As soon as Mythris returned to Natsmunda, a royal decree was sent - the King of Natsmunda summoned him. The journey to the top of this vertical city was unlike anywhere else in Tehra. There were no long, winding corridors or grand processions of carriages.

Instead, Mythris stepped into a magical elevator of crystal and silver. It soared past hundreds of complex floors, taking him through bustling residential areas, noisy markets, imposing military academies, and even hanging gardens suspended in mid-air.

The higher he ascended, the thinner the air became, but the invisible pressure of supreme authority grew more palpable.

The royal palace was not a magnificent castle but a tower of polished black obsidian, rising straight up from the highest point of the city, a spear challenging the gods. The hall where the throne was located was a terrifyingly minimalist space.

There were no precious carpets or exquisite sculptures. There was only a large room with a crystal window that overlooked all of Natsmunda and the desolate wilderness where monsters still howled.

Sitting on a simple throne, carved from a single meteorite, was the king who had not appeared in public for more than ten years. His existence was as mysterious as the secrets of this country itself. His appearance was not befitting a king. He was tall and thin, his skin held the deep tan of a farmer who had worked relentlessly under the harsh sun his entire life.

He wore a simple gray linen outfit, with no patterns or jewelry. But the aura he exuded was majestic and mysterious. It was a deep, unfathomable power that made even a Rank 7 Demigod like Mythris wary.

"Grand Master Mythris," the king spoke, his voice low and even, but it thundered through the hall and into one's mind.

"Welcome back."

"I humbly greet Your Majesty," Mythris bowed formally. "I wonder if Your Majesty has summoned me here for any instructions?"

The king did not answer immediately. He just looked at Mythris, his eyes as dark as night, piercing the soul of the young Demigod. After a long moment, he slowly spoke, his question having nothing to do with Mythris's deeds in Zephyros.

"Do you... know the true nature of this city of Natsmunda, Mythris?"

The question made Mythris pause for a second. He looked up and met the king's eyes, trying to hide his surprise. This was not a normal question. This was a test, a probing.

"Your Majesty," Mythris replied cleverly, his tone still respectful but not weak, "I only have a few vague guesses, based on the ancient records I had the opportunity to read in the Alliance library. But nothing is certain. Perhaps, those are secrets that only Your Majesty, the supreme ruler of this land, can truly comprehend."

The king smirked mockingly. "Knowing things that you shouldn't know can sometimes be foolish, Grand Master," he said, his tone suddenly becoming sharp and containing an undisguised threat.

"For example, the mere fact that you know a part of Natsmunda's nature is enough for you to be guilty of treason, a crime that could make even a Demigod like you pay a heavy price."

The moment the king's words ended, the space in the hall froze. The pressure from both of them erupted simultaneously, clashing fiercely. Mythris's Demigod aura, carrying the power of lightning and water, became a brilliant blue halo with small lightning bolts dancing around him.

But the king's aura was even more terrifying. It had no specific color, but was a heavy presence, a pressure of gravity, of darkness, of an ancient, primordial power that could crush everything. The air in the hall was compressed to its limit.

Small cracks began to appear on the obsidian walls, and the crystal window rattled, threatening to shatter into a hundred pieces. Mythris felt his chest tighten, and his breathing became difficult. He realized that this king's power, who had been in seclusion for more than ten years, was even stronger and more profound than his own. In a brief moment, Mythris felt a real threat, a sense of danger he hadn't experienced in a long time.

Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the pressure from the king suddenly vanished. He withdrew his aura perfectly, leaving no lingering after-effects. Mythris quickly did the same, but he was still shaken.

The king looked at him, no longer with a probing expression, but with a warning, an undeniable command. "I don't care what plans your Sanctuary Enclave has, what conspiracies you want to carry out, or what other forces you want to confront. That is your business," he said, his tone full of determination. He paused, looking straight into Mythris's eyes, every word was a dagger carving itself into his mind.

"But remember one thing, Mythris. Natsmunda is my property. If your Sanctuary Enclave, or any member of your organization, dares to take any action that harms Natsmunda's survival, then even if the Trinity or the ancient entities rise up, even if the entire world of Tehra is plunged into fire, the only one I will hunt to the ends of the earth will always be the Sanctuary Enclave."

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The king's words were an absolute command, allowing no room for objection or explanation. He had drawn a red line that could not be crossed. Mythris bowed his head in reply. He understood that the game of power in Tehra was far more complex and dangerous than he had ever thought.

And the mysterious king of Natsmunda was definitely someone whom even the Sanctuary Enclave could not underestimate. Without another word, he left the hall, carrying a new burden, a terrifying truth about one of their most dangerous future enemies.

For the past year, Henry has never missed his morning training at the old Unit 18 grounds. This place had become a private sanctuary, a place of will, where he alone faced the physical toll and mental torment. Every sword swing, every drop of sweat, was an affirmation that he would not give up.

