The Gathering of the Shadows!

Four hours later...

The attendees of the Decadal Clans Meeting had finally arrived in Diwankula. Beneath the sprawling branches of an ancient banyan tree—the sacred emblem of the land—they stood in anticipation, awaiting their escort to guide them to the meeting hall. The air was thick with solemnity, a quiet reverence shared among the assembled figures, each representing the great clans of the Saptavansh.

Before long, a man, likely in his thirties, approached them. He was draped in a flowing black robe, his long dark hat adding an air of mystery to his presence. His right sleeve bore a distinct badge with the inscription "Jasphal Diehard." With a deep bow, he gestured for the guests to follow him.

At the grand entrance of the Mahoraga Estate, Maqbir Mahoraga, the host of this decade's meeting, awaited them. His presence was both commanding and dignified, befitting his role as the current head of the Mahoraga Clan. As the visitors approached, he greeted them with a deep, resounding "Vannakam." It was an ancient word, a salutation from the old tongue of Diwankula's earliest communities.

In unison, the attendees responded, "Vannakam."

Maqbir's gaze swept across the gathered leaders before he spoke, his voice carrying the weight of tradition and responsibility.

"Honored members of the Saptavansh, I, Maqbir Mahoraga, welcome you to the Hall of the Meeting. This hall has stood for over a century, serving as the sacred ground where our ancestors—the Seven Clan Men—once gathered. It is here that the fate of our people has been decided time and time again, and it is for this reason that this site remains our chosen place of counsel. Please, follow me inside."

The Emperor of Malwai, Pannival, took a step forward, his presence exuding authority.

"It is our honour to be hosted by you, Mahoraga," he acknowledged, his words carrying a sense of urgency. "Now, let us proceed without delay. Time is not on our side."

The assembled leaders echoed in agreement, their voices uniting in solemn determination.

"Yes, Mahoraga. Lead us to the place where the future of this nation—and the world—shall be shaped."

Maqbir nodded. "Very well then."

Taking a step back, he extended his hand towards an inconspicuous red button embedded in the stone wall. With a firm press, a low rumbling filled the air as the ground trembled beneath them. In the next moment, towering walls of gleaming steel rose from the depths of the earth, enclosing the space in a breathtaking display of ancient ingenuity. Gasps of astonishment rippled through the gathered leaders as they took in the sight before them.

Maqbir observed their reactions with a knowing smile. "Do not be surprised," he said, his voice tinged with reverence. "This is not my doing, but that of our ancestors."

A collective murmur of admiration spread among the clans. Their forefathers' wisdom and foresight echoed through the very foundations of this place, a testament to their legacy—a legacy that now rested in their hands.

Maqbir continued, his voice calm yet authoritative.

"Everyone, as per the information I have gathered, there are a total of thirty-six rooms within these quarters. The men shall take the left staircase and proceed to their designated chambers, while the women shall descend the right staircase to theirs. Your traditional attire has been carefully placed inside the wooden almirahs within your rooms. The meeting will commence at precisely four in the evening. I expect all members to arrive at the hall at least fifteen minutes prior to that. Consider this both a request and a warning."

His words settled over the gathering like a thin veil of unspoken command, but not all remained silent.

Awaja Azhura scoffed, his lips curling into a smirk. "That much is obvious, Mahoraga," he remarked, his tone laced with mild amusement. "This is hardly our first time attending the Decadal Clans Meeting. Though, I suppose it may be your first time hosting it."

Maqbir's eyes narrowed slightly as he turned to Awaja, his voice carrying a sharp edge. "Perhaps, Awaja, you are not new to these gatherings. But there are many young men and women here who have never before set foot in this hall. Do you not grasp such a simple reality?"

His words dripped with cold sarcasm, sending a ripple of tension through the air. Awaja's smirk vanished, his expression darkening.

"You…" His hand instinctively moved toward the hilt of his blade, his fingers curling around it. "Do you wish to test my strength, Mahoraga? You dare speak with such rudeness to your guests?"

The atmosphere grew heavy as some of the younger attendees shifted uneasily, sensing the brewing conflict between the two powerful figures.

But before the situation could escalate further, a voice cut through the air—deep, commanding, and laced with an aura so overwhelming that it felt as though reality itself trembled in its wake.

"Enough."

It was Angkasa Jayantaka.

The leader of the Seven Clans did not raise his voice, nor did he need to. The sheer weight of his presence alone was enough to silence the tension, disrupting the very sanity of those who stood too close to his aura. Even the most battle-hardened warriors among them instinctively straightened their postures, their breath caught in their throats.

