As Astara's population and economy grew, its central city became a sight to behold with stunning architecture. Walls with detailed carvings adorned every street, telling stories of heroic ancestors. By day, warm sunlight shone on the city, and by night, stars shimmered like breathtaking jewels, while the aurora borealis beamed in shades of green and violet.

  The Flare Wing Palace of Middle Astara had a grand throne room, surrounded by tall columns and endless hallways with ornate, carved arches. Its dome-shaped roof, decorated with stunning mosaics, resembled Pars architecture of West Asia. The palace garden had statues of their respected ancestors, leaders, and ancient Astaran warriors who had achieved great glory. One statue honored Deming's father, reminding everyone of their fight for freedom from the Faerie Tribe.

  Feng Deming's face twisted in disgust as his eyes, resembling molten lava, scanned the throne room, filled with disapproving glances from his people. While most honored him as a great leader, some West Astarans refused to surrender.

  "You're just a man who's barely passed the age of a boy," the Western King sneered at the younger man seated on the grand throne on a raised platform.

  "Oh, is that so?" Deming raised an eyebrow, his demeanor calm as he found the man's bold words rather amusing. He held the highest authority as the King of Kings, dressed in luxurious black-gold robes and dark, shiny armor that sparkled in the dim light.

  "I may lack your strength, but when my people unite, our collective power becomes unmatched."

  The room fell silent. Deming's eye twitched, his fists clenched, and his head took on a subtle tilt as he considered his next move.

  With a fierce glare, the Western King took his silence as an insult. "Feng Deming, we demand a fair battle for the throne!" His words echoed off the stone walls.

  Standing up from his throne, Deming's tall, imposing figure formed a dark shadow over the trembling man. His fierce gaze on the Western King ignited fear, causing the man's eyes to widen under the Supreme Lord's threatening stare. The surrounding crowd began to lose confidence in supporting the Western King.

  Deming narrowed his eyes and spat out each word to intimidate, maintaining an unblinking glare. "King... of... the... West," his voice harsh and deep.

  The ministers and the kings from the Eastern, Northern, and Southern regions trembled in the throne room, anticipating Deming's intention to execute the Western King.

  "You want to kill me? Then try," Deming's strong voice echoed, and he walked down the stairs with purpose, each step growing more intense.

  The Western King swallowed hard as the peril in the suffocating throne room struck him. The nobles held their breath, waiting for the Astaran Supreme Lord's next move.

  Deming stood tall over the Western King. His golden eyes, fierce as the sun, pierced through the older man's gaze, forming a scowl that frightened those present. "However..."

  In an instant, a crushing pressure tightened around the Western King's throat. He struggled to breathe as Deming lifted him off the floor, struggling to break free. He trembled, unsure if he would survive.

  "Before you kill me, let me ask this," Deming snarled, tightening his grip as the room fell silent. "Officials of West Astara, you have suffered for years under Faerie Rule, and what did your king do to make you blindly follow him? What has he done to restore Astara's glory?"

  The Western King's gasps and wheezes broke the eerie silence from time to time as he fought for breath. Nobles and officials murmured, their faces reflecting shock and fear.

  "ANSWER ME!" Deming's frown deepened, his eyes burning with intensity.

  The officials of West Astara, who had underestimated the Supreme Lord, could only avoid his gaze in fear.

  "If you had the power to overthrow any Astaran Supreme, you would have done so to my father or his servant years ago while they were still alive. But you failed where a mere boy succeeded. You and everyone in West Astara lack the means to end my life, for I am... immortal," Deming sneered.

  Feng Deming's claim of immortality shocked the Western King. However, unlike his people, he dismissed Deming's outrageous statement as a foolish way to provoke fear.

  "However, if you insist on separating yourselves from the rest of us, I'll allow it. That is... if you still wish to follow a useless king's promise." Deming loosened his grip.

  The Western King fell to the hard stone floor, gasping and rubbing his throat. He understood that he had lost his people's and Deming's trust; fear and desperation twisted his face.

  The Northern King hesitated, "My Lord Feng Deming, may I inquire about the reason for permitting the traitor's plans to unfold?"

  "Your concerns are as insignificant as the dust beneath my feet, King of the North. Do not assume to interfere in affairs beyond your limited understanding."

