Lokiviria rose to his feet and bowed—not out of obligation, but out of a sudden, chilling realization.

The Clown wasn't just lecturing him. He was throwing him a lifeline.

Sometimes, hard truths saved more lives than a shield ever could.

"Show me the way, Mentor."

The Clown didn't answer immediately. He sat hunched over a piece of gnarled wood, his carving knife chipping away with rhythmic, hypnotic precision. He was shaping a reptile.

Thirty minutes passed in silence, broken only by the scrape of steel on wood. Finally, the Clown's voice drifted through the room, low and spectral.

"Second point: Your own strength has blinded you. You're looking at the surface, not the abyss beneath it."

The Clown blew wood shavings off the figurine. "Take the Arch Lords. The Humans, the Giants, and the Dragons all have them. But do you have any idea who actually holds the power?"

Lokiviria remained silent. He didn't know.

He had heard rumors, of course—that the Giant Lord had risen to power under the wing of the White Dragon Arch Lord. That was the prevailing wisdom: if you wanted to start a real civil war, you needed an Arch Lord backing you.

The Clown didn't mock his silence. He just kept carving, answering his own question.

"You'd never guess it, but the new Giant King? He is the apex. The Stoneheart Horde has the deepest roots, the strongest backing of any faction in the Titanion Realm. Only I know the true extent of Orion's power."

The knife paused. "The Dragons come second. And the Humans? The ones you fear? They are last."

The Clown looked up, his painted face unreadable. "And now you tell me you want to go to war against the single most dangerous faction on the continent? Lokiviria, have you lost your mind?"

The sarcasm in his voice was thick, but it wasn't directed at his student. The Clown was mocking himself.

Lokiviria couldn't hear the self-deprecation, but the truth remained: even someone as powerful as the Clown had to tiptoe around Orion to keep his own plans alive. That was the unspoken third lesson. The Clown wasn't about to expose himself to Orion just to bail Lokiviria out of a suicide mission.

"Mentor... I was a fool."

The Clown nodded slowly. Lokiviria's sincerity was his redeeming quality. It made him worth saving.

"Shift the theater of war," the Clown advised, his tone shifting from mockery to strategy. "Focus on the Human territory. If you engage the Alliance of Four and their Saint, I can buy you time. I can stall them."

"More importantly," he continued, "if you hit the Humans, the Arch Lords of the Dragons and the Stoneheart Horde won't lift a finger. They'll stay entrenched to protect their own interests. That is your window of opportunity."

The reptile in the Clown's hand was nearly finished.

"Lokiviria, do you remember what I told you?"

"The path you've chosen is lined with razors. One slip, and you fall into the dark. Before you act, always ask yourself: what do I actually gain when the dust settles?"

The Clown made one final, precise cut. A strange energy rippled through the room. The wooden reptile seemed to shudder, transforming from a dead carving into a piece of art—and something more.

"Nice little trinket. It's yours."

He tossed the carving to Lokiviria. It felt warm, almost alive—a puppet imbued with specific, dangerous utility.

"You can't attack the Stoneheart Horde directly, but you can still conduct the orchestra," the Clown said. "Tell the other warlords—the ones who disagree with you—that you'll hold the frontline in the South against the Alliance of Four. Convince them to flank the North and raid the Stoneheart Horde's territory while you take the heat."

The Clown's lips curled into a faint smile. "Whether they succeed or die, they'll pull some of the Stoneheart forces away from the center. Won't they?"

Lokiviria's eyes widened. The board had changed. The suicide mission had just become a tactical masterstroke.

He left the room a different man, his mind racing with new schemes, walking the path the Clown had paved for him.

"Don't blame me, Lokiviria," the Clown whispered to the empty room. "Whatever happens next... you chose this."

Watching his student's retreating back, the Clown felt a pang of something foreign. Pity. It was a rare emotion for him, but strangely, it didn't make him feel weak. It made him feel vast.

Powerful through pity.

Valkorath Realm. Garland.

The sky above the Valkorath Realm was breaking apart.

It wasn't just a storm; it was a celestial violent event. Lightning tore through the firmament like thrashing dragons, their roar shaking the bedrock. It was a chaotic, majestic display of pure energy shattering the darkness.

Simultaneously, deep within the Primordial Void, the singularity Orion had created finally reacted.

It was the origin point, the violent spark of genesis.

The point expanded, morphing into a blood-red seed. Having been tempered by the chaotic atmosphere of the Void, the seed was no longer foreign matter—it belonged here. It began to feed. Like a black hole, it devoured the surrounding chaos gas with ravenous hunger.

The blood seed sprouted.

When it grew into a towering tree, the cycle would be complete.

"Master, I sense another world being born," Caelus said, his voice filled with awe. "Is that... Father?"

In the distance, the lightning began to fade, the tear in the sky sealing shut.

Commander Thresh lowered his gaze. As the ruler of the Valkorath Realm, he knew exactly what the phenomenon meant. The spatial distortion was the shockwave of a new world forcing its way into existence inside the realm.

"That is your father," the Commander confirmed. He unhooked a battered flask from his belt and took two long swigs.

"Teach," Caelus asked, looking up, "is Father walking the same path I am?"

To Caelus, Orion opening his own world felt incredibly familiar.

"No," Thresh said bluntly. He looked toward Garland, his expression hardening into a look of grudging respect. "You two aren't even in the same lane."

"You are completely different animals."

Thresh gestured vaguely at the boy. "You rely on external power. The Miracle Divine Tree? You have that because your father scoured the ends of the earth to find it for you. Everything you have was handed to you. You don't even truly understand the weapon you're holding."

In the Commander's eyes, Caelus was a child born with a silver spoon—or rather, a silver sword. He needed to be chiseled, tempered, and guided.

Orion was different.

"Your father sacrificed everything he was," Thresh said quietly. "He compressed his entire existence into that seed. He buried himself in the Primordial Void, let the chaos strip him down, just for the chance to take root."

Thresh took another drink, watching the fading storm.

"He isn't borrowing power, Caelus. He is carving a universe out of his own body. That is a path even I never dared to imagine."

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