The North Aethel Plains lay in the northern reaches of the Kingdom of Thrace.
The terrain here was flat and vast, a fertile expanse blanketed in lush vegetation. Flowing down from the snow-capped mountains of the north, the broad Logan River brought abundant moisture to both of its banks.
In the days of the Fadlan Empire, the North Aethel Plains had served as a secure rear province where the people lived in peaceful prosperity.
Yet good times were fleeting. After the collapse of the Fadlan Empire, countless Aethelians were uprooted from their homeland and dragged into the brutal wars of the south, perishing on the battlefields near the Holy City.
At the same time, the Cinder Empire pressed relentlessly southward from the far north, steadily swallowing the territory of the Kingdom of Thrace. Almost without anyone noticing, this land had turned into the front line.
Under these dire circumstances, Walter Graham had received an emergency appointment from King Wilhelm as the Duke of North Aethel, granting him full authority over all affairs within the territory.
This appointment left countless Thracians utterly dumbfounded, many questioning their own ears.
After all, several years earlier, this very Duke Walter had led an army in revolt, openly defying the Kingdom of Thrace's rule. He had repelled Thracian punitive expeditions multiple times and even publicly branded King Wilhelm "the Honorless."
Clear-eyed observers, however, recognized that the Kingdom of Thrace had simply run out of options against the godblood duke entrenched in the north, long having given up on quelling the rebellion.
This so-called royal grant did little more than tack a few insignificant tracts of land onto Duke Walter's existing territory, effectively turning him into a shield to absorb northern invasions on Thrace's behalf.
On the North Aethel Plains, in the city of Corinth, vessels of every size sailed along the Logan River into the bustling harbor, presenting a scene full of lively vigor.
This city was known as the Lion City. Its inhabitants took the majestic lion as their symbol, and bravery, forthrightness, and justice had been the hallmark traits of the Corinthian people since antiquity.
It was also the seat of Walter Graham, the Duke of North Aethel. Leading the Corinthian host from this fortress, he had repulsed Thracian incursions time and again.
At the gates of Corinth stood several imposing stone lions, looking down upon all who entered like steadfast sentries.
High atop the towering city wall stood an extraordinary man, solemn and motionless as a marble sculpture.
He was exceptionally tall, standing well over two meters, and even the heavy silver plate armor could not conceal the sheer power of his physique.
His face appeared chiseled by blade and ax, etched with the resolute grit of a veteran warrior. Even more striking was his back, where a pair of immense, snow-white feathered wings remained folded, making him appear like a celestial descended upon the mortal realm.
He was the newly appointed Duke of North Aethel, rebel against the Kingdom of Thrace, and former Judgement Knight of Fadlan—Walter Graham.
At this moment, Walter gazed into the distance, profound gravity showing in the golden eyes that still held the lingering radiance of the Sun God.
"The Cinder Empire..." he murmured under his breath.
During the era of the Fadlan Empire, he had shot down githyanki astral ships in the Astral Plane, cleaved the heads from devils in Avernus, and even stood alone against a surging tide of demons on the Plain of Infinite Portals.
By all accounts, after enduring trials like those, Walter Graham should have been completely fearless, unflinching in the face of any challenge the world could offer.
Yet now, facing the Cinder Empire bearing down from the north, he felt a flicker of worry—even fear.
This was not solely due to the terrifying foe in the north, but also because he felt completely adrift about the future.
The Holy Fadlan Empire that once served as his steadfast bulwark had crumbled. The Sun God who bestowed their power had fallen into slumber, leaving Walter with less than sixty percent of his peak strength.
What filled Walter with even deeper dejection—bordering on despair—was discovering that the late emperor's second son, Wilhelm, who proclaimed himself King of Thrace, had utterly forsaken Amaunator and thrown his lot in with the powers of darkness.
Where could Fadlan go from here?
And where was he supposed to go?
Walter shook his head with a bitter smile, sighing softly. "If His Majesty Aragorn were to rise again and see his own son turning to evil and butchering his kin for power, how would he feel?
"To think that our once glorious Holy Fadlan could fall to such a state."
"My Lord Duke."
A young angelic godblood flapped his wings and landed gently upon the battlements, sinking to one knee before Walter with his head respectfully bowed.
"Report, Ian. What is the status of those cities?"