  The Northern King bowed in fear. "I apologize, my Lord."

  "You only have a say in matters concerning the faeries." Deming's eyes held a promise of payback as he stared at the kneeling king, commanding in a chilling tone, "Bring forth the spies!"

  The Western King wore a surprised expression as guards in black armor brought his partners forward. The henchmen, dressed in torn robes, knelt in shame on the polished stone floor. One of the spies, the soldier who had delivered his message to Feng Deming last night, stood among them.

  "Did you truly believe I would simply permit you to act as you pleased? To incite unrest among us and satisfy the faeries' intent to see us weakened?" Deming scrutinized the Western King and raised his hands, smoothing down his wide sleeves. "Take this as a lesson. Prepare for the execution of these spies at nightfall."

  "As you command, my Lord!"

  Deming faced the Western King with his back turned partway. "Your scheme to divide Astara ends now," his voice echoed with authority in the throne room. "You have until the end of the tenth month. On that day at sunset, come with what is left of your people to the Middle Mountains, and I shall personally deliver your death." His voice showed no mercy, allowing no room for negotiation. "Now, leave the Flare Wing Palace."

  The grand throne room fell silent as Feng Deming, the immortal Astaran Supreme, appeared even more intimidating than his father.

  Deming glared at the nobles and officials. "If anyone else dares to challenge me, you are welcome to join him and meet the same fate," his presence cold and imposing as light shimmered on his dark, iridescent armor.

  Nobles and officials knelt before the ruthless tyrant, aware that defying him meant certain death.

  Deming walked toward the exit of the throne room with elegance, his back straight and his black boots clicking, echoing on the stone floor. As the door opened, the crowd started whispering. Some experienced fear and uncertainty, while others found a spark of hope.

  The Southern King raised his head and took a determined step forward. "My esteemed Astaran Supreme Lord, Feng Deming," catching his lord's attention. "Our tribe has suffered for too long under the oppressive rule of the Faerie Realm. We endured thousands of years of mockery, oppression, and the erasure of our culture and traditions. We are ready to stand by your side, fight alongside you, and restore the long-lost glory of our people."

  Deming stopped in his tracks. "I shall overthrow them, conquer all realms, and restore Astara to its former glory. Every so-called 'god' in the Faerie Realm will be eradicated, and none will be spared. This is my promise to Astara."

  The Astarans, who had fought in many wars against the faeries, found hope in Feng Deming's authority. His ability to kill tens of thousands in a single attack made him the faeries' worst nightmare. However, to the Astarans, he represented hope for peace in their ongoing struggle against the oppressive Faerie Tribe.

  With their hopes up and full of admiration, the crowd responded to their lord with a humble bow to express their loyalty, and their voices hailed Deming in a pledge of support.

  As Deming turned around, his eyes cold and detached, he observed the submissive crowd. 'Lord Muchen... I will tear you apart,' his gaze narrowing with piercing intensity. 'I will ensure you writhe in agony as I wrench your beating heart from your chest.' The sinister notion left a wicked smirk on his lips.

  In the Faerie Realm, Gao Yize set his heart on protecting his home, a place that thrived in beauty and wonder.

  In this realm, at night, the forests gave a soft glow under the moonlight. By day, rainbows arched across the sky, lighting up gardens and clear rivers. The sky a sapphire blue, the forest a rich green, and the flowers a deep purple as butterflies left brief trails of shimmering light.

  And with fear of the Demon King now jeopardizing this realm, Yize sprinted to Lord Muchen's palace, approaching the throne room as his long silver hair swayed in the breeze.

  The massive doors swung open, revealing Muchen seated on his throne. Yize took a deep breath and met his lord's piercing gaze as his finger tapped the armrest.

  "Why have you come, Yize?" Muchen questioned in a composed tone.

  "My Lord, a spy in Astara has provided crucial information. Feng Deming plans to battle an entire Western Astaran army by himself."

  A flash of surprise crossed Muchen's eyes, but he concealed it with a faint smile. "How amusing... Determine the outcome and report back to me immediately." Catching Yize's hesitation and averted gaze, he pressed, "Speak. Is there anything else I need to be made aware of?"

