How Could Lanqi Possibly Be the Imperial Governor?

On the Southern Continent lay the dominant hegemon south of the Knox Mountains—the Creti Empire. Situated in the imperial heartland of the south, the imperial capital of Brierda possessed a splendor and beauty rivaling any mountain or coastal city in the realm. Imposing classical architecture graced every corner. Encircling the commemorative plaza at the center of the city-state were white monuments and distinct, dark gray statues of heroes, infusing the area with a profound artistic aura. Every year around March and April, the warm spring arrived, bringing bright and pleasant weather as the air grew fragrant with blossoms and resonant with deep, soulful melodies. Along the wide streets, glimpses of twilight, drifting scents of rose bushes, and the soft strains of a wandering minstrel’s ballad—reminiscent of birds warbling in a greenhouse—would pass by now and then. Even as the sun set, the city-state resembled an immaculate paradise. As night drew near, the town hall was illuminated by lamps, the music masking the dry creak of a gold-embellished side door swinging open. Passing through corridor after corridor deep within the luxurious interior, one went down the stairs toward the inner side of a basement office, opened another door, and ventured further inward. The narrow passage was hardly welcoming to someone tall or brawny. After several winding turns and some three to four hundred steps, all sound finally faded into utter silence, unveiling an entirely new realm. Hidden deep beneath the Creti Empire lay a palace forgotten by time—a center of power buried far underground, where only subtle sorcery cast a hazy starlight across the fog-shrouded expanse. On both sides of the stone street, buildings were constructed of time-weathered rock. At the end of the avenue stood a castle, its obsidian exterior shimmering with a cold gleam. A figure traversed the ancient, sequestered city and approached the castle gates. Following an intricately sculpted hallway, he slowly pushed open the heavy black iron doors and entered a magnificent council chamber. The great hall was chilly and dim, candlelight along the vaulted ceiling replacing the sun. The center of this illustrious hall was occupied by a banquet table, with thirteen high-backed chairs arranged along its sides, their crimson gemstone totems symbolizing their owners. Marquess Heriteer sat in the seventh chair, her fingers resting flat upon her lap. Her eyes were shut tight, her silence like stone. The single candle was not enough to illuminate her, instead casting her image into shadow, leaving only the beauty mark beneath her eye clearly visible. "Not awake yet today?" Shedding a dress uniform infused with incense, the newcomer looked toward Marquess Heriteer's face and spoke. "A battle that shouldn't have occurred took place in the north of the Protos Empire," Marquess Heriteer murmured, as though still peering through the dense mist at something afar. "Major General Fanleiku and the Bishop of Extinction?" The robust youth who had entered the hall leaned back in the eighth chair across from Marquess Heriteer, the corner of his lips curling into an arrogant smirk befitting an absolute powerhouse. He had long heard Marquess Heriteer say that the short-term turmoil on the Northern Continent would produce a pivotal juncture—after Major General Fanleiku of the Protos Empire was slain by Bishop of Extinction Askesan, if no one in the empire noticed this change and the truth remained buried, it would very likely mark the beginning of the Protos Empire's gradual descent into ruin. Yet to his eyes, upheavals in a realm of lesser races were hardly anything novel. Even if those so-called Cardinals of the Resurrection Church were formidable in this era, they were ultimately pitiable creatures destined to turn to dust in a mere century, far from existing on the same plane as his kind. The only thing worthy of attention was the group pulling the strings behind the Bishop of Extinction, orchestrating Fanleiku's death. When Marquess Somerset awoke, he found that ten thousand years later, the world had been cleaved into two continents, North and South. Now that they had brought the Blood Moon back to the Southern Continent, their next move, sooner or later, would be to clash with those truly troublesome entities in the north. However, both sides knew full well that at this juncture, there was no need to expend excessive effort interfering in a distant continent; their strength was better concentrated on what lay right before them. "Major General Fanleiku should already have been