The Royal Palace of Ironforge was usually a place of deafening industry, the beating heart of a city made of gears. But tonight, the corridors were silent.

The Red Knights, the King's personal guard, lined the hallways like statues of blood-colored steel.

They stood perfectly still, their mana-halberds humming with lethal potential. They weren't guarding against an external threat; they were guarding a secret.

In the deepest, most secure chamber of the palace, the King's private study, the air was thick with tension.

Damien stood in the center of the room. He had removed his cloak and mask, revealing his silver hair and exhausted, pale face.

Behind him stood his team: Isabelle, Leona, and Lyra. They were battered, bruised, and on edge, their hands hovering near their weapons.

Hephaestus paced nervously by the fireplace, his grease-stained hands fidgeting with a wrench.

Grandmaster Brokk and Alfred stood by the door, silent sentinels.

And sitting behind a massive desk of carved obsidian was King Durin.

The King looked terrible. Up close, the damage from the Abyss Poison was undeniable.

His skin was translucent and grey, like old parchment. His once-fiery beard was white and thin. His hands trembled as he poured himself a glass of water.

But his eyes... his eyes were burning with a terrifying, ancient intelligence.

"So," Durin's voice rumbled, low and gravelly.

"This is the ghost who piloted my Titan."

He looked at Damien. He didn't look at the boy's face; he looked at the long, cloth-wrapped bundle strapped to Damien's back.

"And that," Durin pointed a shaking finger, "is my failure."

However, hearing this, Damien didn't flinch as he had already expected the pantheon sword to be recognized

Instead, he reached over his shoulder and unbuckled the strap. With slow, deliberate movements, he unwrapped the cloth.

The Pantheon Sword was revealed.

Only like before, it wasn't glowing anymore. It was a dull, jagged shard of crystal, looking more like a piece of raw ore than a weapon.

But the mana residue on it was so dense it distorted the air around it.

"It's not a failure, Your Majesty," Damien said quietly, placing the sword on the obsidian desk. "It worked."

Durin stared at the blade. A mix of pride and horror crossed his face.

"It worked it met it's suitable owner," Durin whispered. He looked up at Damien, his gaze piercing.

"I designed that sword to channel every element. But I couldn't create a filter. It drinks the wielder's soul if the energy is not enough to fuel the strike. A normal man would be a husk after one swing."

Durin leaned forward.

"Who are you, boy? How are you still standing?"

Hephaestus stepped forward, anxious. "Father, he—"

"Quiet, son," Durin silenced him with a raised hand. "Let him speak."

Damien took a breath. He was tired of hiding. If he wanted the King's help, he needed to offer the truth, or at least, a version of it.

"My name is Damien Voss," Damien said.

The name hit the room like a physical blow.

Durin's eyes widened. He sat back in his chair, a sudden bark of laughter escaping his lips. It was a dry, rusty sound.

"Voss..." Durin shook his head, a smile touching his grey lips. "Of course. Theron's whelp."

He looked at Damien with new understanding.

"Only a Voss would be crazy enough to use a weapon that eats souls. Your father... he was the only one who told me not to destroy it. He said,

"One day, someone with enough greed to eat the world will need a spoon.'"

"It seems he was right"

Durin chuckled, though it turned into a coughing fit that racked his frail body.

Alfred, seeing this, quickly stepped forward to offer a handkerchief, but Durin waved him away.

"You look like him," Durin wheezed, wiping black blood from his lips. "Arrogant eyes. But you have your mother's pretty face."

"Thank you," Damien said dryly. "I assume this means I'm not being arrested?"

"Arrested?" Durin scoffed. "You saved my city. You saved my son. If I arrested you, the Ancestors would spit on my grave."

The King's expression turned serious. He tapped the desk with his ring-laden finger.

"But we have a problem, Voss kid. You saved the city... but you didn't save me."

The room went cold.

Hephaestus froze. "Father? What do you mean? The antidote... Alfred gave it to you! You're awake!"

"I am indeed awake," Durin agreed. He pulled down the collar of his robe.

Gasps filled the room.

Spreading from the King's chest, up his neck and toward his jaw, were black, vein-like tendrils. They pulsed with a sickening, rhythmic beat.