  Yize's brows twisted. "Feng Deming is immortal." Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, but Muchen's silence caused his muscles to tense. 'Why is he... not surprised?'

  "I see. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. You may leave now."

  Yize stood frozen, his mind reeling. "Yes... as you wish." He turned away, his footsteps carrying the lingering doubt that occupied his mind.

  Striding out of the throne room, Yize found a secluded spot in the gardens. The palace entrance stood under the midday sun, throwing long shadows across the stone pathway.

  He leaned against a tree in solitude, glancing at the glowing flowers with his vibrant blue eyes. 'Muchen... I was not yet of age to serve him when Feng Deming was imprisoned... but I can't fathom...'

  As he pondered, a memory of Deming's bitter accusation resurfaced: "Just as you did all these years, watching me suffer."

  'What did Lord Muchen do to him?' Doubt and suspicion entangled his mind, yet he could not shake the memory of blood on the dungeon walls. 'Did he truly suffer?'

  "How amusing... I suppose it is your lucky day," Deming's voice echoed in his memory.

  "How amusing... Determine the outcome and report back to me immediately," Lord Muchen's words came back to him.

  Yize's expression darkened. His breathing quickened, his chest tightening as he replayed the phrase. "How amusing...?" Swallowing the lump in his throat, he stared at the grand entrance to the palace, a glare forming in his eyes.

  He stood there, his fair hands stained with cold blood, wielding his longsword. A golden crown with swirls on the sides adorned his head, curling around the back of his ears and keeping his long hair tidy and away from his face. Drops of scarlet liquid dripped from his blade, trickling down to the tip.

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  "This fool came here asking for his demise," Deming sneered, giving a dismissive wave of his hand, his eyes lingering on the lifeless body lying before him.

  Draped in white garments that had almost lost their original color, the man had his eyes closed. Blood soaked his long hair, once silky, now a tangled mess.

  After a moment of silence, his thunderous voice echoed, "Zixin!"

  Dark smoke twisted and churned, forming an onyx vortex. As the haze began to clear, a young man with well-defined features emerged, stepping into a shadow that shimmered with an ethereal darkness. His chiseled jawline and high cheekbones created a striking silhouette against the dark backdrop. His eyes mirrored the darkness of the night, absorbing the surrounding light. Flowing black attire, resembling a robe, reached to his feet. Long, black hair framed his face, styled with lengthy bangs that fell to the sides and tied back in a loose, low ponytail.

  He bowed before the Astaran Supreme. "Yes, my Lord!"

  The grand hall echoed with his voice, the faint rustle of Zixin's movements, and the distant whispers of the darkened space.

  Deming's gaze bore into Zixin from above, his lips curling into a tight, dismissive smirk. With a slow, deliberate movement, he lifted his chin, his posture rigid as he commanded in a disdainful tone, "Rise."

  "Yes." Zixin rose with grace, facing Deming but casting a sidelong glance at the fallen man before them. "Is that a...?"

  "Indeed, a faerie. This is the third spy Muchen has sent this week." With a piercing stare, Deming spoke in an imperious manner, "Prepare for the war council."

  Zixin nodded, eyes flickering with stern calculation as he took in the scene. "And what shall be done with him?"

  Deming's smirk widened into a cold, predatory grin. "Dispose of him. Make sure it's done discreetly," he paused, his impassive eyes landing on the body, his lips twisting in disgust, "and not on our soil."

  With a final, respectful bow, Zixin turned on his heel and neared the fallen man. The dark smoke that had once heralded his arrival began to swirl around him again, concealing his movements. As he approached the body, the shadows closed in, wrapping around the body.

  Yize's footsteps echoed off the cold stone walls in the dim dungeons beneath the grand palace. The heavy scent of dampness and decay filled the air, and flickering energy balls cast long, eerie shadows across the corridors. His heart pounded as he stopped at a damaged iron door, its surface rusted and worn.

  "It's here... This was Feng Deming's cell," he murmured.

  Hesitating for a moment, he pushed it open with a creak. Darkness filled the large cell inside, but his keen eyes adjusted. Remnants of glyphs surrounded the center of the cell, scattered on the floor and glinting in the faint light.

  Flashes of that dreadful day barged into his mind. The sight of Feng Deming deciphering the twenty seals and breaking those powerful chains, his golden eyes glowing red before he blew up most parts of the dungeon, haunted him to this day.

