Silverwood Realm. Staghelm City.

Compared to the visceral reactions of Caelus, Kronos, Pallas, and Kaelen, the unborn child nestled within Isilra's womb responded with nothing more than a gentle ripple.

"Mother, did you feel that?"

Isilra sat by the edge of the Moonwell. One hand rested protectively on her lower abdomen, while the other trailed in the luminous water, drawing pure essence to nourish the life growing inside her.

"He... he seemed to pulse."

"It's a fluctuation of the soul," replied the Demigod of the Moonwell, her voice soft and melodic. "He is growing."

Even the Demigod couldn't fully comprehend the mechanics of this deep soul resonance, but she could sense it clearly. The little life inside Isilra had just become significantly stronger.

"This is the perfect place for him," the Demigod continued. "Born from the Moonwell, nurtured by its waters. Perhaps he will be born a Moon Elf."

She had high hopes for Lorian. He represented the future of Staghelm City.

"I hope he takes his time," Isilra smiled, radiating maternal warmth. "Ideally, he waits until I ascend to demigod status."

Her eyes crinkled with joy. "If I'm a demigod when he's born, I can give him everything. I can ensure he grows up safe."

Fate was a strange thing. One moment she was facing annihilation, the next she was finding love with Orion and carrying his child.

"Yes, that would be best," the Demigod agreed aloud.

But internally, she sighed.

Staghelm City had depleted eons of accumulated resources just to push her to the second stage of demigodhood. For Isilra to ascend? The amount of Faith Energy required was astronomical. At their current rate of accumulation, it would take thousands of years.

Unless...

Unless they received help from Orion. Unless the Champions Alliance intervened.

The thought flashed through her mind, but she left it unspoken. She looked at Isilra and the unborn child—both her descendants, both children of the Moonwell.

Orion is pragmatic. He will understand the value of this child.

How does one choose between a child born of an Arch-Lord and a child born of a Demigod? The difference in potential is immense. He will do what is necessary for his heir.

As twilight settled over Staghelm City, the moon reflected perfectly in the still waters of the well. A warm breeze played with Isilra's hair as she began to sing, a hauntingly beautiful melody that drifted through the silent trees.

Titanion Realm. The Northern Bastion of Menethis.

The Day of Reckoning had arrived.

The wind howled, carrying the roar of beasts and the acrid smell of smoke. Dark clouds choked the sky, blotting out the sun as if the heavens themselves had been caged.

On the ground, the earth trembled under the stampede of countless beasts and xeno-warriors. The soil was torn asunder, churned into mud by panicked hooves and heavy boots.

A suffocating aura of slaughter pressed down on every soul present.

Standing on the wall, Pallas felt it for the first time—the overwhelming, suffocating intent to kill. It felt as if the entire world wanted him dead.

Thump.

Thump. Thump.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

His heart hammered against his ribs like a war drum.

In the chaos, amidst the deafening noise and unpredictable violence, a primal urge surged within him. The Giant blood boiled. He wanted to scream. He wanted to unleash the violence that was his birthright.

"Don't let the atmosphere control you."

Just as Pallas opened his mouth to roar, a small hand pressed firmly onto the top of his head.

"Control your desires. Keep your cool. That is the only way you survive this."

Green magic washed over him, cool and soothing. The boiling blood in his veins settled instantly. Elara stood beside him, her expression unreadable.

"If you can't control yourself on the battlefield, you will never reach the heights Daddy has."

She pointed a finger toward the chaotic mass of enemies charging the walls. "Use your brain to dominate the fight. Don't let the fight dominate you. Look at them, Pallas. Do you want to be like those pigs?"

She was pointing at the War-Boars—massive, tusked beasts serving as the vanguard. They were cannon fodder, sent to absorb the initial volley of spells and arrows.

Most of them died without knowing what hit them, their minds lost to bloodlust, charging blindly into meat grinders.

"Sis... I want to fight!" Pallas gritted his teeth. He was a hot-blooded youth, raised in the fighting pits of the Stoneheart Horde. Repressing the urge to smash was physically painful.

"I want to fight too," Elara replied, her voice flat. "But we don't fight brainlessly."

She looked at the carnage with eyes that seemed too old for her face. To her, this wasn't terrifying. It was mundane.

While they spoke, the Alliance of the Hundred Races hit the walls.

Warriors from dozens of different species surged forward like a tide, scaling the stone with ladders, claws, and magic.

They were met with the Human Kingdom's engineering.

Massive spikes shot out from the masonry, skewering climbers. Giant pendulum axes swung from hidden recesses, cleaving entire squads in half. Sections of the wall ignited with alchemical fire, turning the vanguard into screaming torches.

The battle was fully joined. Crossbow bolts darkened the sky. Magic exploded in dazzling, lethal bursts. Every clash was a dance of blood and death.

"Is that all the Prince of the Human Kingdom has to offer?"

High in the sky, a beam of black light collided with a beam of gold. They separated, revealing two figures floating in the air.

Lokiviria, the Insectoid King, sneered at Theodore. Both were at the peak of the Legendary tier, but Lokiviria felt superior. Theodore was twenty years his senior.

"From what I know," Theodore replied calmly, his voice amplified by magic, "the Insectoid Race was shattered after the Giant King exiled your faction."

"How did you rise from the ashes so quickly?"

Theodore's eyes narrowed. "What vile secret technique did you use to reach this level in such a short time? Or do you need me to spell it out for you?"

When it came to trash talk, humans were undefeated. Theodore struck a nerve with surgical precision.

His guess was dead on.

Lokiviria's rapid ascent was entirely due to forbidden techniques from the otherworldly God-Eater Insect Race, coupled with massive resource injections from the Clown.

What Lokiviria didn't know—what the Clown hadn't told him—was that he had hit his hard cap.

The secret techniques had hollowed out his potential. Peak Legendary was the end of the line. There was no path to Arch-Lord for him.

He had no future. Pawns never do.

Even the Clown's precious avatars were disposable; Lokiviria was just dust in the wind.

"What do you know?!" Lokiviria screamed.

He was too green. Instead of deflecting, his defensiveness confirmed everything Theodore had suspected.

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