Ragnar Wolfhart, the very first Sword God, sat calmly in the vast main hall of the legendary bastion known as the Supreme Shield — a sacred fortress of the sword gods, located at the far west of the continent.

Unlike his usual detached demeanor, he now bore a stoic calm, almost unreadable. His broad frame and powerfully sculpted muscles were clearly visible, as he wore no upper garment.

Yet this serious air contrasted oddly with the feminine figure lounging nonchalantly on his shoulders. A young woman, seemingly in her twenties, rested there with casual ease. She had long brown hair and heterochromatic eyes — the left a deep crimson, the right a piercing blue. Wearing a mischievous smile, she tilted her head upside down like a bat, bringing her face closer to Ragnar's.

Ingrid Björnsdóttir The Second Divine Swordswoman .

"Why give up now, when the human race faces such a terrible fate?" she asked, still smiling playfully.

Ragnar didn't flinch. He answered in a calm, composed tone:

"Because there's no point in trying to push back the demonic night that already looms over the North. Especially with the imminent arrival of TENEBROS."

"You know that's not the answer I wanted," Ingrid pouted, gently pressing a finger against Ragnar's cheek.

When Malveria's aura had first manifested, the pseudo-demonic realm had been shaken with unprecedented violence. Cracks — once nonexistent for centuries of balance maintained by Ragnar and Ingrid — had begun to form.

Ragnar, As the eldest of the gods, fully understood the meaning of it all. That's why he had decided to temporarily withdraw his support from that dimension. Ingrid, though she had her suspicions, wanted to hear it from his own lips.

A sigh escaped Ragnar.

"Mmm… cheek…" he mumbled, his voice slightly distorted by the pressure on his face.

"Ah! Sorry!" Ingrid exclaimed, letting go of his cheek, her playful smile still lingering on her lips.

"It's… pointless to keep going down this path…" Ragnar murmured, his gaze lost in the void. "But don't worry. We'll keep supporting the dimension… for five more years. After that, we cut everything off."

Ingrid blinked, caught off guard.

"What do you mean?"

But instead of answering, Ragnar asked another question.

"Ingrid, do you truly believe there's only one continent in this vast world?"

Ingrid's smile faded. Her brow furrowed, wary.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile crossed Ragnar's face. His voice turned soft—resigned.

"This continent… has kept itself isolated from the rest of the world for a long time. But I suppose that couldn't last forever."

"Hey, I—" Ingrid began, frustrated at not understanding his meaning. But before she could finish, Ragnar kissed her.

Given their position, it looked oddly like a human kissing a bat.

As he pulled back, he rose to his feet and stretched, his eyes suddenly sharper.

"Come on. Let's go train. It's been ages."

"You bastard! You caught me off guard!" Ingrid shouted, yanking at her hair in frustration, still clinging to his shoulder.

Ragnar laughed heartily.

"You've been catching me off guard for the past two centuries."

---

They kept bickering as they walked toward the training grounds. And as their voices faded into the distance, Ragnar, deep in thought, asked himself:

Who will become… the emperor of our race?

---

Farther north, in the Thirteenth Empire.

"Ugh…"

Lucian slowly opened his eyes, his vision still blurred.

"Where… am I?"

He had collapsed earlier from exhaustion. Four hours of sleep was far from enough, but he had no choice.

Beside him—

"Zzzzzz…"

Malveria—or rather Ria, her miniature form—was fast asleep, a loud snore escaping from between her lips.

"Tch… damn cramp…" Lucian groaned, trying to move his foot as a strange pain crept up his leg.

Resigned, he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling of his room. When he had collapsed in the Imperial Magical Research Hall, Chris had carried him back here so he could rest.

He turned his head slightly toward Ria. She was mumbling some unintelligible words in her sleep, a thin trail of drool running down her cheek.

And yet... despite all that...

She was... cute.

Lucian quickly looked away, his cheeks slightly flushed, as if he'd just thought something utterly ridiculous.

How... how can that be called "cute"?

He let out a long sigh.

"Well... now I'm sure of it. This world follows the same principles as mine."

The mini generator he'd just cobbled together was nothing more than a basic test device. But it had been enough to confirm one crucial thing: Faraday's law worked here too.

Lucian grinned — wide, a little mad, a little boyish.

"Alright then... time for something completely insane... Build a power plant!"

He burst out laughing as the words left his mouth. He knew how absurd it sounded. Even he didn't fully believe it.

