In the cramped guest room of Greenhollow's most reputable lodge, The Princess and Sir Lerikmen sat around a small wooden table, the air heavy with unspoken tension.
"What are we going to do?" Lerikmen finally asked, his voice weighed down by fatigue and frustration.
The question lingered, as elusive as their perilous journey to the West had been.
The Princess had wagered that reaching Greenhollow would unravel the mysteries surrounding the ominous Sect that now gripped her father's kingdom with an iron fist. She hoped their motives would reveal themselves as she neared their domain.
But that was not to be. The political fog had only grown denser.
Every attempt she made to question Martha—the village nanny purportedly abducted in a violent encounter with a sword deity—was met with polite yet unwavering silence. Martha refused to divulge what truly transpired on the mountain.
To complicate matters, The Princess struggled to interpret this silence. Was the nanny withholding information because nothing sinister had happened, or was it the fearsome, azure-scaled Storm Dragon, looming over the village square like a sentry, that kept her lips sealed?
One might suspect that a reticent peasant and a threatening dragon were the only hurdles. Yet, a more chilling reality had emerged: the Guild's leader hadn't merely rejected their request for a diplomatic meeting. He had completely disregarded their existence.
"We cannot give up," the Princess finally declared, her hands clenching into determined fists on the table. "Millions of innocent lives hang in the balance. If they refuse us an audience, then we must seize one by force."
"Do you really think this is a good idea?"
"It doesn't matter now," she answered, her voice resolute. "They've left us with no other options."
The Princess wasn't just speaking; she was making a declaration. Before Lerikmen could even try to change her mind, she was already heading toward the door. Her brief pause communicated an unspoken demand: either join her or be left behind.
"Alright, Your Highness," Lerikmen conceded, rising from the table. "Your decisions have been wise so far. Let's see if fortune continues to favor you."
He quickly trailed her as she swept out of the room. Above them, the stealthy movements of the shadow guards on the rooftops could be faintly heard, ready to spring into action at her command.
Her route through the lodge and into the village square was every bit the royal procession. Commoners bowed deeply as she passed, and anyone in her way stepped aside in a hurry, giving her plenty of space.
This was the norm for any noble, no matter whose lands they found themselves on. Even if the Dawnfall Kingdom was often considered weak compared to larger empires, their distant ties to the Divine Realm ensured unwavering respect from mortals.
However, that aura of supreme power vanished the instant she reached the ancient oak at the center of Greenhollow.
There, draped lazily over the colossal branches, was the Storm Dragon. The enormous, azure-scaled creature lounged casually, completely indifferent to her presence. Being treated as if she were invisible was a shocking and terrifying humiliation. No noble from any nearby kingdom had ever dared to voice complaints about such treatment, primarily because those who experienced it seldom lived to recount the story.
"Guardian of the Sect," the Princess commanded, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within her. She wore the mantle of her royal authority like a shield, concealing any hint of fear.
The Storm Dragon ignored her, his blazing azure eyes fixed unblinkingly on the distant horizon, as if searching for something beyond her understanding.
"I demand an audience with your Master," she insisted, stepping bravely closer. "If our factions collide, countless innocent lives will be caught in the devastation. War serves no one. We must talk."
"My Master refuses your request," the Dragon's deep, thunderous voice boomed, causing the shadow guards' weapons to tremble. "Return to your palace, mortal."
"I will not be dismissed so easily!" the Princess declared, stepping defiantly into his colossal shadow. "I am the Princess of Dawnfall! You're within our territory, and you will respect our sovereignty—"
CRACK.
The very air seemed to shatter violently.
The Princess barely registered the movement. One instant, the Dragon gazed outward; the next, his enormous, clawed hand clamped around her throat, lifting her from the ground effortlessly. Her feet dangled uselessly, struggling against the inevitable.
"Princess!" Lerikmen shouted, his voice a mixture of panic and defiance.
The shadow guards unsheathed their swords, racing forward to sever the beast's arm.
Suddenly, static electricity crackled in the air. A titanic shockwave of unyielding Divine energy erupted, hurling the shadow guards backward like discarded dolls, their armor crumpling as they crashed into the earth.
Lerikmen, an immortal realm cultivator, staggered back a few paces but stood firm. Though his body was unscathed, the realization that the Dragon truly belonged to the Divine Realm struck deeply, a chilling awareness that urged caution and respect.
---
[Location - The Village Nanny's Home]
While turmoil erupted in the village square, Martha's home stood as a beacon of serenity amidst the chaos.
But that peacefulness was abruptly shattered. The front door flew open, crashing against the wooden wall. Stuearn, the village's vegetable merchant, stumbled inside, his face as pale as a ghost, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as though he had sprinted across the entire province.
"Martha!" he wheezed.
"Stuearn? What's going on?" she asked, letting her knitting fall to the floor.
"There's been an incident!"
"An incident?"
"No time to explain! We must hurry, before the Dragon slays the Princess!"
Those words were all Martha needed to hear. Her heart sank like a stone. She had prayed it wouldn't come to this. Her aloof demeanor toward the royal entourage earlier hadn't been out of newfound loyalty to the Guild; it had been a calculated move to bore the Princess. Martha had hoped that if she offered no intrigue, the royals would deem the village safe and return to the capital.
She hadn't ignored the Crown out of disrespect for Dawnfall; she had ignored them because she had seen the Guild's true power with her own eyes.
She had watched them casually enter a dimension they called the Divine Realm. She had seen them capture a legendary Celestial Cow just to appease a fussy infant, yielding the richest, most spiritually potent milk she had ever encountered. She had stood in the Forbidden Hall as the Master summoned an ancient, towering earthen spirit for the sole, absurd purpose of guarding that very cow.
Though Martha was no warrior, she was not naive. If someone could enslave an Immortal Realm spirit merely to secure a dairy supply, then the Kingdom of Dawnfall—whose army struggled against mere bandits—was woefully, laughably outmatched.
Without another word or moment wasted on her rising dread, Martha dashed past Stuearn. She sprinted into the dirt street, desperate to avert a disaster that, if allowed to unfold, would leave Dawnfall's foundation in utter ruin.