killed by Askesan. This battle involved Bishop of Extinction Askesan... Bishop of Domination Sigrid... and an Apostle seems to have intervened as well... In the end, everything was consumed in flames," Heriteer corrected in an aloof voice. "..." Marquess Somerset fell silent across the table. "It felt like the Tier 8 Epic spell [Great Cataclysm], wielded by Bishop of Destruction Ivanos of the Southern Continent..." Heriteer added, her concluding words laced with uncertainty. There was simply no reason for Ivanos to appear in the north at such a critical time. If Bishop of Destruction Ivanos ceased keeping High Priest Loren of the Church of the Goddess of Fate in check, Loren might well head to the central region of the Southern Continent, secretly infiltrate the Aloran Kingdom, and help Undying Sword Emperor Juliana purge Decay Cardinal Farmer, triggering a new imbalance. "Were you completely unable to foresee this in your previous divination?" Marquess Somerset asked. Divination magic was inherently prone to discrepancies between the vision and reality due to overlapping interference. Heriteer's foresight regarding the Southern Continent was far more accurate than her predictions for the north. Beyond the sheer distance inflating the mana cost and constraining the visions, interference from the Prophet in the north introduced distortions. Furthermore, chronology played a role: if Heriteer foresaw events before the Prophet acted, the Prophet's subsequent moves could render the vision wildly inaccurate; but if she peered into the future after the Prophet had already moved, the prediction was far more likely to hold true in the short term. This battle ought to have been a monumental event for the Northern Continent, yet right up until it occurred, Heriteer had not caught the slightest glimpse of it. This led Marquess Somerset to wonder whether the Prophet had grown even stronger—strong enough to blind Heriteer entirely. Marquess Heriteer pondered in silence for a long time. She slowly raised her head, her deep crimson eyes glimmering faintly in the dark. "It doesn't matter. No matter how the situation shifts in the north, it cannot affect Duke Lachiel." Divinations, whether hers or the Prophet's, were entirely ineffective against Tier 9 entities. Every Tier 9 existence was an anomaly transcending divination magic. With Third Progenitor Duke Lachiel anchoring the Blood Clan, there was no need to fear that the distant Prophet could extend a hand to the Southern Continent ahead of them. "Soon, we will reclaim the lands that belong to us. And this is merely the first step." Heriteer's voice echoed in every corner, icy and resolute, as though proclaiming an irreversible destiny to her fellow Progenitors who would soon return here in the near future. *** On the Northern Continent, within the Protos Empire. Herrom, the Imperial Capital—the lowest tier of the Imperial Permafrost Prison. The prisoner confined to this level wore a straitjacket, his limbs and head locked immovably within a sealing barrier. Even the lower half of his face was clamped tightly beneath a mask, preventing his jaw from parting in the slightest and leaving only a few narrow slits to breathe. A demon's eyes opened. Not even the barrier could suppress the mana fluctuations that instilled instinctive dread in ordinary humans. Within those slender, cold eyes drifted an indescribable mist. "..." He looked toward the northern border of the empire. Then, he closed his eyes once more. *** At that moment, on the snowy plains thousands of kilometers north of Herrom. The once-silvery snowfield had been scorched black. The permafrost had instantly turned to steam in the blast, and the clear lakes had been vaporized by the blistering heat, leaving behind only parched riverbeds and absolute desolation. The snow atop the mountain peaks had melted into cascading silver torrents that continuously washed over the charred earth. The magnificent Bandera City, which once stood upon these border snowfields, was now gone. The towering spires, bustling markets, and grand temples of the past had all been reduced to ash. Even long after that aberrant, cataclysmic explosion had ceased, dust and smoke still choked the sky, blotting out the light and casting everything in a gloomy, sickly yellow haze. Across the ground, lava-like flames spread in every direction. Waves of scorching heat swept across the ruins, making the air stiflingly hot. Near the former location of the fortress gates, an immense, unnatural crater of unfathomable depth yawned open, exuding an acrid, pungent stench of smoke. Only the wind sang, as if mourning the