  Yize scanned the room until his gaze landed on a stone slab in the corner, its surface worn down by years of use. "What's that?"

  He approached the slab, his fingers brushing against something beneath it. With a grunt, he lifted the heavy stone, revealing a hidden compartment.

  'What is this place?' Inside, he found a small chest in the corner. Running his hand against the rough surface, he opened it. "Did someone forget to secure this?" He discovered a bundle of letters and a small journal, the pages yellowed and brittle with age. He opened the journal with care, his eyes widening. "This handwriting... Lord Muchen?"

  Leaning against the wall, he skimmed through the pages, each word adding to his unease.

  "Starvation... thousand lashes... keeping him awake for days..."

  His resolve hardened, his stomach knotting as a bitter taste crept up his throat, his mind circling back to Muchen.

  A particular passage caught his eye: "Today, I tested the limits of the demon's endurance. The chains held him well, but he remains alive. I must try harsher methods."

  Yize's stomach churned as he read the accounts of Muchen's involvement in every act of cruelty and the methods he used.

  "Break him, bend him, make him obedient."

  Yize's grip tightened on the journal, his knuckles tense. "Why? This isn't the behavior of a noble leader, but of a..." he whispered as a wave of nausea surfaced. "I should... make a replica of this."

  He emanated a yellow light in his palm, forming a copy of the journal before placing the original back inside the chest. Just as he turned to leave, a hidden panel in the wall caught his eye.

  "Is that...?" He pried it open to reveal an old, rusted dagger and a blood-stained cloth. "These..." Ache gripped his heart, telling him stories of the suffering endured in this sinister place. "I shouldn't stay here!"

  He stepped back, his breath ragged. The clues in the cell painted a disturbing picture. He turned and left the dungeon, the door creaking shut behind him, the darkness of the cell now mirrored in his heart.

  In the Faerie Realm, Lord Muchen stood alone in a remote area, as if standing on a field of nails digging into his feet. Sharp, cold winds whispered through the barren trees. Across from him, a hooded figure loomed like a shadow, half of his face hidden by his cloak as he delivered his report.

  "So, Feng Deming is distracted?" Muchen's voice cut through the silence.

  The man inclined his head, the motion quick and respectful. "Yes, my Lord."

  A dark flicker crossed Muchen's eyes, the tension around him tightening like a drawn bow. "You are dismissed."

  The man bowed before vanishing into the night as silent as he had come, like a wisp of smoke, his movements almost invisible.

  Lord Muchen returned to the palace and sat on his throne in the grand hall. His fingers curled around the armrests with such force that the smooth, cool surface beneath his palms creaked. His knuckles, pale against the darker, polished surface, stood out as a tremor ran through his hand, simmering behind his steely gaze.

  "With Feng Deming preoccupied, we have a golden opportunity to strike and shatter his forces," Muchen's low voice reverberated through the chamber. "His reign has brought nothing but fear to our kind. If we act now, we can weaken his rule and restore harmony to our realm." His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed into a hard, unyielding glare. The muscle in his temple twitched beneath his calm facade.

  From the corner, a man stepped forward, his approach cautious, like a prey animal sensing the predator's eyes upon him. His gaze darted around the room, his movements jittery, as if the very air around Muchen might crush him. "If I may, Lord Muchen," his voice trembled.

  Muchen's gaze sharpened as he leaned forward, giving a curt nod. "Speak, god of wisdom."

  The man drew a breath, gathering his thoughts as if piecing together a delicate puzzle. "There is a possibility that Feng Deming's distraction is a ruse—perhaps he is planning an assault on our realm. A preemptive strike against Astara could be our best course of action."

  A heavy silence fell over the council, their faces set like stone as they exchanged looks. One by one, they nodded.

  Muchen's lips twisted into a thin, satisfied smile as his voice carried through the room. "Yize has already begun to train our warriors and sharpen their skills for the battles ahead. If we cannot kill Feng Deming, we must find a way to get rid of him."

  In the majestic city of Middle Astara, where sandy-colored spires pierced the azure sky, the Flare Wing Palace's grand chamber gleamed with a mosaic of rich colors under the glow of countless torches. The torches emitted a subtle, smoky scent that mingled with the faint odor of old wood and fabric. At the center, the throne—crafted from gold and encrusted with precious gems—caught the light and scattered it in every direction.

