Meilin, a rising Esports player, is prophesied to destroy the Faerie Realm alongside the deadly demon king, Feng Deming. But what happens when Ningshun, her charming teammate with an equally inevitable fate and a mystery of his own past, steps into...
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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."
