At the heart of the Kingdom stood the Grand Convocation Chamber—a circular hall where nobles, authorities, and the King’s inner host gathered in times of crisis.

Today, the air trembled with unease.

News from the prison had reached the capital, and the chamber erupted with anxious murmurs.

No one had expected an emergency convocation.

Then—clang—the upper doors opened.

The new King entered, accompanied by his secretarius.

“Let all hearts and minds be wholly committed to this sacred chamber. Let every counsel, concern, and truth be spoken without restraint. May the Stars of Wisdom and Justice guide our discourse.

The Convocation now commenced.”

The secretarius stepped forward, voice sharp and controlled.

“Let the scroll be known to all authorities.”

A hush settled as he unrolled the prison report.

The hall listened, then reacted—loudly.

Nobles rose to their feet, arguing, protesting, complaining.

Accusations clashed with fears, questions drowned each other.

The King finally stood, his presence washed through the chamber—stern, heavy, commanding.

All voices died at once.

“We understand your concerns,” the King said, his tone steady. “But let the truth be heard first.”

He signaled for the scroll to continue.

“The destruction was caused,” the secretarius read on, “by the infamous criminal faction known as the Mantle of Vision—led by Vlad Malcor of Lunessis. A man long marked for crimes against the decrees of Illuneth.”

Whispers broke the silence.

“And a matter of further concern,” the secretarius continued, “involves several individuals inside the prison:

Elias Kibou, former veteran captain of the Kingdom, imprisoned after an unnamed incident.

Two minors: one named Darion… and the other, the unnamed boy accused of killing the former King.”

The chamber stiffened.

“There is high probability,” the scroll concluded, “that Vlad Malcor and Elias Kibou will clash. Both are Manifestors whose writs are officially revoked. Any use of Manifestation within the prison is forbidden.”

The final words drifted into silence. No one moved.

Then—footsteps.

A cloaked figure descended from one of the Kingdom’s elite orders, stopping before the throne, he knelt.

“Your Grace,” he said, voice firm yet strained with urgency, “grant me leave to undertake this task. I swear my life to its fulfillment—yet I ask humbly for one request in return.”

A noble scoffed, “You dare demand reward before duty?! Know your—”

The King raised his hand.

The noble froze.

“I accept your oath,” the King declared. “And I grant you authority for the task. Prove your worth… and the reward shall follow.”

The figure bowed his head.

“By the will of this chamber, may the justice we have decreed be swiftly and fully fulfilled. 

This Convocation stands now Adjourned!”

The heavy doors closed behind them—the hunt for the prison had officially begun.

The main hall roared with noise—despair, laughter, screams, pleasure, death—all tangled into one twisted symphony.

At the south side of the hall, beside the stairway entrance, Elias stood quietly, like a blade waiting to be drawn.

The criminals split into two groups, half charged after the boy, the rest blocked Elias.

Elias remained still.

He had already read their movements—and prepared his own.

A faint current stirred around him.

In the blink of an eye, Elias appeared before the doorway where the boy escaped, cutting off the criminals' pursuit.

A chill presence rolled off him, sharp enough to make the men hesitate.

Fear shivered in their bones—but desperation made them attack anyway.

They swung wildly, slashing in frenzy—but Elias dissolved into the wind, weaving through their strikes like a phantom.

Before they even realized what happened, half of them collapsed, unconscious on the floor.

The remaining criminals reacted quickly. They formed a perimeter, surrounding him with raised guns.

Gunshots erupted—deafening, relentless.

But Elias didn’t move, not even a flinch.

A violent gust exploded from him, swirling into a tight vortex. The bullets curved mid-flight, bending away—then tore straight through the shooters themselves.

In seconds, the entire squad was wiped out.

“…Oh? That’s impressive.”

The voice slithered out from the northern sector of the hall.

Then the pressure hit—heavy, suffocating, like the world itself wanted to swallow the room.

Elias smiled, “There you are,” he murmured. “I almost missed this feeling.”

From the shadows stepped Vlad Malcor, the man Elias once faced during his years as a captain.

“Fate brings us together again, Elias,” Vlad said with a grin.

Elias’s smirk sharpened.

He moved first.

His punch tore through the air, a strike meant to shatter bone—but Vlad blocked it effortlessly, laughing as their clash cracked the floor beneath them.

They traded blows, each hit heavier than the last. The ground trembled under their feet.

Elias spotted an opening.

His fist cut clean into Vlad’s jaw.

But the look in Vlad’s eyes shifted—a killing intent so sharp Elias felt it.

He kicked off the ground, leaping back to create distance.

The two men stood meters apart, breathing steady.

Vlad spat blood and smiled wider.

“Nostalgic, isn’t it?”

Elias didn’t answer, instead, he released it—his Manifestation.

“Wind Manifestation, Act II—Wind of Chaos.”

The hall howled.

Air surged violently from every gap and corridor, forming a tornado that swallowed the room. Bodies—living and dead—began to lift, flung by the roaring current.

Vlad laughed over the upcoming storm.

“Soil Manifestation, Act II—Gaia’s Mighty Barrier.”

The ground split, stone walls surged upward, blocking the openings and anchoring the hall.

Their gazes locked—one burning with thrill—the other with cold fulfillment.

Meanwhile

The boy ran through corridor after corridor, lungs tight with terror.

A sudden slash sliced past his face—barely missing.

His knees buckled from fear, saving his life by accident.

He looked up.

It was the criminal—the man who ordered the slaughter below.

Panic surged, he pushed himself up and fled.

Every door he tried was locked.

The sentries must have secured the offices right when the explosion hit.

He kept running until he stumbled into the storage wing.

The criminal didn’t stop.

The boy slipped into a storage room—cornered, nowhere left to run.

The man stepped in, blade raised, “Enough running—accept your fate.”

The boy’s breath quickened. His back hit the wall—cold, damp—and suddenly, the floor beneath him grew slick. Moisture crawled up the stones, pooling around his feet.

“Water…?”

His voice sounded small, swallowed by fear.

His legs refused to move.

The blade descended—and the criminal was struck in the head by a flying metal bar.