  A figure emerged from the shadows of the chamber's edge, her presence almost melding with the dim light. She swathed in dark, silken robes that rippled as she moved. Her ash-brown hair, sleek as a raven's wing, flowed down her back, and her brown eyes caught the light with each step.

  Approaching the throne with an effortless grace, she drew a folded parchment from her robe and bowed with a subtle smile. "Greetings, my lord. I have some urgent matters that are rather... intriguing. I believe you'll find them quite compelling."

  Sitting upon the golden throne, Deming gave a minimal glance upward, his expression cold with disdain. "Articulate, Daxia," he sneered, impatience sharp in his voice.

  Without a word, Daxia extended the parchment toward him, her gaze lowered and a hint of a smirk on her lips.

  He snatched it from her hand, his focus already shifting. "You are dismissed."

  She inclined her head in a deeper, more respectful nod, then turned with fluid grace, retreating into the shadows where her presence evaporated into the darkness without a sound.

  Left alone with the message, Deming unsealed the parchment, his eyes narrowing as he absorbed the secrets within.

  An hour later, he still had the crumpled piece of parchment in hand, his fingers tight around it as if he could crush the news it bore. His face remained a mask of cold fury as he studied the paper. 'The audacity...'

  Zixin approached with careful steps, his concern plain in the tightness of his brow. "My Lord, what do you plan to do?" An acrid bitterness, like the aftertaste of poison, lingered on his tongue.

  Deming stood without hesitation, his voice thunderous in the grand chamber. "Assemble the council. Gather all the generals and strategists at once."

  The command snapped through the air like a whip. Boots scuffled across polished marble, their echo blending with distant murmurs and the occasional clatter of metal against stone.

  As the council members gathered, the Astaran Supreme's thoughts churned like a stormy sea. Tension filled the room as esteemed generals and advisors exchanged glances at one another, their anticipation like a coiled spring, waiting for their leader to break the silence.

  Deming sat on his ornate golden throne, his sharp gaze falling on his servants. Each man and woman stiffened, their posture rigid and formal under the weight of his scrutiny. "I have received intelligence that the Faerie Realm intends to attack Astara within a week," he announced, his cold voice steady. "We shall demonstrate our true power, crush their invasion, and wipe their realm from existence."

  Zixin bowed low. "As you command, my lord... We've dispatched our best spies to gather information on Lord Muchen's activities. However, we still have not found clues about his tricks, my lord... We fear that you might—"

  Deming drew his brows together into a prominent frown, his head tilting as his gaze pierced into Zixin like a serpent's glare, cold and unblinking. "That I what? Enlighten me, Zixin."

  Zixin faltered, his confidence crumbling under the force of Deming's stare. "Uh... I mean, I—"

  Deming's gaze hit like a whip.

  Zixin's eyes widened, his mouth falling open before he dropped to his knees, his words hanging by a fragile thread. "F-Forgive my insolence. It's just that you're valuable to us, and we don't want you to become trapped—"

  Deming rose from his throne, each step toward Zixin measured and alarming, his boots striking the floor like a countdown.

  "My lord, please spare my brother! I shall make sure to punish him in your stead. I beg you," a man interrupted, hurrying forward. Clad in royal garb, his short beard on his chin framed a face etched with desperation.

  'Oh no, he... he'll kill him!' Zixin dared a glance at the unfolding scene, his heart pounding as Deming loomed over his brother. The knot in his chest tightened, his mouth quivering as he pressed his trembling fingers against the cold floor, struggling to steady his breath.

  Kneeling with his face almost touching the marble floor, the man flinched at the echoes of Deming's footsteps, each louder and closer until they stopped. He stared at the black boots now inches from his face.

  "Rise, King of the East."

  "Yes!" The Eastern King shot to his feet, locking eyes with the Astaran Supreme, as though a viper's bite had paralyzed him while sweat beaded on his brow.

  "Be gone... Both of you," Deming's voice cut like ice, his stare even colder, sending a shiver down the Eastern King's spine.

  The Eastern King blinked, his mouth opening as if to speak. "I..."

