"For that," Elara continued, "we will need a lot of resources. We cannot take everyone there." Her hands moved slightly as she spoke, emphasizing her words. "But there is another way. Understand yourself. Understand your powers. Work on them. Fight many battles."

Ren's fingers curled against his leg, his jaw tightening as he listened.

"After that," she said, her tone steady, "maybe you can become a planet level mage. As Vael told you, a planet level mage is many times more powerful… and special, too. But for that, you have to pay a price." She paused, letting her words settle before continuing. "And that price is hard work. There is no shortcut to reach there. But yes… there is a way."

Her eyes glinted faintly in the golden light.

"As I told you earlier resources. We have a sleep capsule. It does not just put you to sleep and preserve your body. We have also created a virtual world inside it. A world where you can actually live. Beyond reality."

Ren's head tilted slightly forward.

"Your body will remain here, but certain stars will be connected to your mind, carrying your consciousness into that world. That world looks like Qiyun. Everything there is made to mirror Qiyun's landscapes the mountains, the rivers, the sprawling cities but within it, like in a video game, many monsters and different races exist. You can go there and train."

She leaned back in her chair, the faint creak of the wood breaking the silence. "But we cannot give it to everyone because only a few capsules have been made in the world. And it takes time, a lot of money, and rare resources to make them."

"Yes, you are right. We cannot provide these facilities to everyone. Then what are we going to do? And one more question is coming in my mind if you are already a planet level mage, then the seal should have broken. But why didn't it happen? Do you know anything about it?" Ren asked, leaning forward slightly, his gaze fixed on Seroi.

"I will answer that to you, Ren. Listen, do you know what the origin core looks like?" Seroi asked, raising a hand to stop Elara from speaking. His fingers briefly closed around her wrist a gentle but decisive gesture.

Finally, both Elara and Seroi settled onto the long sofa, its deep crimson cushions sinking slightly under their weight. The soft glow from a nearby wall-lamp bathed them in warm light. They had not sat together like this father and daughter side by side in many years. Elara's posture was poised, but her eyes carried a quiet softness, almost nostalgic.

"No, I have never seen it," Ren replied, shaking his head.

"Okay. Now let me tell you." Seroi leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing as if peering into the past. "When Vael was carrying out his plans as mage king, he sent us on a mission. There is a huge volcano in the Northern Continent."

Ren's brow furrowed as Seroi continued, his deep voice filling the high-ceilinged room.

"Where Mount Yeret is located, there is a chain of mountains. One of those chains holds this volcano. I forgot the name of the mountain, but there is this small volcano there." His gaze drifted toward the tall window, where the faint reflection of the room shimmered against the night beyond.

Seroi paused, taking a slow breath. His hands rested on his knees, fingers curling slightly as if feeling the weight of that memory. The quiet hum of the estate's crystal chandeliers filled the silence before he spoke again.

Then he continued.

He opened his mouth to speak, but before any words could leave, a voice cut through the air deep, solemn, and impossible to place.

It echoed from the jagged slopes, carrying over the snow-dusted mountains and into the ruins of the battlefield. The sound seemed to come from everywhere at once, seeping through the cracked stones and broken banners that still clung to the wind.

"All the mages who are still alive and able to walk," the voice called, "please gather at the war preparation ground."

Ren lifted his head, the wind tugging at his torn cloak. Around him, the surviving mages stirred, their eyes heavy, their movements slow, as though each step pressed against the weight of what they had seen.

"We have observed silence for all the brave mages who have been martyred," the voice continued. The words rolled through the mountains like distant thunder, brushing against the shattered watchtowers and the scorched soil where the battle had burned itself out.

"Please come. You will not be able to see them after that."

A sharp breath left Elara's lips, her hands curling at her sides. Beside her, Seroi's expression hardened, though his gaze remained fixed on the distant ridge where the sun was sinking behind peaks blackened by fire and smoke.

"I know these words are very bitter and heartbreaking," the voice went on, "but we cannot change destiny."

The cold wind carried the scent of ash and iron. Ren's jaw clenched.

"But we will always stand with each other in this maze of destiny. Even after our death."

A few steps away, a mage knelt in the snow, his trembling fingers tracing the engraved nameplate of a fallen comrade. Others stared down at the ground, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of their grief.

"After this silence," the voice concluded, "their bodies will be handed over to their families."

The words faded into the wind, leaving behind only the muffled crunch of boots as survivors began to make their way toward the preparation ground.

Sounds of footsteps echoed across the stone paths, carrying through the mountain valley where Arkenhall stood. The entire basin seemed to breathe with the weight of the survivors.

Those who had been spared serious harm arrived first, their boots crunching against frost and ash. The injured came next, leaning against friends or carried on makeshift stretchers. Some dragged themselves forward despite missing limbs a leg gone at the knee, an arm ending in bandaged cloth already stained through. Their faces were pale, but their eyes refused to turn away.

They gathered on the vast preparation ground, the cold air thick with the smell of smoke and steel. In the center lay the fallen row upon row of lifeless forms, each wrapped in cloth but still marked by the shapes of the armor they once wore.

A sudden flash of gold broke the dim light. In the center circle, a teleportation sigil flared, runes burning briefly on the stone before fading. Elara, Seroi, and Ren stepped out, the afterglow of the magic still clinging to their outlines.

The circle's light reflected in the polished armor of the counselling members who stood nearby. They had arrived earlier, their robes heavy with formal insignia, faces drawn with the gravity of the moment.

Lark's hands were clasped behind his back, jaw set in unspoken restraint. Frein's eyes lingered on the bodies, his shoulders rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. Vea's gaze was lowered, as though she could not bear to meet the eyes of the living. Svea's fingers clutched the edge of her cloak, knuckles pale. Borun, Leith, Selnar, Naheral all stood in silence, their shadows long under the dying light of the sun.

Around them, no one spoke. The survivors' eyes shifted between the bodies, the mountains beyond, and the grey sky overhead, as if searching for an answer that would never come.

Elara, Seroi, and Ren stepped into the circle and joined that silence. They stood neither before nor behind the counselling members, but among them as equals in grief. The wind moved through the valley, lifting cloaks and hair, carrying with it the faint metallic scent of blood that no magic could entirely cleanse.

No one broke the stillness. The valley itself seemed to bow its head.

No one moved. The only sounds were the distant flutter of banners in the cold wind and the faint crackle of braziers at the edges of the ground. Breath steamed in the air, heavy and slow. The smell of iron and ash lingered, mixing with the faint fragrance of incense drifting from the priests' censers.

A crow landed on one of the wooden poles, its wings beating once before it went still, black eyes glinting at the sight below. Rows of shrouded bodies lay in perfect lines, their forms barely rising beneath the white cloth.

Then Lark finally stepped forward. The voice of his boots, his steps echoed throughout the ground as he reached the center. He looked over the dead with eyes that held no tears left to give. His gloved hand lingered on the hilt of his sword, knuckles white.

When he spoke, his voice was low at first, almost swallowed by the wind, before it carried across the ground.

"They… waited for us to speak to them one last time."

The silence cracked. Some lowered their heads. Others closed their eyes. The weight of his words sank into the hearts of all who stood there. And slowly, the farewell began.

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