In a familiar room, miles beneath the Earth, under an island in the Mediterranean Sea, Selistar sat with the council of Elders—Leonie, Stefan, Mawu, and Duendes. He looked across the round stone table at his mother, then asked, "How was your visit to the UN this time?"

"Better than previous attempts. However, things would have gone much smoother if Mythara had deemed it important enough to accompany us. They tend to drag their feet when 'The Dragonborne' isn't there." Seren sighed as she explained.

"Why do they place such value on his presence?" one of the Elders asked.

"As you know, he became rather hostile during our first visit because of their... less than cordial demeanor toward us," Seren explained. Stefan jumped in.

"They see us as nothing more than thugs; they believe they have us on a leash. Mythara made it clear that wasn't the case. Now they're terrified of him. That fear initially served its purpose, but Mythara hasn't deemed it worth his time to join us in the past year. They've grown complacent, and progress has ground to a halt."

Silence settled over the room. This had been their prevailing problem, along with trying to strengthen their forces. Oddly, there has been far less monster activity over the past two years. According to Mythara, Lord Cefketa had established the Veridahn as a police force for the monsters, and they seemed to be doing their job well.

"With less monster activity than in previous years, they don't see a need to give this much thought. They may assume we're using this to vie for more political power," Mawu inferred.

"What political power do we have? If we wanted something, we could simply take it! Those fools are blinded by their arrogance." One of the Elders slammed the table, and a few others chuckled at the irony of that statement.

"So things are at a standstill until we get Mythara to meet with them again, to remind them of the situation's urgency?" Duendes asked.

"That is the current situation, yes," Leonie answered.

"I don't understand. I would assume Mythara, more than anyone, would want to ensure this happens. Why has he avoided going back in the past year?" Mawu asked.

Everyone looked toward Seren. She was the only one among them who could get a word in with Mythara, largely thanks to her friendship with Roratha. The fact that she had actively helped them get revenge on Aron helped as well. Seren sighed.

"He says training is more important than playing politics with humans."

"So he's given up on peace and is just preparing for war?" Selistar asked.

"No. In his free time, he's begun talks with Firmatha Sangaur. To what effect, I cannot know," Seren explained.

The room fell silent again, and all eyes turned toward Selistar. He tapped the table in frustration, huffed, then continued, "Fine! Does Dr. Hamilton still refuse to share her data on her success in combining Nanites with Nevilara Mystara?"

"She's calling it the Chrysalis Stasis Phenomenon, or CSP. She also says it's too soon to call it a success. She also refuses to perform any more experiments until the fate of the Tiny Tots is certain. It doesn't help that she's put herself under the Theronite umbrella," Leonie informed them.

Selistar massaged his temples as he contemplated everything happening around him. Things had grown increasingly out of his control over the past two years, and in three weeks it would be the second anniversary of The Fury of Dreams—a day of both mourning and celebration. He hoped that on one of those days, he would have something to celebrate.

"Are you sure it's wise to let that happen?" one of the Elders asked.

"Let it happen? Do you think I can stop it? Can you? Mythara is Auranthos' Threnos, the leader of the Theronites, and the Messiah of all Persequions. Denying him his rights would do far more harm than good. Besides, Theronites have always received the best training and equipment. That won't change." Selistar chided the Elder, who nodded in defeat.

Selistar would not become his father. He would not fight for some ephemeral power. He would stick to the code he was raised to believe was right. Selistar leaned back in his seat.

"On the bright side, we've convinced those traditionalists to embrace the Nanites. Now we can properly train and assess talent in our youth. Speaking of which..."

"Yes, we've looked through the data that Dr. Hamilton gave us. She said it's possible to produce Zeroes at will. According to The Bone Collector, the Twins said it was just a few hundred lines of code. That seemed to be the case—the code was deeply embedded, but highly doable," Mawu reported. Selistar nodded in understanding.

That would be a significant advantage for them in terms of strengthening their position. However, he wasn't certain if it was the right move. One of the benefits of Nanites was the kill code; Zeroes avoided that "flaw." Selistar looked at Mawu, and she instinctively knew what he was thinking.

"She has not revealed how she can control the Nanites of Zero Chasers," Mawu responded.

"Of course," Selistar sighed.

"While I share your concerns, I don't think we have much choice. We'll have to make more Zeroes, especially if the good doctor isn't going to share her research about the CSP," Stefan interjected. Several of the Elders nodded in agreement.

"I know... We'll have to start with people we trust first, then expand from there. We'll have at least a year—hopefully, that will be enough time. Duendes, Mawu... take Franky, Helena, and Hachiman and get those upgrades. Leonie and Stefan, each of you pick five of your most loyal and talented Chasers and have them do the same."

"What about the Persequion children who will be taking Nanites?" one of the Elders asked.

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

"Of those who aren't natural Zeroes, pick five of the most talented who are of sound mind and character, and have them undergo the upgrades. No favoritism, no bias... I'll double-check your choices," Selistar warned them, and they all nodded in understanding.

"Is there anything else to report?" Selistar asked.

"There has been a breakthrough when it comes to reverse-engineering the tech left behind by those Dwarves," one of the Elders reported. Everyone looked over with anticipation—progress had been rather slow, not only because of the advanced nature of the technology but because they had to be careful not to activate any traps left behind.

"And?" Selistar prompted.

"It was clear they made things in a rush, but it was far more advanced than anything created even by your Renegade Tech. We've seen results in replicating it and have ideas about how to suit our specific needs better. We don't think it will close the technological gap by much, but—"

"No, any small step is good news. We all knew this was an uphill battle from the start. Keep me posted on anything new," Selistar nodded.

