise one's life level, breaking past natural limitations.
Everyone in the room was a High Legendary Realm powerhouse, with a lifespan capped at 2,000 years. There were ways to extend life, but each method had severe consequences.
But the Chaos Divine Pool… had no will, no consciousness, and no price to pay.
Zilon's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's go!"
A mature woman with raven-black hair, Cellion, narrowed her eyes. "Brion, your past prophecies have never been this clear or detailed."
The golden-haired man nodded in agreement. "She's right. Your previous visions were always fragmented images or cryptic riddles. Even 5,000 years ago, when the Tower Master Kazmet had a similar reaction, all he received was a single image."
The other five exchanged glances, their suspicion growing as they turned to Brion.
The burly man's deep voice rumbled through the chamber. "Only those beings could influence a prophecy like this."
A heavy silence fell over the group. They had all reached the same conclusion—but they needed Brion to confirm it.
Brion slowly nodded.
The burly man's expression darkened. "Why?"
The golden-haired man exhaled sharply. "They can't win alone. They need our support."
Sylvion frowned. "So, are we going to help them?"
Jacques adjusted his glasses. "We need this opportunity. Many of our senior mages' lifespans are nearing their end. The moment they hear about the Chaos Divine Pool, they'll flock to the Pride Continent."
Brion's voice was firm. "The pool will open in ten years. We need to start preparing."
The burly man's hands clenched into fists. "Then do we enter with full force? Wipe out the other races and claim the entire continent for ourselves?"
The golden-haired man shook his head. "We can't. The Golden Lion Race serves the Golden Fighting Race. The Silver Sword Race is under the Sword Angels. The Three-Eyed Tribe is influenced by the Nine-Eyed Chaos Snake. The Centaurs are under the Heavenly Centaur Race. And let's not even mention the Elves."
Jacques pushed his glasses up. "Then we should start by sending Archmages and Legendary Mages to establish a foothold on the continent."
A tense silence filled the room before Brion finally spoke.
"Then it begins."