Space convulsed, folding in on itself as though reality strained under a burden it was never meant to bear.

From that twisting veil, figures emerged, beings thought lost to the abyss of history and buried forever in the dust of myth. Yet here they stood, not as phantoms or echoes, but as men and women of flesh and blood, their forms whole, their presence undeniable, as if death had never claimed them.

The first to step forth were the Four Great Mountains, Athanatos, Kryos, Aniketos, and Ilios. With them came a host of lords whose names had long since become legend: Queen Artemis the First, her silver crown gleaming even in deathless return; Emperor Alaric of Cyrenia, whose conquests were still sung of in old halls; Archduke Zenas, the Wolf of the North, his very aura bristling with battle-lust; Lucian the Unbroken, whose defiance had carved him into history; King Dominic, stern and immovable as the stone of his bastions; and countless others who once shaped the foundations of the age.

Their arrival shattered the composure of every ruler present. Even Apollyon, whose arrogance had never been shaken, wore disbelief upon his face.

In all his long centuries, never had his eyes beheld such a thing, the dead crossing the chasm of eternity, clothed anew in living bodies, restored to the mortal realm.

No one doubted. No one dared to question. The sheer majesty radiating from these revenants silenced all suspicion. It was not the kind of power that could be conjured or mimicked, it was the weight of eternity itself.

And among them, the most terrible of all were the Four Mountains, the fathers of the races, whose shadows still loomed over history.

"So… it was possible for us to return to the mortal realm," rumbled Aniketos, his voice like boulders grinding against each other.

He clenched his colossal fist, marveling at the sensation, blood coursing once more through veins that had been dry for millennia.

At ten feet tall, he rivaled Asher's towering frame, yet his body was broader, heavier, every muscle like a sculpted pillar of might. His arms were thick as ancient oaks, veins alive with warmth, carrying the pulse of life he had not felt in uncounted ages.

Beside him stood his brother, Ilios, his very presence a furnace. His hair and beard burned not with color but with living fire, each strand a living flame, casting a ruddy glow across the ruined hall.

Equal in height to Aniketos, he held his arms crossed, his gaze sweeping like a judge's sentence until it settled on Samson.

And beneath that gaze, the Emperor of the Sacred Flame, who had ruled fire for centuries, felt suddenly small, as though reduced from emperor to child, standing chastened before the true source of his dominion.

To their left was Kryos, serene yet unyielding, both hands gripping a long spear forged entirely of unmelting ice, its cold brilliance brighter than silver.

His white hair shimmered with purity so absolute it made Asher's own pale locks seem dulled and soiled in comparison.

His features, ethereal and striking, eclipsed even Geriant's famed beauty, though a deep scar marred him, a jagged wound stretching from the corner of his face down across his eye and throat, left by his brothers' harsh trials in the age before the races were fully born. It was not ugliness, but testament, carved into perfection by suffering.

At the center of them all towered Athanatos, their eldest. Crimson-skinned, his hide seemed more like armor grown into his body than flesh, each movement rippling with raw vitality.

Twelve feet of giant's stature loomed over the gathering, crowned with a mane of lustrous golden hair that cascaded down his back like a river of sunlight.

Yet more fearsome than his size was the wild, primal aura that rolled from him in waves, a force so unrestrained that the very air thickened, daring lesser beings to draw breath in his presence.

"We alone cannot defeat the abyss. So why not forge the greatest army this world has ever seen, an army woven from every thread of history? From the dawn of legends until this very moment, the mortal and the spirit, men and Old Ones alike. Every force, every blade, every soul we can muster against Saelix." Asher rose slowly from his throne, his voice steady, carrying across the hall.

Apollyon's head snapped toward him, his storm-gray eyes wide, disbelief warring with outrage. "Y… You did this!" His voice thundered like the crack of splitting mountains.

Artemis narrowed her gaze, suspicion flaring. 'Bringing the dead into the mortal realm… What sort of power, what sort of talent, could allow this?!' Her thoughts tightened into silence, but the slight shift of her lips betrayed awe.

Among the spirit lords, Zenas stood tall, his face brimming with pride. The man who had once borne the weight of the abyss on his shoulders now looked upon Asher like a father seeing his son step into destiny.

But the Four Mountains… their gazes were heavy, distant. Three of them regarded Asher without deference, their eyes filled with the cold indifference of titans. To them, Asher was no more than a bridge, a tool, a conduit through which they had crossed back into life. Nothing more.

Yet Kryos was different. At the corner of his flawless, icy face, the faintest smile unfurled. The frost in his glacial gaze softened, warmth sparking through the eternal cold. His acknowledgement, however subtle, was worth more than a thousand voices.

Then Athanatos moved. His crimson form, a tower of primal authority, raised one massive hand. His voice rolled like thunder over plains. "This meeting is over. Prepare yourselves. In one year's time, we march into the abyss." His tone was iron, yet when his gaze fell upon Sapphira, it softened like steel meeting velvet. "W… Will that be agreeable to you, Lady Tenaria?"

The entire hall shifted as those words landed. It was not every day that Athanatos, father of nations, bent his speech in courtesy.

Yet Sapphira's temples creased, anger flashing in her emerald eyes at being addressed with such commanding familiarity.

She opened her lips to speak, but before the storm could break, Asher's hand brushed the back of hers. A gentle caress. His golden eyes found hers, steady, calm, wordless reassurance pouring into her heart. He would endure this slight…for now.

She exhaled, her head inclining stiffly in a strained nod.

Satisfied, Athanatos vanished in a flare of power, and the other spirit lords followed, their forms dissolving like smoke caught in a gale.

Some gravitated immediately to their mortal lineages, rekindling bonds thought lost to eternity. Ilios strode directly toward Samson, the fire in his presence mirrored in the flame emperor's soul.

Aniketos went to his descendants in silence, his massive hand resting like an anvil upon the shoulder of Apollyon. Zenas, whose pride in Asher had burned brightest, vanished without a word. After some moments, Kryos too dissolved, his lingering smile fading into frost.

Asher's eyes roved across the hall. Vladimir stood deep in conversation with Archduke Lucian, the first Duke of Nubis, their voices carrying low and serious. Across the chamber, Artemis bent her head to the First Queen of her line, their mirrored features locked in a dialogue of generations.

And Asher? He walked toward the great exit alone, the towering gates swallowing him in silence.

In the grand scheme that now unfolded, he was but a speck, a spark amidst bonfires. The return of giants, the rekindling of legends, the will of gods themselves, against such weight, he seemed almost small. Insignificant.

No one paused to ask how he felt. No one cared to wonder what burdens pressed his shoulders. And perhaps that was fitting. For Asher himself would not, could not, allow his emotions to stand in the way of the one truth.

The war against the abyss demanded sacrifice. Even if that sacrifice was himself. But should it be?

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