Chapter 37: Heavens to Earth Powers

The Metreon Star Capital stood as the radiant heart of Mezolith, a land sculpted by war and diplomacy. Situated at the very center of the continent, it was home to the illustrious Heavenly Houses, ten noble families whose power dictated the fate of the realm. These houses were:

House of Dimas (Head of Family: King Fredrik Dimas) – The ruling house, bearing the weight of the crown and the legacy of unity.

House of Vermillion (Lord Aldric Vermillion) – Renowned for its military prowess and elite warrior legions.

House of Zephara (Lady Lysara Zephara) – Masters of commerce, their trade routes spanning Mezolith's vast expanse.

House of Aurelian (Lord Reginald Aurelian) – Guardians of ancient knowledge and scholars of forgotten arts.

House of Noctis (Lord Varian Noctis) – Rulers of the night, their influence extending into the unseen corners of society.

House of Drakos (Lord Kael Drakos) – Keepers of dragons and formidable warlords.

House of Solmere (Lord Orion Solmere) – Masters of naval supremacy, controlling the continent's ports and seafaring might.

House of Vaelthorne (Lord Eldrin Vaelthorne) – Bearers of Mezolith's greatest assassins, controlling intelligence and subterfuge.

House of Lucerion (Lord Alistair Lucerion) – The religious sect, upholding divine law and faith.

House of Seraphis (Lady Celestine Seraphis) – Commanders of Mezolith's airborne forces and sky fortresses.

Every generation, the Lords and Ladies of these houses convened in the grand Celestial Council, where they voted on who would rule as King of Mezolith. For the past three decades, King Fredrik Dimas had worn the crown, a ruler both respected and feared. The other nations—Woodsaw, Aquarene, Ignareth, and Blazzarene—pledged allegiance to him, though whispers of uncertainty loomed over their loyalty.

Mezolith was not always a land of noble houses and structured rule. Its past was marred by the blood of warlords and feudal lords, their ambitions splintering the continent into thirty-three warring factions. Treaties were inked in blood and broken just as quickly. For decades, chaos reigned—alliances were temporary, betrayals frequent, and peace an illusion.

Among these warlords, one faction dared to rise above brute conquest. They wielded strategy, diplomacy, and calculated warfare, forging secret pacts with smaller clans desperate for survival. What began as an alliance of three groups expanded to seven and so on. Over the years, their ranks swelled, consuming or converting every rival in their path.

Yet, one formidable faction resisted to the bitter end. Masters of strategy and unparalleled warriors, they nearly crushed the coalition in the brutal Siege of the Terresian Peninsula—the land now known as Woodsaw. The battle lasted -three hundred thirty three years, ending in the execution of the last independent warlord. With victory sealed, the coalition of ten victorious factions formalized its rule, birthing The Heavenly Houses. Mezolith—a continent forged from stone and blood—was finally united, where only the strong, cunning, and disciplined could thrive.

Yet peace is never absolute. Surviving remnants of the fallen factions lurked in the shadows, scheming, waiting for the moment to reclaim what was lost.

"And that is how the greatest history of Mezolith and The Heavenly Houses built our prosperous history" said by an old teacher. In the Nagia District, a province under the Metreon Star Capital, a school session was in progress. The students—children of wealthy families, though not of noble blood—listened intently as an old teacher recounted Mezolith's history.

"So, the Heavenly Houses are the strongest now?" a child asked, eyes wide with curiosity.

"Indeed," the teacher replied with a knowing smile. "Their power holds this continent together. Without them, we would descend into chaos once more."

"I want to serve them when I grow up!" another child declared.

The teacher chuckled, nodding. "A noble aspiration. The world needs guardians of peace. But remember, power breeds enemies. Even now, forces stir in the dark corners of Mezolith."

Meanwhile, in Haven Point, the most luxurious district of Metreon Star Capital, extravagant structures lined the pristine streets. No beggars wandered these roads, no signs of poverty blemished its beauty. Here, only the elite walked.

In a secluded chamber, a secret meeting unfolded. The attendees, shrouded in extravagant robes, sat in silence, their faces hidden beneath ornate hoods. At the head of the table sat Alaric Dimas, son of King Fredrik Dimas.

His voice carried across the chamber. "The stability of Mezolith depends not only on the strength of our swords but the precision of our minds. We must always be two steps ahead of those who seek to challenge us."

A cloaked figure leaned forward. "There are whispers… factions in Blazzarene grow restless."

Another voice added, "Our associates are restless and growing impatient. Given time, they may take actions... again."

Alaric raised a hand, silencing the murmurs. "Then we shall ensure their time will come. Mezolith's throne is not to be contested. A kingdom thrives when its strongest hands guide it."

At his words, the gathered figures raised their chalices, a silent pledge to the Alaric's plan.

Beyond the chamber's doors, the future of Mezolith was already being written in secrecy, shadows, and steel.

Back in the Ghea Mountains, the arena erupted with thunderous cheers, shaking the very foundations of the ancient battleground. The air was thick with excitement and disbelief as the announcer, momentarily stunned, struggled to find his words.

"Unbelievable!" he finally exclaimed, his voice carrying over the roaring crowd. "The Grimknights have done it again! Three victories in a row!"

For a moment, the weight of their dominance seemed to hang in the air, but the announcer quickly regained his energy. With renewed enthusiasm, he raised his arms and declared, "But don't look away just yet—we still have three battles left!"

The arena roared even louder, the anticipation growing. Then, with a knowing grin, he added, "And in the next fights… we will witness the Stallion enter the arena!"

At the mere mention of the legendary warrior, the crowd erupted into a frenzy. Chants and stomping filled the arena as thousands of voices merged into one deafening call for battle.

At the foothills, under the cover of darkness, the townsfolk gathered in hushed secrecy. Their weary faces, hardened by years of oppression, were now lit with a fire of determination. The weight of their suffering had forged them into something more than mere villagers—they were now warriors, bound by a single purpose.

For too long, the bandits had ruled their town with ruthless cruelty, demanding tribute, taking what they pleased, and silencing anyone who dared resist. But tonight, the people would no longer cower in fear. Tonight, they would reclaim what was rightfully theirs.

At the center of the gathering stood Marlo Rook, a man of the people, his rough-hewn features marked by struggle and defiance. A former performer who had once survived on scraps, he now commanded the trust of those who had nothing left to lose. His voice, steady and sharp, cut through the murmurs.

"No more hiding," Marlo declared, his eyes scanning the faces of the men and women before him. "No more bending our backs to those who take from us. Tonight, we take back our home."

A tense silence followed before a single voice called out in agreement. Then another. And another. Until the silent gathering, trembled with the sound of their resolve.

The resistance was no longer just a dream whispered in fear. It was real. And the bandits had no idea what was coming.