James had expected this reaction. How could he not? Lord Leon had been a source of hope for people who had none. At their darkest hour, when despair had nearly swallowed Shantel whole, he had appeared, unexpected, unwilling, yet resolute. He had taken up the mantle of Lord when he could have cast it aside without consequence. The people had clung to him like drowning men to driftwood, and now that driftwood had vanished, they felt the sea rising around them again.

James understood. He felt it too. The hollowness in his chest. The quiet terror whispering of collapse. But unlike the rest, he couldn't afford to let it consume him. 'I can't disappoint the Lord,' James thought, steadying his breath. 'Not after everything he has done for us. That would be an insult… no, worse, it would be weakness.'

Unknowingly, Leon's philosophies, his blunt strength, and refusal to bow to despair, had taken root in James.

His voice cut through the silence, sharp and commanding. "This is not a time to mourn. Mourning is for the dead alone."

A ripple of surprise passed through the crowd. Their eyes shifted back to him, caught between resentment and curiosity. One man, unable to hide the weight in his voice, spoke up:

"But what can we do without the Lord? It will only be a matter of time before we all die."

The words were raw and heavy, dragging at the crowd's fragile resolve.

James answered without hesitation. "That won't be the case."

The courtyard hushed, the people listening despite themselves. He continued, his tone firm and measured.

"The forest has been cleared of every beast that posed a threat to us. Cleared by the Lord himself. Because of that, the professionals who once guarded our walls can now turn their focus to rebuilding and preparing for what lies ahead."

A flicker of light appeared in their eyes, the faintest spark of hope. Yet it wasn't enough. They knew, as James did, that monsters always returned. A lull in danger was not an end to it. Their relief began to fade, shoulders slumping once more.

James saw it, but he did not falter. Inwardly, he almost welcomed it. 'Good. Let them feel the sting of weakness. It will drive them to shed it.'

"There is more," James said, his voice ringing with conviction. "The Lord did not leave us defenseless. He has left us a means to shed our weakness… and to attain true power. The Lord has left us Arts. Countless of them."

The courtyard erupted with gasps. Eyes widened. Jaws dropped. The spark that had struggled to catch now roared into flame.

****

In Pandora, Arts were the truest path to power. Their origin traced back to the first human emperor, Julius, who had carved his name into history not only by uniting kingdoms but by creating the first Art with his own hands. His Art became a beacon, countless generations had studied it, taken inspiration from it, and from that spark, birthed their own.

But Arts, as wondrous as they were, carried limits.

First was their grade. The rank of an Art dictated how far its user could walk on the path of strength. A Basic Art could raise one to the level of a Rank 5 professional. Advanced Arts could push a person to Rank 6. Superior to Rank 7, Exalted to Rank 8, and at the pinnacle stood Legendary Arts, carrying their wielder into the rarefied realm of Rank 9. That grade alone determined the ceiling of one's potential.

Yet grade was not the only shackle. Compatibility bound the wielder as well. An Art, no matter how powerful, would reject a person without the right fit, whether by innate disposition, or by the alignment of their aura, mana, or energy type. Many had tried to force Arts unsuited for them, only to be crippled, broken, or wasted.

And so, despite the dreams of many, Arts were scarce and precious. In Shantel, their entire stock could be counted on ten fingers, every last one of them a mere Basic Art. This poverty of knowledge had kept the city's growth stunted for generations, their number of professionals pitifully low.

But now…

With this final gift Leon had left them, Shantel stood on the brink of transformation. An inheritance etched in quantity, a foundation for a future greater than any of them could have dared to imagine.

James felt the weight of it pressing against his chest, then spreading into something warmer, something like pride. 'Who would have thought,' he mused silently, 'that a new era would arrive this way… through him.'

Straightening his back, James turned to face the gathered citizens. His voice, when it rang out, carried new steel.

"Great people of Shantel… a new era begins for our city."

The courtyard fell still, as if the very air leaned in to listen. James swept his gaze across them, locking eyes with mothers, laborers, children, and old men alike.

"The Tyrant Forest will no longer be a noose around our necks. From this day forward, it will be a crucible. A place where we hone our strength, where we shed our weakness, and where we rise beyond the chains of mediocrity."

He let the words linger, then pressed forward, each syllable hammering into their hearts.

"So that when the day comes, when we return to stand before our Lord… we will not hang our heads in shame. We will stand tall, unbroken, and worthy of his name. All of this—for a greater future. All of this—for a great Shantel."

Silence crashed for only a breath. Then, as if a dam had burst, voices roared back.

"For a great Shantel!"

"For a great Shantel!"

"For a great Shantel!"

The chant grew into a thunder, echoing through the forest, shaking the night air, as though the land itself bore witness to the birth of something new.

****

In the heart of the Arman Empire's capital, within the fortress-like headquarters of the Imperial Guards, a sharp clash of steel rang across a secluded training field. The courtyard was small compared to the vast parade grounds outside, yet its walls bore the marks of countless battles, scorched stone, deep gouges, and splintered pillars.

Two figures moved within it, their motions precise and relentless.

The first was a woman, her frame slender but coiled with strength. The cut of her training attire did little to hide her feminine figure, though the aura she exuded was anything but delicate. Her spear, the weapon every Imperial Guard was raised to master, glittered under the full moon as it struck forward in a blur, each thrust sharp enough to pierce stone.

Her opponent, however, stood apart from tradition.

Where every other guard wielded a spear, sword, or polearm, he carried a single weapon that was scoffed at, a broad, heavy shield.

****

A/N: Happy New month.... And please send power stones and Golden tickets, it makes the book look popular (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

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