Immortal Flame

True Bastion...

Morgan walked with measured steps through the great halls of a castle so breathtaking it seemed unreal. Because it was.

Not the False Bastion—the grand illusion where most lived their entire lives in blissful ignorance—but the real one.

A reality so thin, so precise, it blurred the line between truth and fabrication. The illusion of the castle was masterfully crafted, woven into existence with such terrifying perfection that even those living inside it couldn't tell the difference. It didn't matter to them. It didn't need to.

Morgan knew better.

She stepped onto the balcony, her dark gaze lifting to the sky.

Above, the heavens loomed black and endless, punctuated only by pale, distant stars. A celestial void. But what stole her breath was the moon—or what was left of it.

Shattered into countless fragments, its broken pieces drifted across the sky like a heavenly river, casting an eerie, ghostly light upon the hidden world. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.

She had grown up beneath that broken sky, yet every time she looked up, she still felt that gnawing unease. As if something watched from the abyss beyond.

Across the vast lake that surrounded Bastion, a towering wall of ancient, blackened trees stretched towards the fractured heavens. Long ago, False Bastion had been encircled by this monstrous forest. A Titan of horror, a living nightmare that had waged war against the Knights of Valor.

Anvil—when he was still a Saint—had destroyed it.

Or so they thought.

Here, in True Bastion, the forest had never been touched. It remained in its full, undying horror, and its depths teemed with creatures best left unseen.

And then, of course, there was the lake.

It was silent. Still. Not a single ripple disrupted its perfect surface, no matter how hard the wind blew. The air smelled faintly of something bitter, something wrong.

She could almost hear her father's voice, whispering the rules drilled into her since childhood:

Whatever you do, do not drink the water from the lake.

Do not look at reflections, and if a reflection moves strangely, walk away immediately.

Do not answer if a reflection speaks to you. It will perceive it as an invitation.

If a king's servant draws their sword, hide. Immediately.

Do not summon a sword of your own while in True Bastion, even if it was not forged by Valor.

You must carry a token to pass through the defensive enchantments of True Bastion. Lose it, and you will be given an audience with the King.

It is forbidden to sleep in True Bastion. The land once belonged to the Demon of Imagination. Here, dreams become reality.

Bastion was a harrowing and dreadful place. A land of shadows and silence. A city where nightmares walked and fear had a throne.

She stepped through the towering gates of the throne hall, her boots echoing against the obsidian floor. The weight of history pressed down on her shoulders like an iron shroud. This was not a place for the weak.

Before her, seated upon the great black throne, was him.

A man of cold steel and unshakable will.

Her father. The King of Swords. Anvil.

His dark hair framed a face of absolute control, his gaze a frozen abyss that swallowed all defiance. He wore heavy, battle-worn armor, black as the void, its surface etched with ancient scars. A vermilion cloak draped from his shoulders, fluttering behind him like the last ember of a dying fire.

Power bled from him, suffocating, oppressive. Even now, standing still, he was a force of nature.

To his right stood the elders, old wolves with sharp eyes and sharper tongues. To his left, her uncle—Whispering Blade, Madoc—a man with a smile as soft as silk and a heart as ruthless as the war he thrived in.

Morgan sighed and leaned against the cold wall.

"The Caster from the Han Li Clan failed. He's dead. No doubt, Changing Star killed him… or someone else. Who knows?"

Madoc exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.

"We'll have to inform the Han Li Clan. Their scion is gone. But that's not the real problem."

He turned to the elders, his voice dropping.

"Obel Scale confirmed it. Antarctica will become a battlefield."

A heavy silence fell over the hall.

One of the elders finally spoke, his voice like grinding stone.

"We've known about Antarctica for some time… a war between two domains is inevitable. The Song Clan will move soon—perhaps they already have. We must prepare."

"Mass production of Memories and Echoes," another elder muttered.

Morgan smirked, running her fingers through her black hair, vermilion eyes gleaming.

"When the time comes, I will lead the army."

She turned to her father, flashing a confident smile.

"Do you grant me this permission?"

Anvil met her gaze, cold and unreadable. Then, with a slow nod, he spoke.

"Do not disappoint me."

Morgan chuckled. "Of course."

The conversation shifted to logistics, production of weapons, and the forging of new blades—Anvil himself offering to personally craft swords for his warriors. One by one, the elders took their leave, their whispers fading into the vast hallways of Bastion.

Morgan lingered a moment longer, studying the remaining figures.

Anvil.

Madoc.

And… Saint Jest.

She knew what this meant. A private discussion.

Jest was an enigma. An old man with a cane, always laughing, always making light of even the darkest matters. To most, he seemed harmless. Silly, even.

Morgan knew better.

Jest was Executioner of the King.

And he was far from harmless.

She exhaled and left the hall, the heavy doors closing behind her.

Madoc watched her go, then smiled pleasantly.

"Well… things are getting interesting."

Jest grinned, the humorless curve of his lips barely masking the malice beneath.

"Oh, my! Of course they are. But let's be honest—Changing Star? She's not our problem. Not yet, at least."

He waved a hand, dismissively.

"She has her followers. She has the people's support. But against a Great Clan like us? She's nothing. An insignificant insect with no resources, no army, no true power. She will grow, certainly, but for now? She is just a girl."

Madoc frowned, sensing something beneath Jest's words.

"You're hiding something."

Than he tilted his head with frown.

"Nephis... She's a legend in the making, but we already know what she wants. Restoring her clan's glory, gaining power, maybe revenge… It's all so predictable. Nothing special. So what are you talking about?"

Jest's smile sharpened, tapping his cane against the floor.

" Oh, Madoc… you focus too much on Nephis. Predictable, yes. But that's not what we need to worry about... But that ghost from immortal flame clan."

He turned to Anvil.

"... Icarus Of Immortal Flame."

Madoc blinked, then scoffed.

"And what of him? He's a dead man."

The humor vanished from Jest's face. His eyes grew cold, his aura shifting from playfulness to pure bloodlust.

"Is he?"

The hall grew heavy, suffocating.

"If Icarus is alive… if he joins hands with that abomination… and if those two make it to the Waking World together?"

He leaned forward, voice barely above a whisper.

"The situation will become a hundred times worse."

Madoc scowled.

"We sent assassins. Killers. What makes you think he survived? No diviner ever found his location, no visions, no signs. He might as well be dead."

"Might," Jest echoed mockingly, rolling the word on his tongue. "And yet…"

Madoc shook his head.

"He's definitely dead. The mission was successful. The assassins returned."

Anvil, silent until now, suddenly chuckled.

It was a dark sound. A rare break in his usual indifference.

"Icarus is nothing," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "Even if he's alive... If he dares to stand against me, I will kill him as easily as breathing. He is of no importance. That is all."

He stood, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the hall. With slow, measured steps, he walked away, his presence fading into the darkness.

Jest watched him go, his face unreadable.

Then, under his breath, he cursed.

"That fool of a king…"

He gripped his cane a little tighter, his laughter gone.

"He doesn't care. His heart is made of cold steel. So why would he? That's why we old fools need to worry about youngsters... Sigh... But Icarus…"

His lips curled, his tone barely a whisper.

"Icarus is not nothing."