Chapter 3:The Path of Foes

The chilling air swept through the Cindark Kingdom as the grand doors slammed open.

"Your Majesty!" A soldier's panicked voice echoed through the vast chamber as he sprinted toward the twin thrones. Fear gleamed in his eyes, and a shiver crawled down his spine.

"What is it?" Two voices responded in unison. Their words reverberated through the darkness, yet no faces could be seen. The only visible shapes were the towering thrones, veiled in shadow.

The soldier fell to his knees, his voice quivering. "Your Majesty… the Kingdom of Grease has crumbled into ruin."

Silence gripped the chamber. Then, the two voices spoke again, colder this time.

"What do you mean, crumbled into ruin? It is the strongest and wealthiest kingdom in the empire!" The sheer weight of their words pressed down on the air, suffocating, demanding. None dared to speak in their presence.

The soldier swallowed hard. "Allow me to explain, Your Majesty," he continued shakily. "Witnesses spoke of a cult… men cloaked in white. They call themselves the 'White Angels.' They reduced the kingdom to dust."

"A cult?" A brief pause followed, thick with tension. Then, the voices asked, "How many?"

The soldier trembled, his pulse hammering in his ears. The mere thought of uttering the number sent ice through his veins. Yet, he had no choice.

"Ten," he whispered.

At once, the pressure in the chamber spiked. The royal guards standing by the entrance felt an overwhelming, suffocating force. It was as though death itself lurked in the air, waiting to consume them.

"What…?" The voices no longer echoed. They were low, restrained… yet drenched in fury.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then—

The soldier's body burst apart. Blood splattered across the cold stone walls as his form vanished into nothingness.

As the soldier's remains faded into the abyss of silence, far beyond the kingdom, a different darkness stirred.

Dark clouds swallowed the Aldoma Mountain region. Storm winds howled, twisting the sky into an eerie night despite the day. In the heart of the region, at the edge of an endless abyss, a figure stood.

A humanoid creature, clad in a gleaming silver suit, gazed into the void. The ground beneath it trembled, crumbling into the black depths.

From the abyss, a colossal hand emerged—monstrous and burning, its fingers glowing with molten lava. Each digit, towering as high as a mountain, clawed its way up, threatening to breach the surface.

The silver figure raised both hands. Its voice rang out in an alien tongue, a language foreign to the earth.

".....______.."

The abyss quaked. The giant stirred.

As the abyss quaked and the giant stirred, far to the north, another force sensed the disturbance.

Beyond the frozen wastelands, a lone warrior stood atop a mountain of ice-beast corpses. His black armor gleamed under the dying sunlight, its reflection casting an orange glow across the snow-covered battlefield.

His eyes—crystal-clear, as sharp as diamonds—scanned the horizon.

Then, he felt it. A tremor so faint that no creature could perceive it. But he could.

The ground… it was waking.

With a grave expression, he sheathed his sword.

"The Guardian of Hell has awakened."