In the majestic city of Middle Astara, where sandy-colored spires pierced the azure sky, the Flare Wing Palace's grand chamber gleamed with a mosaic of rich colors under the glow of countless torches. The torches emitted a subtle, smoky scent that mingled with the faint odor of old wood and fabric. At the center, the throne—crafted from gold and encrusted with precious gems—caught the light and scattered it in every direction.

A figure emerged from the shadows of the chamber's edge, her presence almost melding with the dim light. She swathed in dark, silken robes that rippled as she moved. Her ash-brown hair, sleek as a raven's wing, flowed down her back, and her brown eyes caught the light with each step.

Approaching the throne with an effortless grace, she drew a folded parchment from her robe and bowed with a subtle smile. "Greetings, my lord. I have some urgent matters that are rather... intriguing. I believe you'll find them quite compelling."

Sitting upon the golden throne, Deming gave a minimal glance upward, his expression cold with disdain. "Articulate, Daxia," he sneered, impatience sharp in his voice.

Without a word, Daxia extended the parchment toward him, her gaze lowered and a hint of a smirk on her lips.

He snatched it from her hand, his focus already shifting. "You are dismissed."

She inclined her head in a deeper, more respectful nod, then turned with fluid grace, retreating into the shadows where her presence evaporated into the darkness without a sound.

Left alone with the message, Deming unsealed the parchment, his eyes narrowing as he absorbed the secrets within.

An hour later, he still had the crumpled piece of parchment in hand, his fingers tight around it as if he could crush the news it bore. His face remained a mask of cold fury as he studied the paper. 'The audacity...'

Zixin approached with careful steps, his concern plain in the tightness of his brow. "My Lord, what do you plan to do?" An acrid bitterness, like the aftertaste of poison, lingered on his tongue.

Deming stood without hesitation, his voice thunderous in the grand chamber. "Assemble the council. Gather all the generals and strategists at once."

The command snapped through the air like a whip. Boots scuffled across polished marble, their echo blending with distant murmurs and the occasional clatter of metal against stone.

As the council members gathered, the Astaran Supreme's thoughts churned like a stormy sea. Tension filled the room as esteemed generals and advisors exchanged glances at one another, their anticipation like a coiled spring, waiting for their leader to break the silence.

Deming sat on his ornate golden throne, his sharp gaze falling on his servants. Each man and woman stiffened, their posture rigid and formal under the weight of his scrutiny. "I have received intelligence that the Faerie Realm intends to attack Astara within a week," he announced, his cold voice steady. "We shall demonstrate our true power, crush their invasion, and wipe their realm from existence."

Zixin bowed low. "As you command, my lord... We've dispatched our best spies to gather information on Lord Muchen's activities. However, we still have not found clues about his tricks, my lord... We fear that you might—"

Deming drew his brows together into a prominent frown, his head tilting as his gaze pierced into Zixin like a serpent's glare, cold and unblinking. "That I what? Enlighten me, Zixin."

Zixin faltered, his confidence crumbling under the force of Deming's stare. "Uh... I mean, I—"

Deming's gaze hit like a whip.

Zixin's eyes widened, his mouth falling open before he dropped to his knees, his words hanging by a fragile thread. "F-Forgive my insolence. It's just that you're valuable to us, and we don't want you to become trapped—"

Deming rose from his throne, each step toward Zixin measured and alarming, his boots striking the floor like a countdown.

"My lord, please spare my brother! I shall make sure to punish him in your stead. I beg you," a man interrupted, hurrying forward. Clad in royal garb, his short beard on his chin framed a face etched with desperation.

'Oh no, he... he'll kill him!' Zixin dared a glance at the unfolding scene, his heart pounding as Deming loomed over his brother. The knot in his chest tightened, his mouth quivering as he pressed his trembling fingers against the cold floor, struggling to steady his breath.

Kneeling with his face almost touching the marble floor, the man flinched at the echoes of Deming's footsteps, each louder and closer until they stopped. He stared at the black boots now inches from his face.

"Rise, King of the East."

"Yes!" The Eastern King shot to his feet, locking eyes with the Astaran Supreme, as though a viper's bite had paralyzed him while sweat beaded on his brow.

"Be gone... Both of you," Deming's voice cut like ice, his stare even colder, sending a shiver down the Eastern King's spine.

The Eastern King blinked, his mouth opening as if to speak. "I..."

"Now, before I change my mind."

The Eastern King wasted no time, his boots clattering in the silence as he grabbed Zixin by the shoulders, hauling him upright and pulling him away. Zixin stumbled, casting a final, fearful glance at Deming before being dragged from the room.

Deming closed his eyes, a long, weary sigh escaping him. Visions of millennia of torment flooded his mind—Lord Muchen's sneering face, the relentless assaults, both physical and mental, the bitterness clinging to him like a shadow. 'Why does that weakling's shadow never leave my mind?'