"If that's all, we can adjourn this meeting. We'll meet again in a week, right before you go to the UN once more. I'm going to have a conversation with my cousin," Selistar said as he stood up.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?" Seren asked, concerned plain on her face.

"No, I need to talk to Mythara myself." Selistar then disappeared as he fluttered through space.

Selistar materialized in front of a massive stone door, its surface alive with intricate Systems that pulsed with a faint luminescence. Their meaning was tantalizingly close yet impossibly distant. Each glowing sigil represented another reminder of the growing chasm between him and his cousin.

This was one of many points of contention between Mythara and himself, perhaps the most bitter. Mythara hoarded knowledge of Systems and Vaylora, ironically like a dragon guarding treasure, refusing to share even the most basic principles with anyone outside his precious Theronites. With each passing day, the disparity in power widened, and Selistar found himself increasingly relegated to the role of a lesser player in what should have been their shared destiny.

Selistar had made some promising headway by studying the Systems on his ancient sword. But he was nowhere near comfortable enough in his knowledge to teach anyone.

The bitter truth had crystallized over recent months: Mythara saw them as nothing more than expendable pawns in the coming war. Foot soldiers to be positioned and sacrificed at his discretion. The realization stung deeper than Selistar cared to admit.

Yes, Mythara's distrust had roots—betrayals that expanded a generation, and a species. But the architects of those sins were mostly dead now, their power scattered to the winds. The Persequions who remained were not the same faction that had once schemed against him.

If they were going to survive what was coming, the past had to be buried. Someone had to take the first step toward reconciliation, and it seemed that burden would fall to him.

Selistar walked up to the large System-laden doors and was stopped by the two Theronites guarding them.

"Really?" Selistar looked at them in annoyance.

"What business do you have with Auranthos' Threnos?" one of the guards asked.

"I'm here to have a conversation with my cousin. Please step aside," Selistar commanded.

"We were instructed not to let anyone in until he finished his workout."

"Well, luckily for the three of us, I'm not just anyone." Selistar smiled sarcastically at them. However, neither budged from their position. Selistar nearly growled in frustration.

"If it weren't for these damn bizarre sigils, I would have teleported through those walls already. And if it weren't for my attempt to keep things somewhat civil, I would have already beaten you both half to death and walked through those doors," Selistar frowned.

"Just let him in—I'm almost done anyway," Mythara's voice echoed from the System covering the door. The two Theronites moved out of the way and smiled.

"Go right in. But do watch your step."

"Whatever," Selistar groaned as the doors began to open on their own. When he stepped through, his breath left his body. He found himself staring out into an endless nebula. He looked down in panic, expecting to fall, but found himself standing on solid ground.

Selistar spun around just in time to see the door beginning to seal shut, the guards' faces twisted with malicious glee. Their satisfied smirks were the last thing he saw before the massive stone barrier closed.

Then it hit him.

The pressure slammed into his body like an invisible avalanche, driving him to his knees with brutal force. His bones groaned under the strain as gravity became unbearable. Each breath became a monumental effort, his lungs fighting against the crushing weight of his ribcage. His vision blurred at the edges as blood struggled to reach his brain against the relentless downward pull.

This wasn't just enhanced gravity—this was a death trap disguised as a training room. With trembling hands, he desperately wove a spatial barrier around himself, the familiar energy crackling to life just as his consciousness began to fray. The protective field shimmered into existence, and suddenly he could breathe again, though the oppressive weight still pressed against his makeshift shield.

Fighting against the crushing force, Selistar forced his head up through sheer willpower, only to witness something that defied all reason. Mythara's silhouette emerged like a figure from legend.

His cousin's bare back was a canvas of dormant Systems—intricate patterns that lay dark and silent, slick with sweat. But it was what he was doing that stopped Selistar's heart. Mythara moved in perfect, methodical rhythm, squatting what appeared to be half a metric ton of weight with the fluid grace of a dancer.

The impossibility of it struck Selistar like a physical blow. Here, in this gravity well that had nearly crushed him to paste, where his enhanced physique had crumpled like paper, here, Mythara performed his repetitions as if the massive weight were made of air. Each controlled squat and explosive rise spoke of power so far beyond Selistar's current comprehension.

This wasn't just superior strength. This was a dragon—a glimpse of what Mythara had become.

"Kenji!" Selistar called out instinctively to his cousin, teleporting himself closer.

"Mythara!" Selistar corrected himself. However, Mythara still ignored his cries. Selistar gritted his teeth in frustration and finally shouted, "L-Lord Mythara!"

The crushing gravity vanished in an instant as if it had never existed. Mythara's rhythmic squatting ceased with mechanical precision, followed by a long, controlled exhale that seemed to echo through the cosmic void. The Nebulus Simulacrum materialized, its ethereal hands lifting the massive weight from Mythara's shoulders as effortlessly as removing a silk scarf.

"What do you want?" Mythara's voice carried cold indifference, his back still turned as he began a series of deliberate shoulder stretches.

"What is that thing?" Selistar gestured toward the Simulacrum, which flickered at the edge of his vision like a half-remembered dream.

"My spotter." The word dripped with sharp sarcasm. Then, with predatory slowness, Mythara turned.

The moment their eyes met, Selistar's world tilted. Those rose-gold irises blazed with an inner fire that established his dominance, while the reptilian slits that served as pupils seemed to pierce straight into his very soul. It was the gaze of an apex predator studying prey, ancient and merciless.

Terror flooded Selistar's veins, primal and overwhelming. Every instinct screamed at him to flee, to submit, to prostrate himself before this creature. Only when he tore his gaze away, staring at the nebula floor, did his racing heart begin to slow.

"What do you want?" The words fell like stones into still water, each syllable weighted with barely contained irritation.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.