catastrophe, or perhaps celebrating the tormented souls once trapped in this fallen city who had finally found release and departed for paradise. At the epicenter of the blast, the earth along the rim still glowed a faint, smoldering crimson. From the center of the crater, a plume of dark smoke suddenly coiled upward, tangling with the surrounding dust like a black hand trying to grasp the final trace of life in this dead expanse, clawing its way out. The dark robes of the cloaked figure were now completely shredded, exposing the wounds across his body. The once pitch-black fabric had faded to the color of soot and ash, with only the intricate magical emblems faintly glimmering. Even beneath the veil of mist cloaking his face, a pair of faintly glowing eyes was exposed. Meanwhile, the Bishop of Extinction's once tall, imposing stature seemed feeble, his deep eyes bloodshot. Around the two of them, the scorching energy waves still surged. At the moment of detonation, they had poured every ounce of their power into their strongest shielding spells and resorted to their ultimate life-saving trumps, managing to survive the devastating blast at point-blank range. Even so, both were grievously wounded beyond measure. The cloaked man coughed violently, struggling to steady his breathing. The Bishop of Extinction pressed his palms together, murmuring an obscure incantation as faint halos of light flickered across his body to soothe his injuries. Several dozen meters separated the two, an unspoken mutual agreement. Though so much time had passed, it was still possible they could catch up to the Holy Son of Domination. But pursuing him in their current condition risked walking into a fatal counterattack. What unnerved both of them was that the Holy Son possessed a Tier 7 large-scale wind spell capable of weathering the explosion unharmed. This enigmatic Holy Son held far more secrets than they had anticipated. A mysterious Tier 7 entity might well be hidden upon his person. Right now, a single Tier 7 combatant would be more than enough to take their lives. "Askesan, I am leaving," the cloaked man said, his voice markedly hoarse. He had no desire to travel any further with Askesan. Though a duel between them at this moment might still yield no clear victor, this was the territory of the Protos Empire after all, and the [Abyssal Black Worm] was now in a damaged state. Repairing it would likely require finding a top-tier card maker and expending a great deal of time. There was no reason for him to linger here when he had far more important matters to attend to. That wolf summon was far too bizarre; not only could it seal other summons, but it could even detonate them along with any other sealed magic cards inside it. "One month from now, remember to fulfill your first promise," Askesan spoke with a chilling sneer, staring at the cloaked man's retreating back. "Rest assured, everything remains within the trajectory set by the Prophet. No harm has been done, so long as you wrap up the loose ends smoothly," the cloaked man replied. Yet after a brief pause, he turned back around. "Do you know the true identity of the Holy Son of Domination? I can confirm he is not from the house of Duke Bernhard." The cloaked man fixed his gaze on Askesan. He had never heard of such a Sealer within the Protos Empire. Logically speaking, whatever public identity the youth held in society ought to be low-profile, given that only months ago, the Resurrection Church had been an evil organization ruthlessly suppressed by the empire. Yet someone possessing such extraordinary sealing talents could not possibly conceal their martial prowess entirely. What made the situation so dire was not merely that the youth had escaped with Bishop of Domination Sigrid, but that they had failed even to catch a glimpse of his face. "It doesn't matter who he is. Sigrid poses no further threat, and her Holy Son cannot possibly unleash that kind of power in the major cities near the heart of the Protos Empire." Askesan shook his head. If anything, he was even more eager than the Apostle to discover who the Holy Son of Domination truly was. "Rest easy. I will not let him slip out of the northern blockade zone," Askesan told the cloaked man coldly. The entire northern region of the empire remained the home turf of his Extinction Branch. It was highly improbable that the Holy Son held any other prominent status or social connections within the empire—such was the nature of the Resurrection Church's strict protocols. Any possible variable could only arise if he managed to bring Sigrid all the way back to the Imperial Capital!