"The poison the Cult used... it wasn't just a sleeping draught," Durin said grimly. "It was Abyssrot. It's alive, constantly eating my core."

He looked at Alfred. "The Tears of the Goddess you used... they were potent. They shocked my system awake. But they didn't kill the parasite, it just satiated it for a while."

Alfred bowed his head, his face pained.

As Theron's Steward, he had encountered Durin on various occasions, so seeing his master's friend on his deathbed, he felt a hint of grief

"It's okay, Alfred. You bought me time," Durin sighed. "But not much. The physicians say I have three months. Maybe less."

Hephaestus, on the side, hearing this, looked like he had been punched.

"Three months? No... There has to be a way! We can flush it out! We can use the Titan's reactor to—"

"Science won't fix this, son," Durin said softly. "This is a curse. To kill a curse of the Abyss... you need the fire of a God."

Durin turned his gaze back to Damien.

"Theron knew this," Durin said. "Before he disappeared... he came to me. He was investigating the Void Cult. He suspected they were using Abyssrot."

"He also wanted to find a cure for his arm"

Damien stepped forward. "My father was here?"

"A year ago," Durin nodded. "He believed that the only thing hot enough to burn out the Abyss and maybe the Void, was a Dragon's Heart Blood."

"Dragon's blood?" Damien frowned. "There are dragons everywhere. We can hunt a wyvern—"

"Not a wyvern," Durin interrupted. "A True Dragon. An Ancient. Specifically... a Red Dragon. The keeper of the Primordial Fire."

Durin reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a heavy, rolled-up map. He slid it across the obsidian surface to Damien.

It was a map of the Western Continent. But one area, a vast range of jagged mountains and canyons, was marked in red ink.

"The Western Dragon Lands," Durin said.

"Theron went there. He was looking for Ignis, the Red Dragon King. He believed Ignis guarded a secret... a way to purify the Void."

Damien looked at the map. His heart raced.

''The Western Dragon Lands...'

'According to the novel, this is the year a human adventurer accidentally finds a Dragon Nest in the West, sparking a massive Gold Rush for dragon treasure.'

'But Theron was there? A year ago?'

The puzzle pieces were clicking together. Theron wasn't just missing; he was ahead of the timeline.

He had gone to the Dragon Lands before the "Adventurer Event" even triggered.

If that was the case, didn't that mean his knowledge of the future was getting more and more useless?

Or did Theron in the original novel go there but the author did not mention it?

Lost in thought, a wave of doubt began to well up from within Damien

"If you go there," Durin said, his voice weak but intense. "If you can find Ignis... if you can bring back a vial of his Heart Blood... I will live."

"And if I don't?" Damien asked.

"Then I die," Durin stated simply. "And Hephaestus becomes King of a mourning nation, while the Void Cult regroups."

Hephaestus looked at Damien, his eyes pleading. "Damien..."

Damien didn't look at the Prince. He looked at the Pantheon Sword on the desk.

"I need Dragon Blood too," Damien murmured, thinking of his own stalled cultivation. His Golden Dragon Aura was stuck at the 4th Order. To advance, he needed the essence of a real dragon.

He looked up at the King.

"I'll do it," Damien said. "I'll go West. I'll find your cure. And I'll find out what my father was doing there."

Durin smiled. He pushed the Pantheon Sword back toward Damien.

"Then take this."

Damien blinked. "Your Majesty?"

"It's a failed experiment to me," Durin said. "It rejects me. It rejects my son. But it didn't kill you, It chose you, boy."

The King leaned back, closing his eyes as a wave of exhaustion hit him.

"Take the sword. Fix it. Master it. And use it to cut the head off all those void bastards."

Damien reached out and took the sword. It felt heavy, cold, and dormant. But he could feel the connection humming in his bones.

He strapped it to his back.

"Consider it done," Damien said.

"One more thing," Durin whispered, his eyes opening a crack. "The Cultist in the plaza... before you silenced him... he said something else. A name."

"Azazel," Damien confirmed.

Durin shuddered.

"That isn't just a name, Damien. In the ancient runes... Azazel means 'The Scapegoat'. But in the Deep Dark... it means 'World Breaker'."

The King's voice dropped to a terrified whisper.

"If they are summoning him... then the war isn't coming. It's already here."

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