Sure, back on Earth, he'd been a tech engineer. But building an actual power plant with his own hands? That was madness. He'd never done it himself. Even with all his knowledge, he knew it bordered more on insanity than genius.

He rested a hand under his chin, deep in thought.

The reason I started with electricity... is because without it, there's no way I can make a proper car. And also because, back then, I read a bunch of books about it. Just out of curiosity, really.

A few titles popped back into his mind:

"Edison: A Biography" — a fascinating account of the creation of the Pearl Street Station, the world's first commercial power plant.

And "Empire of Light" by Jill Jones — a sweeping historical journey through the rise of electricity and the evolution of power systems.

Honestly, I never thought those pointless reads would ever come in handy... and yet...

But one thing was certain: reading books and actually building a power plant were two very different things. He was going to need resources. And a lot of money.

That was precisely why he'd started this little game with Boris Zand.

"Hm... it's already been a week... and he still hasn't shown up?"

He sighed. There were other, more pressing matters demanding his attention. Namely: easing tensions with the old nobility.

"They may have lost their titles, but not their wealth... and I nearly got myself killed anyway."

Politics... a real den of vipers.

Sigh.

"To handle this, I'll have to speak with the Grand Dukes, huh?"

In other words: his "brothers" and "sisters." He already knew Darius and Selene, but there were seven of them in total. That meant four more to meet.

Lucian rubbed his forehead, already weary just thinking about it.

I have to meet them, because all the nobles are split into five factions… each led by a Grand Duke.

Of course, neither he nor Selene was truly counted among those factions.

The former Lucian… had been nothing more than a barely tolerated insect. If Selene hadn't been his sister, he would've been crushed long ago. On top of that, he was… an idiot.

As for Selene, she had withdrawn from the affairs of the Thirteenth Empire ever since she ascended to the Divine Realm. A different league altogether.

So, if I want to take control of all this at once… I need to face all the Grand Dukes.

Which worked out, in a way. Lucian had started feeling a little uneasy. None of them had so much as lifted a finger since his coronation.

Worse: he had virtually no information on any of them.

"But before I face them, I need something solid to put on the table…"

He let out a long sigh, then muttered:

"I'll have to revise all my plans if Boris Zand refuses the deal…"

The land of the Thirteenth Empire was the most blessed of all—a paradise waiting to be developed. But without money, nothing could be done. He needed capital, investments. Tangible assets.

And as if that weren't enough, there were also the druids… the Demonic Night… MALVERIA… and Kael.

Everything was getting more complicated.

But one step at a time.

For now, he needed only one thing: to build that damned power plant. That alone would make him… ridiculously rich—no, it would make the nation… incredibly prosperous.

He stood up. His legs, numb from sitting too long, were finally ready to support him.

A faint smile crossed his lips.

"I bet that arrogant archmage is still in shock."

He headed to the bathroom. He needed to get ready.

Today was going to be an important day.

---

A few hours later — Imperial Palace Reception Hall

The silence was heavy.

An elderly man with silver hair, keen eyes, and an aura of wisdom slowly lifted his cup to his lips.

"I'm curious… What brings one of the continent's most renowned archmages to the Thirteenth Empire?"

His voice was calm, almost measured, but the message was clear. He was addressing Azrael Itharion.

The latter didn't even glance up. He was engrossed in a thick file, dark circles under his eyes betraying a sleepless night. His disciples appeared half-dead—slumped over, eyes vacant, staring at their papers as though peering into the abyss.

The old man across from them frowned, clearly irritated by the lack of response.

Why… Why is Azrael Itharion here?

Julie, one of the disciples, muttered almost inaudibly:

"The Thirteenth Empire… had monsters like that hiding here…?"

Without warning, she collapsed, succumbing to exhaustion and falling into a deep, sudden sleep. Marc and Ruben quickly followed, crumbling like dominoes.

The old man panicked slightly, instinctively rising to check on them, but froze when Azrael gently raised a hand, signaling him to remain where he was.

Boris Zand, special envoy of Gaius Niketas, Emperor of the Tenth Empire, had never been so confused in his life.

Monstrous geniuses? What does that even mean? What in the world is happening here…?

He glanced back at the archmage, then at the young disciples who had dropped like flies.

He had come simply to negotiate with Emperor Lucian.

And now, he found himself caught in the middle of… an academic nightmare?

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