Angkasa's gaze bore into both Awaja and Maqbir with a quiet ferocity. Though he appeared aged, any who mistook him for weak would soon realize their mistake—a fatal one at that. He was, after all, Angkasa Jayantaka, a name that resonated with power and fear alike. Among the Saptavansh, a lineage of monsters and beasts in human form, only one other man could stand as his equal—Pannival Mahaji Malwai.

These two figures were not simply warriors; they were legends. Giants among titans. Their strength was without rival.

Angkasa exhaled slowly, his voice carrying the weight of finality.

"You are not children," he said, his tone unwavering. "This meeting is far greater than your personal quarrels. Maintain the decorum that befits your status, both of you."

Neither Maqbir nor Awaja spoke. The tension between them did not disappear entirely, but neither dared defy the will of Angkasa Jayantaka.

Turning to the rest of the gathered attendees, Angkasa continued. "As Maqbir has stated, the next time we meet shall be in the hall. Until then, I suggest you take some rest. That is all."

Without another word, he shifted back—so swiftly that it seemed as though he had disappeared in the blink of an eye. His flowing white robe sliced through the air, his movements so precise and effortless that it was as if he had never been standing there at all.

The attendees stood in silence for a moment, the weight of his presence still lingering in the air. Then, slowly, they began to disperse toward their respective quarters, their minds already steeling themselves for what was to come.

The meeting had yet to begin, but the gravity of its importance loomed over them like a storm on the horizon.

In the chamber of Azhura Miyazaki

A dim lantern flickered in the corner of the chamber, casting long shadows across the wooden walls. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and incense, remnants of old rituals long since performed. Sitting across from Azhura Miyazaki, Mitsuba Shinsho leaned forward, his sharp eyes glinting with intrigue.

"At last, Azhura, the time has come. The plan you have nurtured for over a decade will finally be set into motion," Mitsuba murmured, his voice laced with anticipation.

Azhura Miyazaki, seated on a finely woven mat, exhaled slowly. His expression remained unreadable, yet there was an unmistakable weight in his gaze.

"Yes," he affirmed, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've waited far too long for this—the Decadal Clans Meeting."

Mitsuba hesitated for a moment before speaking again. "However, Azhura, I find myself troubled by something."

Azhura turned his attention fully to his companion, his brows furrowing slightly. "Is there something wrong? Were you followed? Did someone attempt to interfere with your arrival?" he asked, his tone edged with concern.

Mitsuba shook his head. "No, it's nothing like that. But there is a question that weighs on my mind, and only you can answer it."

Azhura tilted his head, his dark eyes scrutinizing his old friend. "Mitsuba," he said, his tone carrying an unusual warmth, "after all these years of friendship, you still feel the need to ask for permission before speaking your mind?"

Mitsuba chuckled softly, but there was an unease beneath it. "It's not about permission, Azhura."

"Then what is it?" Azhura asked, his curiosity piqued. "Go on, ask me."

Mitsuba hesitated only a moment before he finally spoke. "I've always wondered—why? How and why did you begin plotting this all those years ago? We were just children when you first devised this plan. What could have inspired you to set such a thing in motion so long ago?"

Azhura's gaze dropped to the wooden floor. A brief silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

"That," Azhura finally said, his voice quiet, "is a question I do not know the answer to myself."

Mitsuba blinked in surprise. "That is… odd." He studied Azhura's face for any hint of deception but found none. "But it does not matter. As your closest friend, I do not require a reason for your actions. We have stood together in times of good, and so we shall stand together in times of evil as well."

Before Azhura could respond, a sudden announcement crackled through the chamber, the voice distorted slightly through the old speakers embedded in the walls.

"All attendees are requested to return to their chambers immediately."

Mitsuba glanced at the speaker positioned in the northern corner of the room, scowling. "Does it really matter which chamber I'm in for the meeting?" he muttered.

Azhura exhaled sharply. "I have no clue as to why they are enforcing this so strictly, but we must not draw unnecessary attention to ourselves. For the next three days, we will abide by the rules, keep our heads low, and remain patient. Then, at the conclusion of the meeting, we will strike—and claim the key."

Mitsuba's eyes gleamed as he nodded. "Yes, the key to—"

Before he could finish his sentence, the voice of the announcer returned, now carrying a sharper, almost impatient tone.

"All attendees are requested to return to their chambers immediately."

Mitsuba gritted his teeth. "Curse that announcer," he muttered. Rising to his feet, he turned toward the door. "I must leave now, Azhura. The next time we speak, it will be in the shadows of fate itself."

With that, Mitsuba Shinsho stepped out, leaving Azhura alone in the dimly lit chamber, his fingers lightly tapping against his knee. The time for waiting was almost over. 

The game had begun. All the shadows have now gathered in one place.

[To be Continued in Chapter 32]