The mont his boots touched the soil of Ilis, Galen Magna felt it—a heavy, nauseating weight in the air that slithered over his skin like oil. It was a presence he knew far too well. Though twisted and corrupted, it bore the sa rancid soulprint he had felt before from Eliv and the other generals. But this one... this was thicker, older, and more rooted in sothing grotesquely ancient.
Without hesitation, Galen's pupils flared into burning coals as Ember Sight activated. The world shifted into hues of thermal intensity—pulsing shapes, radiant silhouettes, hidden truths unveiled through the veil of heat. And in a seamless, fluid motion, he lifted off the ground.
But not with the reckless propulsion most fla mages used, where jets of fire shot from limbs, wild and unstable. No, Galen flew like no other. His flas were so tightly compressed they ceased to burn in the traditional sense. They beca pure force—an invisible cushion of incandescent heat molded through sheer control and absurdly refined myst manipulation.
There was no blast, sound, or even a spark. Only the faintest shimr in the air, a warping mirage beneath his feet, as though the air itself bent in reverence. The invisible pressure lifted him, wrapped around him, and carried him skyward like a ghost riding the breath of the sun. His balance was perfect, his speed steady, and his glide graceful—resembling air magic more than fla.
As he ascended, the fractured city of Ilis sprawled below—torn battlents, shattered spires, streets soaked in blood and desperation. But Galen's gaze sharpened. Through the layered thermal aura his Ember Sight provided, he began parsing through heat signatures like pages in a book.
A camp—close to the Solara palace—registered strongly. An infirmary, like the one he saw in Icua. Bodies, so burning dimly with fading life, others glowing with pain and injury, scattered across the clearing. But amongst the broken and dying, a few stood out. Blazing steady and familiar. Magnus, Queen Lucy, and Mystica.
And then—there he was. Liam.
The sight of his heat signature made Galen's brow twitch and his expression hardened slightly. Liam shouldn't have been anywhere near the battlefield, and yet here he was. The ember readouts told Galen more than just presence—they told a story. Liam's myst was depleted and his life force was fluctuating. The signs of overuse, damage, and internal chaos blazed like warning lights across his body.
'Why the hell is his condition this fatal?'
Galen clicked his tongue in silent frustration.
And then, his eyes drifted upward. A spike in presence. His senses, still flaring from Ember Sight, honed in.
Floating—just slightly below Galen's altitude—was a man wrapped in a tattered, dark green robe, drifting like an on on a breeze. His long hair was slicked back, hanging to his mid-back in dark brown waves. A well-grood beard frad a face of regal detachnt. Erald eyes radiated a sharp, ancient cruelty.
And beside him... floated the limp, unconscious form of Sheila.
Galen's jaw clenched, teeth grinding in silence.
And standing next to her in the air—radiating that familiar, oppressive myst—was the source of that revolting pressure. Sylvathar, Demon Lord of the Gaia Demons.
The air itself twisted under his power. His re presence sent silent vibrations into the ground. And as Galen watched, Sylvathar extended a hand forward, and between his fingers began to coalesce a brilliant green orb. The pressure around it thickened, folding the air around its growing brilliance. It was raw annihilation—an attack to vaporize everything beneath him in one fell sweep.
Without a single chant or gesture, Galen reacted.
An orb, no bigger than a marble, materialized just in front of his chest—dense, white-hot, containing monstrous fire power compressed into a bead of silent death.
The mont it stabilized, it vanished.
But not before streaking across the sky with a velocity that broke the sound barrier silently. It struck Sylvathar directly in the chest. His body jerked violently, torso folding around the impact like cloth caught in a hurricane. He was blasted backward—not in a gentle arc, but hurled like a teor—his figure tearing through sky, atmosphere, and clouds as he shot past the borders of Ilis and crashed into the distant twin city of Ilios.
The erald glow that held Sheila suspended cracked, then dissolved entirely. She plumted from the sky like a falling star.
But Magnus was already moving.
A blur of black and steel shot upward from the ground. His foot t a shattered pillar, then a chunk of floating debris, then nothing but air. He leapt through the void and caught Sheila mid-air with perfect precision. His arms wrapped around her securely as he twisted mid-descent and landed in a controlled crouch. The earth beneath cracked slightly, but he absorbed the force cleanly.
Every eye turned skyward—toward the lone figure descending slowly, silently.
Galen drifted downward like a god descending from judgnt. The shimr of his fla-pressure softened beneath him, allowing his boots to settle onto the scorched stones just a few paces from where Liam lay unconscious with Mystica crouched by his side.
