The war room door shut behind Icarus with a muted thud, and the stone corridor ahead stretched long and dim, torches flickering along the walls like the pulse of a dying beast. His steps were silent, almost floating, as he walked past armored guards who stiffened instinctively at his presence. None dared meet his eyes for longer than a heartbeat.

'Good,' he thought. 'It seems that fear makes them loyal to me; better yet, fear is always better than loyalty, especially in important moments.'

He passed two Lycan sentries who bowed as he approached—bowed not out of respect, but out of something closer to primal caution. Icarus didn't blame them. Lycan instincts were sharper than human ones; they sensed danger the way wolves sensed storms. And Icarus was a storm wearing a human shape.

As he walked, snippets of conversation drifted from side rooms:

"Prisoners will handle the Ritefield crowds—"

"Real warriors stay hidden—"

"It was Lord Kaedor's idea, right?"

"No… they say it was his."

Icarus did not slow. Such chatter was insignificant.

'They still believe Kaedor leads this war,' he mused. 'How convenient for me.'

Ten years.

Ten years gone from every known map, every political ledger, every battlefield.

A decade erased from the world's memory, except for a few faint scars his absence had left behind.

No one knew where he had gone. No one knew what he had studied.

Sylvanel. The World Tree's roots. The sealed essence buried beneath.

A force older than kingdoms. Older than the Eight Families. A power that had eluded even him—until now.

'The Tree's Essence cannot be extracted by force, he thought, sliding a hand behind his back. It requires disruption. A conflict that will capture all the attention. A fracture in the family that guards it.'

Sylvanel's peace was the lock. Thal'Zar would be the key that shattered it.

But Kaedor didn't need to know that.

His footsteps continued, echoing down the long corridor.

He remembered Kaedor's earlier words—fear masked as anger.

"You think the elves have so little honor—?"

Icarus almost smiled.

'Honor is a luxury for those who don't understand what power truly requires. And I am long past luxuries.'

He arrived at a reinforced door guarded by four Lycans. All of them bowed deeply, pulling the heavy slab open without a word.

Inside, the air was colder.

Icarus stepped forward, eyes narrowing.

It was time to check on his insurance.

The door closed behind him with a soft thud, and the air inside the chamber shifted—thicker, colder, heavy with the scent of sickness and boiling herbs. Lamps cast a dull glow over rows of beds where bodies writhed under blankets, sweat pooling on pale skin.

The afflicted were not soldiers. Not prisoners. They were Kaedor's family—his children, siblings, nieces, nephews.

Dozens of them.

Some shivered violently. Some gasped for breath, lungs rattling. Some lay still, their energy drained to the brink.

Icarus stepped forward, silent, hands clasped behind his back.

He surveyed the room with the same interest one might give a collection of rare insects pinned to a board.

'Poor things… well, to be fair, I don't pity them. Not even a little. They're simply part of what must be done.'

A healer rushed forward—an elderly Lycan woman with trembling hands.

"Warden… their fevers worsened during the night. The tremors have spread. We've tried every remedy we know, but—"

"Of course you've failed," Icarus interrupted calmly. "You're attempting to treat something you don't understand."

He moved between the beds, the sickness reacting subtly to his presence. The air tightened, the groans softened, as if the illnesses recognized the one who birthed them.

His Class whispered beneath the surface:

Class: Warden of the Plague

—master of curses

—born of disease

—controller of mana-borne plagues invisible to the eye

But no one here knew the full extent.

No one except him.

'Kaedor thinks I gave him no choice. And he's right. Without me, every last one of them would already be dead.'

A young boy coughed violently, blood flecking the corner of his mouth. A healer panicked, pressing cloth to his lips.

Icarus placed two fingers lightly on the child's wrist. The fever steadied. The breathing eased.

Gasps filled the chamber.

But when Icarus pulled his hand away, the symptoms surged back with cruel precision.

"Their survival depends on my cooperation," he said, voice flat, almost bored. "As long as Kaedor obeys, they will endure. Barely."

The healers exchanged horrified looks.

Icarus continued walking.

'All this chaos… all this suffering… only to open a door Sylvanel has kept sealed for centuries.'

'The World Tree's Essence is within reach. The core at the heart of that ancient root network.'

'And once I have it, the experiment will finally move forward. Ten years of preparation, hidden from every eye…'

'I'm closer than ever.'

He paused at the far end of the room, observing the collective misery with detached calculation.

"War is useful," he murmured to himself. "It distracts everyone from what truly matters."

