After the dungeon expedition, the news spread like wildfire—faster than any army could march, faster even than the wind could carry the scent of blood.
The first whisper ca from the inner walls of the royal court.
Then it slithered through taverns, noble halls, and rchant caravans until it reached even the most remote corners of the nation: the Golden Anchor Stone had been claid.
But it wasn’t by the great powers who had entered the dungeon. Not by the noble families, nor by the royal army, nor even by the legendary WarEmbrace herself.
It was taken by an unknown masked figure—a man the common folk now called the Black Lightning Dragon.
At first, the na was spoken in awe, a whisper among drunks and gamblers. Then ca the poets, spinning their verses, painting him as a shadow that split mountains and drank lightning. The bards sang of him in every town square—each telling more absurd tales than the last.
So claid he stood nine feet tall, his body crackling with thunder.
Others swore he had four arms, two for wielding blades and two for embracing death itself.
There were even whispers that he could fly, that he had descended from the heavens like vengeance given flesh.
And yet, among the exaggerations, fragnts of truth began to surface.
Those who dared investigate—scribes, spies, and curious nobles—found records from the Viscount’s party. Witnesses described a masked man who humiliated noble heirs, shattered a Saint’s weapon, and fought like a god of lightning unleashed. The reports were pieced together, and the legend solidified: Black Lightning Dragon was no ordinary thief.
But what truly set the nation ablaze was not his feats—it was what he did next.
The second wave of news ca like a thunderclap:
The WarEmbrace—Christiana the Queen’s Sword, the undefeated general of the north—had been captured by him.
No one could believe it. A single man capturing the woman who had led armies, crushed revolts, and quelled monsters that entire battalions couldn’t face? It sounded impossible—yet every surviving soldier from the expedition confird it.
To the common folk, it was a tale of rebellion—a man defying the crown’s iron grip in the midst of the King’s brutal purge.
To the nobles, it was a nightmare—an unknown player upsetting the balance of power.
The streets buzzed with divided voices.
So called him a hero.
So, a terrorist.
Others whispered—perhaps he was sothing more.
And while that chaos shook the kingdom, a third revelation erged, turning even the noble families against each other.
Lady Alexis of the Three-Legged Crow Family had reclaid her position as heir to a Grand Duke.
Her marriage to Lord Luke was annulled by decree.
Her forr husband’s cultivation was destroyed, and he was cast out in disgrace—a beggar where once he had been a lord.
The cause? No one dared speak it aloud. Not in the open.
Those who did—whispered of poison, betrayal, and a storm that started in the shadows of the dungeon.
No one knew who this Black Lightning Dragon truly was.
But every power—royal, noble, and criminal alike—now looked toward the horizon.
For they all felt the sa thing in their bones:
A storm was coming.
And its heart... wore a mask.
At the sa ti, new rumors began slithering through the capital’s golden corridors and into the common streets.
Certain powers—ancient, quiet, and dangerous—were on the move.
The first whispers spoke of the Three Grand Duke Families.
Then ca word that the Monastery of Heavenly Judgent had joined them and begun sending emissaries in secret.
Each of these mighty forces, all proud and unbending in status, were reportedly sending lavish gifts—not to the palace, nor to a noble duchy, but to a small Baron estate tucked away in the countryside.
The Tate Family.
At first, the people laughed. "A Baron? What power does a Baron have that even Dukes would bow with gifts?"
But the laughter didn’t last long.
The old n of the great families, those who understood the way power truly worked, were the first to grow silent.
"No one sends gifts without wanting sothing in return," they murmured.
And as an old saying went:
"When the ants bring sugar to a single hole, it ans the queen lives there."
Sothing—soone—important was in that estate.
And so, from the Earl of Westre to the Duke of Loras, from Viscounts whose nas carried centuries of weight, to rchants with ships that had seen the world—they all began to send gifts.
Wagons upon wagons, caravans and crates, all bearing gold, silks, enchanted soul stones, rare elixirs, and weapons said to be forged in heavenly fla.
The flood was so vast that Butler Jimmy of the Tate estate nearly lost his mind.
He ran from one end of the courtyard to the other, his face red and drenched in pride and sweat, barking orders at servants who could hardly keep up.
"Careful with that chest—it’s from the Duke of Westre! And gods above, don’t open that one! It’s still breathing!"
At one point, he even had to send urgent letters to Captain Half-Bra and Captain Full-Bra—the two won of the Red Bra Pirates. Jimmy was in great need of their help.
Because now, the Tate family—who hadn’t owned a single ship before—had over twenty new vessels anchored at their na.
Ships enough to form a small pirate fleet.
The servants whispered, "What has our lord done to deserve all this?"
But none dared to ask.
For the cause of all this chaos sat far from the noise—deep within the mountain of the Snake People.
There, upon a black-stone throne carved with serpentine patterns, Eros Tate rested.
His body was poised, but his eyes carried a weary depth—a man who was tired of all the this disturbance his won were giving him.
Because...
Before him knelt a small assembly: Queen Eli, her daughter Shade, his granddaughter Penny, and two others—Victoria and Caren, his bursty beauty from the islands.
The air was tense. No one dared raise their head.
Finally, Queen Eli’s voice trembled as she broke the silence.
"Forgive us, husband," she said softly, her forehead touching the cold floor. "We did not know how it happened. Forgive us for losing young master Dan—your grandson."
All of them also bowed begging for forgiveness.
Eros sighed loudly...
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