—Somewhere very far away, deep within dense woods—

"Is everything complete?"

The question came from a tall man clad in a regal uniform, its fabric embroidered with faint runic threads that glimmered whenever light brushed against them. His violet hair fell neatly to his shoulders, framing a youthful face that contrasted sharply with his brilliant golden eyes. Though young in appearance, the weight carried in his voice—heavy, restrained, and weary—hinted at a responsibility far greater than his age suggested.

"Your Majesty, we have met the required amount of sacrifices," the man standing behind him replied.

He was far older, his face lined with the marks of age and experience. His eyes were sharp and careful. There were other people in the area too, and even though they spoke in hushed voices, if paid attention, anyone could hear them with their enhanced senses.

"Did you hear? Most of the instructors—and even some professors—stationed in the trial cities died to the demons."

"Really?" another whispered in disbelief. "Damn… I didn't think the demons would be that relentless."

A little distance away, another group spoke in hushed, grim tones.

"Nearly one hundred and seventy thousand candidates were sacrificed. If this call fails…" The man swallowed.

"I hope we succeed. Otherwise, all those deaths will be in vain."

"Yeah…" another replied slowly.

"But was it really necessary to kill the youth? I know their talents were weak, but still—there was some talent, right? Shouldn't the dead weight in the walled cities have been dealt with instead? I mean, they don't fight on the front lines, yet they keep consuming our resources."

The third man nodded along, his expression darkening.

"Exactly. Even their spawns will be just as weak. I say they should be the ones dying—not the talented. And don't even get me started on their attitudes." His lips curled in disdain.

"They act as if we're born to protect their weak asses. All haughty and arrogant, despite having zero power. They hoard gold coins like it means something, not understanding that in the wild, it's completely worthless."

Before the tension could rise further, a slightly wiser-looking man stepped forward and spoke, his voice calm yet firm enough to cut through the noise.

"No," he said. "Whether they live or die doesn't matter at all. Since they have no talent, they aren't counted in the racial power meter."

Seeing the confusion on a few faces, he continued, raising a hand slightly.

"Think of it this way. Imagine a sealed box containing both ice cubes and water, all kept at a constant temperature of zero degrees Celsius."

He gestured lightly as he spoke, as though drawing the image in the air.

"The sealed box represents the space we possess—land humanity has captured. The water represents talentless people. The ice cubes are those with talent. Now, these ice cubes vary in size. Some are large—high-ranked talents. Some are tiny—low-ranked talents." He paused briefly, ensuring everyone was following.

"And remember, the temperature is fixed. No new ice will form, and no new water will appear. They just interchange forms, remaining constant"

Silence settled around them as he let the metaphor sink in.

"Now tell me," he continued slowly, his gaze sweeping across the listeners.

"Should we crush the tiny ice cubes, creating space for a potentially larger cube to form when they merge… or remove the water, which, no matter how many times it reforms, will remain water?"

As understanding dawned, the crowd fell into contemplation. One by one, heads nodded. Then, almost in unison—

"We should crush the tiny ones…"

But a voice cut in from the side, hesitant yet curious.

"Then shouldn't we just decrease the temperature itself? If we do that, the water would eventually turn into ice."

The wise-looking man turned his gaze toward the speaker, locking eyes with him.

"We can do that," he admitted.

"Lowering the temperature would work; in the real world, it would mean more beast masters dying with their beasts unsummoned."

His voice hardened slightly.

"But tell me—how long would that take? And do we have that much time?"

The man who had spoken earlier clenched his fists, then lowered his head.

"No…" he muttered.

"We don't. We need to hurry. There's very little time left."

The wiser man nodded, then shifted his gaze forward.

In the distance, countless figures moved through the dense forest with practised precision. They followed a predetermined path, carving deep lines and intricate symbols into the forest floor. The air was thick with the scent of churned earth, sap, and faint traces of blood. Mana pulsed faintly with every stroke, causing the ground to tremble ever so slightly.

If one were to look down from high above the sky, one would see the full picture.

A massive octagonal formation was being etched into the forest itself. Each pointed edge ended in a circle as large as a football field, glowing faintly as the symbols neared completion. At the centre of it all stood the same group that had been discussing moments earlier.

And at the absolute centre of the formation—

The young man in regal attire.

The one they called—Your Majesty.

At once, the old man standing beside the Emperor released a wave of pressure that rolled across the gathering like an invisible tide. Conversations died instantly, words choking in throats as the oppressive force pressed down, silencing every stray murmur.

"Your Majesty, please forgive the ignorant ones," the old man said.

"They are simply… trying to brace themselves for what is coming next."

The young man—now unmistakably revealed as the Emperor—gave a small nod, his golden eyes steady and understanding, showing neither irritation nor leniency, merely acceptance.

It was then that the old man suddenly felt something vibrate within his robe.

His expression stiffened for a fraction of a second, eyes widening in surprise, but he quickly regained his composure.

"I apologize, Your Majesty," he said with a slight bow. "This new device—though convenient—is also inconvenient at the same time. It is… taking some time to get used to."

Reaching into his robe, he withdrew a sleek, rectangular, smooth and dark object. On a single scale, it looked remarkably similar to a modern smartphone.

The old man stared at the illuminated screen with a mixture of curiosity and mild frustration. Then, with cautious deliberation, he raised a finger and tapped it—stiffly—like someone using a mobile phone for the very first time, half-expecting it to misbehave at any moment.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.