His glowing eyes scanned Liam for only a mont and sothing flickered behind them—anger, buried deep and locked behind a wall of cold detachnt. Then his gaze swept across the scene. Magnus, holding Sheila. Lucy, still armored and regal despite the dirt and wear. King Valemir and King Tharion.
All of them bore wounds. Not just physical. The air clung to them, heavy with the exhaustion of war.
They had all faced the Green Calamity.
And lost.
Galen's eyes fell back to Liam.
"I've got a thousand questions about how this all happened," he said flatly. His eyes flicked briefly to Lucy, whose posture remained unbroken even as blood traced her brow. "But now ain't the ti."
He exhaled slowly.
"I'll ask later. Just make sure his condition doesn't get worse."
He turned, eyes locked to the sky where Sylvathar had vanished.
"Keep him safe and alive until I'm done with that green freak."
His steps were slow and asured. Each one silent but heavy with promise.
Then Magnus called out.
"Hey, Gally," he said, still cradling Sheila carefully. "I'll never doubt your strength. But listen—Sylvathar's power right now? It's beyond anything the records warned about. The divine light… it's juicing him hard. Way beyond natural limits."
Galen stopped. His head turned just enough to reveal a sliver of his eyes—burning with a dangerous light.
"Good," he murmured.
"ans I get to beat the soul out of him before I decide to kill him."
He turned forward again, fla shimr building around his body, then he vanished in an instant.
***
In a sudden blur of flas, Galen reappeared high above the battlefield, suspended in midair like a judgnt descending from the heavens.
His eyes—twin orbs of blazing crimson—locked onto the center of a massive crater carved into the earth. Down below, Sylvathar slowly stirred within the smoking ruins, pushing himself upright with a shaky, dust-caked hand. Though his senses were montarily shaken, it took only seconds for the Demon Lord to regain his composure. As he rose, sothing caused his spine to chill—a presence above.
He looked up.
And what he saw made his breath hitch.
Those glowing eyes didn't just stare—they consud. They pierced through bone and soul with a heat that wasn't fire but felt far worse. He'd seen gazes like that before—Aesmirius had possessed one—but Galen's glare... it was different. This wasn't the gaze of a king, nor a predator. It was the gaze of sothing inevitable.
Brushing off the ash and grit from his coat, Sylvathar channeled green myst to his feet. With effortless grace, he rose until he was floating just a short distance from Galen. The two stood suspended in the dead air—neither the wind nor the world daring to disturb them.
Their eyes locked. The stillness between them was cold and ancient.
Then Sylvathar spoke, voice laced with nobility and condescension.
"Judging from your power—and the bodies left behind—you must be the one Eliv boasted about handling. Clearly, he failed. Am I right... Galen Magna?"
Galen didn't move. His hands remained tucked lazily in his coat pockets. His voice ca low, calm, almost bored.
"I'm not interested in talking about the weak. Or with them." A pause. "But today, I'll make an exception. For you."
Sylvathar's expression darkened.
"You do realize you stand before a Demon Lord, mortal? And yet you call a weakling?" he said icily. "You think because you caught off guard once, you've won? Or maybe it's because you managed to best four of my generals, you believe you're prepared for what stands before you?"
He scoffed and let out a dark laugh.
"You're getting ahead of yourself, young man. I am nothing like what you've faced before."
Still, Galen didn't flinch.
"Do you know how many tis I've heard that exact line?" he said, tone unshaken. "Too many to count. And do you know how many tis I gave a damn?"
His smirk twisted.
"Not once."
The air rippled as Galen leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.
"So tell —what makes you think you're any different? You think siphoning the power of a helpless girl puts you at the summit? That you've reached the peak of power?"
He chuckled, dark and slow.
"Sounds to like the clouds have fogged your view. Let help clear it."
Before Sylvathar could blink, a hand gripped his face.
Then—whoosh—in a burst of fire, they vanished.
***
Across the scorched landscapes of the Land of Ruins, a ripple tore through the air. A fissure of fla exploded open, and from it ca a teor of force.
The burning figure slamd into a distant mountainside, obliterating a section of it. The ground heaved and dust erupted skyward. Trees wilted under the sudden heat, then a deafening shockwave followed.
At the epicenter of the new crater lay Sylvathar, motionless for a heartbeat, then slowly twitching as pain and fury returned to him.
He stirred, coughing, blinking grit from his eyes.
And as his vision steadied—there he was.
Galen Magna.
Floating again. Silent. Eyes glowing like twin dying stars, not with rage, but with calm superiority. A slow, cruel smirk tugged at his lips.
"You've rely climbed up the base."
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