Then he turned away. He had inspected enough.

The door to the infirmary faded behind him as Icarus entered a smaller, warded passage—one no ordinary guard dared approach. The stone here was darker. The air vibrated with faint, unnatural pressure, as if the corridor itself remembered something ancient and violent.

Icarus walked slowly, fingertips brushing the cold wall as if listening to its thrum.

'Ten years…'

'Ten years since I found it.'

'Ten years since curiosity nearly killed me… and rewarded me far more.'

His pace remained measured, but his mind drifted back.

The day he vanished.

The day the world assumed he died.

The day he crossed a boundary no sane person would approach.

He remembered the tear in reality—thin as a hair, trembling like the breath of a dying god. From that rift had crawled a Void Creature, an Apex-grade monstrosity, its body a shifting nightmare of limbs and impossible geometry. The kind of thing that devoured light, thought, and mana alike.

And yet…

It hesitated when it saw him.

It watched him.

It understood him.

'The first sign that they possess something close to intelligence… And the moment that sealed my fate.'

He had captured it—not by overpowering it, but by infecting it.

His class, Warden of the Plague, allowed him to introduce mana-corrupting diseases into anything that breathed… or simulated breathing.

The Void Creature weakened. Screamed. Collapsed.

But it did not die.

Instead, it adapted.

And that was the moment Icarus knew the truth:

Void Creatures were not mindless beasts.

They were life from another dimension—unfinished life. Raw consciousness without structure.

And he wanted to see what happened when a mind like that was forced to awaken.

Now, after ten years of experimentation and ten years of hiding, he had everything ready except one final ingredient.

He stopped in front of a sealed stone door layered in magical locks.

"The World Tree's Essence," he whispered, touching the surface. "The only stabilizer strong enough to anchor a foreign consciousness."

If he could obtain that Essence and fuse it with the creature's void-born psyche…

He could create the first true sentient entity from the Void.

And if he failed?

He smiled faintly.

'Then I die. A global headline. A fallen SSS talent. A warning to future generations. But curiosity is worth the risk.'

With a flick of his fingers, the door's runes pulsed.

He stepped inside the chamber where his experiment waited.

The chamber beyond the sealed door was vast, circular, and silent—its ceiling lost in darkness. Chains of blackened mana ran across the room like veins, converging toward a single floating mass suspended in the center. The containment spell glowed faintly, casting shifting purple light over the creature trapped within.

A shape of claws and tendrils. An anatomy that refused to obey logic. A presence that pressed against the mind like a whisper from another dying world.

And as soon as Icarus entered, the Void Creature stirred—slowly, like a deep ocean beast waking from slumber.

Icarus smiled faintly.

He approached the edge of the containment field and spoke as casually as someone greeting an old friend.

"How was your day today?"

The creature's limbs curled inward, then outward, a distorted pulse echoing from its core.

"Feeling alright?" Icarus continued. "Come on, after ten years together, you could at least pretend to answer."

A ripple of void-energy crackled across its surface, but there was no comprehension. At least, not yet.

Icarus clasped his hands behind his back.

"You know…" he mused, tilting his head, "don't you think it's time you told me your name? After a decade, it seems rude to keep me guessing."

No response—just the quiet hum of cosmic hunger contained by force.

Icarus sighed dramatically.

"We're good friends by now, aren't we? Strange friends, but still. And it is bizarre, by the way…"

He leaned in slightly.

"Ten years without food. Without water. Without sleep. And hell, not once have I seen you take a shit."

"Not that you could, physically. I've inspected every inch of your body. Fascinating structure—no organs, no fluids, no symmetry. You're basically a god's unfinished doodle."

He was about to continue when the door behind him opened.

Kaedor's heavy steps echoed inside, followed by a sharper, lighter pair—someone armored.

"Icarus." Kaedor's voice was stiff. "This is one of my generals. He'll carry out the Ritefield mission."

Icarus turned, expression unbothered.

"Good. I'm glad to hear it. It's far too early for forces like you and me to move directly."

The general, a broad-shouldered Lycan in his seventies, froze when his eyes fell on the Void Creature. Even as a Rank Five Prime Core—talent B, hardened by decades of combat—he paled visibly.

"W-What is that…?"

Icarus waved a hand dismissively.

"Don't worry. It doesn't bite." A pause. "Well… not unless the containment fails."

The general swallowed hard.

Icarus stepped past him.

"Now then," he said, tone shifting to business, "let me tell you the details of the plan."

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