  "Now, before I change my mind."

  The Eastern King wasted no time, his boots clattering in the silence as he grabbed Zixin by the shoulders, hauling him upright and pulling him away. Zixin stumbled, casting a final, fearful glance at Deming before being dragged from the room.

  Deming closed his eyes, a long, weary sigh escaping him. Visions of millennia of torment flooded his mind—Lord Muchen's sneering face, the relentless assaults, both physical and mental, the bitterness clinging to him like a shadow. 'Why does that weakling's shadow never leave my mind?'

  Under the moonlit sky, Daxia materialized outside a palace. The shadows around her vanished with a soft, iridescent glow.

  'Another night, another mission... off to the Faerie Realm again.' She turned to throw a final, lingering glance at the Flare Wing Palace. Its towering silhouette loomed against the night, golden light seeping through the darkened windows.

  "You are dismissed."

  After recalling Deming's words for a brief moment, her eyes hardened as she took in the majestic palace, and a black, shimmering vortex formed around her.

  "You're impossible," she murmured, her lips curling like a predator savoring the scent of prey.

  A shadow passed over her eyes, a slow burn of desire smoldering beneath the surface, like embers craving the touch of flames.

  "Why are all the hot ones always so... wrong? But maybe that's why he's so... irresistible."

  A low, sultry chuckle escaped her, as if the very thought of Deming was a forbidden indulgence she longed to savor.

  "No matter. It only makes the game more... delicious."

  With a decisive breath, she stepped into the vortex. The swirling darkness surrounded her, and in a heartbeat, she was gone.

  Feng Deming strode along the midnight shore, the crashing waves a mere backdrop to the storm within him. The salty sea breeze mixed with the subtle scent of wet sand. Each step pressed deep into the sand, as if the earth itself bowed and cowered beneath his might.

  'What does it mean, never to die, yet to have dreams haunting me even in my wake?' His thoughts churned like a storm, filled with anger and disdain. 'I command legions, bend realms to my will; yet, in spite of all that, I am a prisoner in my mind... Why?'

  His lips curled into a sneer, and his eyes narrowed as the cold wind tugged at his ebony robes. The moonlight on the waves mirrored his inner turmoil as he stared out into the dark horizon.

  'What am I searching for on these shores?'

  He clenched his fists, the rough sand pressing into his skin. The waves roared, but he remained unmoved, a dark figure against the night.

  'Several millennia have passed since my birth, and still, I am left in the dark about the reason for my immortality... What is the purpose of eternity if it extends the torment of being forever entrapped? To live endlessly is cruel if it means facing imprisonment once more.'

  His knuckles tightened at his sides with anger.

  'No matter. I shall carve the answer from this wretched world, even if I have to tear the realms apart to do it... Starting with the Faerie Realm.'

  Deming's imprisonment etched a relentless wound gnawing at his soul. Visions of phantom chains clinking in the dark haunted him like a shadow always lurking.

  'They thought they could contain me, bend me to their will... Fools. Now, they dare to rise against me again?'

  The wind howled, echoing his sigh, and his gaze hardened on the horizon. He could taste his frustration, like a bitter aftertaste.

  'Let them come. I shall crush them underfoot. I have tasted the bitterness of their chains and refuse to be trapped again. They dared to imprison me and twist my fate into a nightmare. Now, I return the favor by luring them here and trapping them.'

  With a final glance at the turbulent sea, he turned away, eyes burning with a cold, deadly fire. The darkness folded around him like a cloak as he continued his path to bend even eternity to his will.

  'Once they cross into Astara, the borders behind them close and cut them off from their world, with no escape or tricks to breach the barriers... This time, I refuse to merely break their spirits. This time, I shall be the one to leave them in chains, much like the imprisonment they once imposed on me.'

  A cruel smile touched his lips as he envisioned his scheme, his eyes flaring with a predatory light.

  'Their precious realm burns as their screams echo across the ages. They are bound to remember the price of crossing me. Each step deepens their despair, and I shall watch their hope drain away as I make their world bleed. The Faerie Realm becomes a place of endless torment, with me as the master of their suffering.'

  As dawn's first light crept across the horizon, he stepped into the vortex he had created, the swirling darkness swallowing him as the day began.

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