That morning, as he finished his workout and was breathing heavily in the middle of the field, a strange voice suddenly came from behind, breaking the silence. "Henry Strike. You look much healthier now than you did before."

Henry was startled, and he turned around in a defensive stance. A stranger was standing there, just a few feet away. He looked completely normal... but his eyes held a cunning, intelligent look that suggested he knew all of Henry's secrets. What shocked Henry even more was that his Mystic Sense hadn't felt the man's presence until he spoke.

"Who are you?" Henry asked, his hand already on his sword hilt, his voice full of caution.

The man smiled, a friendly but knowing smile. "Oh, don't be so tense. I mean no harm. The meeting with Laurent in Iskadra, and the conversations with Mythris, have probably made you wary of all strangers, haven't they?"

Those two names, spoken so casually by a stranger, struck Henry's mind like bolts of lightning. He froze, shocked and confused. His biggest secret, the identity of the Sanctuary Enclave members, how did this person know?

"Who are you?" Henry roared, immediately getting into a fighting stance.

The man just shrugged nonchalantly. "Me? I'm just a wanderer. I just happened to be passing by today, and I wanted to chat with "The Chosen One" to see what's so special about you."

""The Chosen One"?" Henry frowned, but before he could ask any more questions, the man raised his hand and...

Snap!

A light, elegant snapping of fingers echoed; instantly, the world around Henry completely changed. There was no magic circle, no flash of light, and not even a hint of magical effect that he could feel.

In a split second, the dusty training grounds of the East Aerion barracks had vanished. In their place, he and the stranger were standing in a pristine forest, with ancient trees towering to the sky, and the air was fresh and cool.

What happened? This was the ability to change reality? This thing made Henry's thought unable to keep up.

No, it couldn't be, that was one of "The Three Impossible". So this was a kind of instantaneous teleportation magic, with no incantations or formations, and it was performed with the ease and nature of breathing. This power was far superior to anything he had ever seen from Mythris or Selena. Who was this person?

"See, isn't this better for a conversation?" the man said, his cheerful tone dismissing the act of changing an entire space as nothing more than a small joke. He casually sat down on the roots of an ancient tree. "So, let's talk a little about the Sanctuary Enclave, shall we?"

"I once heard a story about a great hero of Zephyros. They say he gave his life in a tragic battle to seal a Demon Lord. A beautiful, noble story, isn't it?" the man said, his eyes distant. Henry was silent, but his heart was pounding. This man was talking about Larsus.

He saw Henry's reaction and smirked. "But what would happen if that hero didn't die? What if that noble act was just a plan... for him to pursue an even greater goal? A goal so noble that he was willing to forsake his own honor?"

He looked straight at Henry. "Their goal was a secret organization claiming to be the world's protector. They do what they believe is right, even if it means sacrificing a city and tens of thousands of innocent lives. Does that sound familiar, Henry Strike?"

By now, Henry's suspicion had become a certainty. This person knew everything. "What do you want?" he growled.

"I don't want anything," the man leaned back, his tone still completely nonchalant. "I'm just curious. I'm curious whether a smart young man like you, who possesses Mystic Sense, would completely believe a story told by the people involved."

He stood up, slowly walking around Henry. "Just think about it, Henry. Everything you know about the Sanctuary Enclave, about the great threats... where did it all come from? From Will? From Socrost? From Laurent? From Mythris? They are all members of the Sanctuary Enclave."

Each of his questions was a needle, pricking the trust that Henry was trying to build. "Have you ever asked yourself... why they chose you? Why they helped you get stronger? Was it simply because you had potential?" He stopped in front of Henry, his voice was a venomous, serpentine whisper. "Or are you also just a pawn, a tool in a larger plan that you know nothing about?"

"Is the Sanctuary Enclave really protecting the world as they say? Or do they also have their own motives, goals for which they are willing to expend anything, including you?"

The man's words were like a poison, slowly seeping into Henry's mind. He realized a brutal truth. It was true. Everything that they had told him. He had no other evidence, no other perspective. He had been completely under their control, believing the story they had created. The independence and autonomy he had always craved were probably just an illusion.

Seeing Henry's silence, lost in his confused thoughts, the man smiled with satisfaction. He had achieved his goal. "Well, that's enough for today's chat. I don't want to bother "The Chosen One" for too long." He gave a mysterious smile. "Goodbye, Henry Strike. I hope the next time we meet, you will have your own answer."

Snap!

Another snap of fingers. Henry found himself standing alone in the empty training grounds, the morning sun shining on his still-stunned face. What had just happened felt like an illusion. But there was one thing that made Henry believe it was real. At his feet, on the dusty ground, was a playing card. On the card, there was only one name, the most famous name of the Fifth Epoch, the one who started Ragnarok.

LOKI.

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