"My Lord, the Thracian rebels indeed honored their agreement. They have withdrawn all their garrison troops. Cities such as Miller and Darend are currently undefended."
Walter let out a cold laugh. "Hah. King Wilhelm certainly hasn't disappointed me. As deceitful and vicious as ever... No wonder he threw himself into the embrace of Hell."
Ian asked, puzzled, "Isn't it a good thing that they withdrew voluntarily? Now we can unite all the resources of North Aethel to fight those rebels."
Walter looked toward the rolling Katepa Hills in the north, his voice sinking low. "Do you still not understand?
"This means... the Cinder Empire is about to march south. The scum of the Kingdom of Thrace want me to clash with the Cinder Empire until both of us bleed each other dry, just so they can buy themselves a momentary respite."
Ian pondered for a second, then his face flushed with righteous indignation, and he sprang to his feet with sword in hand.
"My Lord, why should we defend these devils' pawns against foreign invaders? After hearing what you've said, those cities... we cannot take them!"
"No, Ian."
Walter shook his head again with a self-deprecating smile, yet his eyes shone with unwavering resolve.
He turned to meet Ian's gaze. "Could you abandon the citizens of more than a dozen cities, leaving them to become slaves of the Cinder Empire?"
"I..."
Ian hesitated for a long while before lowering his head in silent concession.
Walter continued, "This is Wilhelm's open gambit. He is wagering that we still possess a conscience, that we are not like him and his retainers—utterly devoid of scruples, treating mortal lives like disposable grass."
Ian gritted his teeth. "To think that His Majesty Aragorn would have such a son!"
"Ian, we have no other choice. We must clean up the mess they left behind and stem the Cinder Empire's southward advance. We do this for one reason alone—for the people of North Aethel."
Walter slowly drew a greatsword that measured nearly three meters long. His voice rang out with resounding conviction, and his golden eyes shone brilliantly.
"My Lord."
Ian crossed his silver sword against Walter's blade, his voice thick with emotion. "I will forever stand at your back, your faithful blade."
Moments later, several other angelic godbloods landed on the platform, each laying their blades against Walter's greatsword until their steel crossed in unison.
The angelic godbloods who followed Walter north were almost all unyielding idealists. Unable to stomach Thrace's descent into darkness, they yearned to bask once more in the radiance of Amaunator and restore the sublime glory of Holy Fadlan.
Yet their hopes were destined to be a desperate long shot.
Seeing his senior officers assembled, Walter's face finally took on the proud confidence characteristic of the Fadlan people.
"Brothers, take your respective forces to the cities vacated by the Kingdom of Thrace immediately. Set up defenses as quickly as possible. The Cinder Empire could strike at any moment.
"Ian, you will hold Corinth. You know the defenses of this city best..."
The angelic godbloods acknowledged the orders one after another. But Ian hesitated, unable to keep from asking, "My Lord, what about you?"
"I have reviewed the combat footage of that Red Emperor, and I have carefully studied the weapons of the Cinder Empire. With our strength alone, we cannot hold them off..."
Walter looked up into the sky, gazing at the sun hanging high above, his golden eyes mirroring its boundless brilliance.
"Eighty-seven years ago, I followed His Majesty Aragorn into the depths of Hell, where we rescued many archons. A great figure of Mount Celestia promised me an intervention, so long as it did not violate their alignment.
"Sixty-five years ago, I infiltrated the Dragon Queen's fortress and freed an ancient gold dragon imprisoned in its dungeons for centuries. The Gold Dragon Council considers me a friend.
"Now, the time has come for them to honor their word. Comrades, I shall return with the allies of righteousness!"
Walter slowly raised his greatsword into the air. Instantly, a dazzling pillar of white light surged toward the heavens, scattering the cloud cover and sending violent tremors through the upper reaches of the sky.
Boom!
His voice thundered like divine judgment, echoing across the North Aethel Plains for leagues around, stirring the blood of all who heard it.
"Fadlanians shall never become thralls to evil dragons, nor slaves to devils! We... shall never yield!"
Beating his broad wings, Walter took flight, ascending at incredible speed until he vanished into the clouds alongside the blinding pillar of light, leaving only a gentle snowfall of pure white feathers drifting through the air.
In that moment, angelic godbloods and common citizens alike tilted their heads back, their eyes overflowing with reverence and devotion.
"Long live the Duke!"
"Fadlanians will never be slaves!"
The people shouted in fierce jubilation, as though they had been swept back to that glorious, magnificent age when they still stood proudly as citizens of the Holy Fadlan Empire.
***
The first layer of Mount Celestia was Lunia, also known as the Silver Heaven. The sky here remained perpetually dark, but it was studded with sparkling silver stars whose light was more than enough to illuminate the shores of the Silver Sea and the mountain ranges that lined it.
Portals to other planes opened along the edges of the wine-dark Silver Sea, which formed an immense bay filled with holy water.
The coastline was dotted with castles and fortresses built of gleaming white stone, rich in architectural variety and home to diverse inhabitants. Many of these strongholds conducted open trade with the sea elves of the Material Plane.
Along the shores of the star-dappled sea, the most magnificent structure was an immense fortress. Its towering walls were crafted from glittering marble resembling a starlit night sky, earning it the name the Castle of the Stars.
Within this fortress, countless trumpet archons surged in and out on cross-planar missions. It was also the dwelling of the ruler of the first heaven.
High atop the citadel, a slender, beautiful woman with skin as white and smooth as polished marble gently flapped her snowy wings. The trumpet in her hands emitted a soothing, tranquil glow.
This was a trumpet archon—a herald and messenger to celestial denizens and deities alike, as well as the vanguard of the heavenly hosts.
The trumpet archon spoke respectfully, "My Lord, that Fadlan godblood has departed. He is reportedly traveling to Mercuria in search of Lord Bahamut's palace..."
"I know. Return to your duties."
A neutral voice entirely devoid of emotional inflection answered. Standing upon the towering parapet overlooking the entire Silver Sea was a lofty, magnificent figure.
"Walter Graham. I remember him. Eighty-seven years ago, he freed thirty-four trumpet archons from the dungeons of Avernus. In return, I granted him a promise..."
This towering figure appeared as a three-meter-tall human of indeterminate gender, with silver skin and deep purple eyes.
He wore a smooth, violet robe dusted with specks of sparkling starlight, while the immense wings of white feathers unfurling from his back gave his shoulders an aura of supreme grace.
In his right hand, he gripped a longsword crackling with bursting arcs of lightning, while a gleaming silver horn hung at his waist.
This was the ruler of the Silver Heaven, Barachiel the Messenger, who governed Lunia. He directed the defensive hosts of Celestia against planar incursions, led the trumpet archons, and served as the patron protector of mortal messengers.
As a member of the Celestial Hebdomad, Barachiel was immortal, a being on the threshold of godhood.
Were he to be slain, his death would release an eruption of holy energy, branding his killer with an indelible mark that allowed every lawful good extraplanar creature to instantly recognize them as the slayer of one of the Seven Martyrs.
Furthermore, within Lunia itself, backed by the planar power of Mount Celestia, Barachiel possessed might rivaling that of a demigod.
"Cassius Claubau Norixius... So it is him," Barachiel murmured the name softly.
As the messenger bridging Heaven and the planes, he was naturally familiar with this name that had risen to prominence in recent years, drawing immense attention.
He was the emperor of the Cinder Empire, a red dragon who had ascended like a meteor and single-handedly altered the geopolitical landscape of the Feanso Continent.
He had defeated a chosen of Bahamut, devoured the pashas of the Empire of the Efreet, and even slain a demon lord who had manifested on the Material Plane.
In the eyes of the archons, Cassius was an undeniable menace, though one who seemed to retain the potential for purification.
Barachiel opened his left palm, conjuring a lifelike illusion of the red dragon, and examined it with care. "Greedy, tyrannical, insatiable...
"He has only just founded his empire, yet already he marches south to conquer and plunder wealth. It seems... he could not suppress the innate vices of a red dragon after all.
"In that case, let me personally teach him the importance of justice and order!"
Boom!
Barachiel thrust his right arm skyward, brandishing the lightning-crackling sword. A heavy rumble of thunder shook the heavens, and dazzling bolts of lightning lit the night sky of the Silver Heaven as bright as day.
Instantly, all the celestials across the Silver Sea looked up, their expressions turning solemn as they beheld the lightning overhead. Whenever a member of the Celestial Hebdomad marched to war, they led a celestial host at their side.
They knew what this signaled: at any moment, they could be summoned to take their place in the vanguard of battle.
Chapter 599