While Arthur was preparing—
Far from the living world, beyond where light or time held any meaning, something shifted.
The Abyss wasn't loud. It never had been. It was quiet in a way that felt deliberate, like even silence had a purpose here.
At its center, a figure sat on a throne that didn't look built—it looked like it had always been there, shaped out of something older than anything that still existed.
For a long time, he hadn't moved.
There simply hadn't been a reason to.
Then, slowly, his eyes opened.
"…Hm."
The sound came out low, almost absent-minded. His fingers tapped lightly against the arm of the throne once… then again… before stopping.
He didn't move after that. Just sat there, thinking.
"…Ah."
Something clicked.
Not surprise. Not urgency. Just recognition, like remembering something he hadn't thought about in a while.
"…That one."
His gaze drifted, unfocused—not searching, just recalling.
"I brought it back."
A small breath left him, quiet and unbothered.
"…Right."
For a moment, that seemed to be enough.
Then his eyes narrowed slightly.
"…It was drowning in guilt."
He tilted his head just a fraction, as if revisiting the memory more clearly now.
"And that man…" his voice shifted, barely, but enough to feel colder, "…wanted to throw it away."
A faint scoff followed.
"…Still as shortsighted as ever."
His fingers stilled completely.
The air around him didn't change in any visible way, but something about the space felt heavier now.
"…Someone interfered."
He didn't say it like a question.
Just a quiet observation.
"…Alora."
The name came easily this time.
He leaned back slightly, eyes half-lidded.
"She stepped in."
There was a pause, longer than the others.
"And gave it a name…"
He let the thought settle before finishing it.
"…The Misfit."
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then he moved—not physically, not in any way that could be seen. Just intent.
Something reached outward from him, slipping through layers that weren't meant to be touched. It moved cleanly, without resistance, as if distance and boundaries didn't really apply to him.
He didn't rush it.
He didn't need to.
It passed through space, through separation, through everything that should have stood in the way—
And then it stopped.
His brow creased slightly.
"…Hm."
He didn't pull back. Instead, he focused, sharpening whatever it was he had extended.
Again.
This time deeper. More deliberate.
Still nothing.
The silence that followed felt different.
Heavier.
His fingers tapped once against the throne again, slower now.
"…That's odd."
He leaned forward just a little, resting his arm against the side of the throne. Not tense. But no longer idle either.
He reached again, more precise this time.
Nothing.
Not blocked.
Not resisted.
Just… not there for him.
He paused completely.
"…No."
A quiet breath left him.
"I can feel it."
His gaze darkened, just slightly.
"But I can't touch it."
That wasn't something he was used to.
Another attempt followed, this one sharper, carrying more intent than the others.
Still nothing.
The space around him seemed to tighten, not violently—just enough to feel wrong.
"…So that's how it is."
His fingers stopped moving entirely.
"…I don't decide that one anymore."
He let that sit for a second.
Then his eyes lifted.
"…You."
The word came out softer, but colder.
"…Alam Maxwell."
The name didn't echo. It didn't need to.
A faint smile appeared, but there was nothing warm about it.
"You got bold."
His grip tightened slightly against the arm of the throne, just enough to leave a mark.
"…Touching something that was already mine."
He leaned back again, exhaling once, slow and controlled.
There was no outburst. No sudden spike of anger.
That made it worse.
"If you wanted my attention…"
He let the words hang for a moment.
"…you have it."
He lifted his hand slightly.
That was all it took.
A figure appeared in front of him instantly, already kneeling, head lowered without needing to be told.
"My lord."
He didn't look at him right away.
"…Speed it up."
The words were simple. Direct.
The figure didn't question it, but there was a slight shift in his posture—just enough to show he understood the weight behind the order.
"…Is something wrong?"
A brief silence followed.
"…Nothing unexpected."
His gaze drifted again, distant, cold.
"He's getting comfortable."
Another pause.
"Remind him he isn't untouchable."
The figure lowered his head further.
"…Understood."
The Emperor's eyes didn't move.
"…Start with what he values."
A beat.
"Not him."
Another.
"…Everything around him."
Silence settled between them.
Then, quietly—
"Break it."
The figure disappeared immediately.
No hesitation.
No delay.
The Abyss fell still again.
But this time, it didn't feel empty.
It felt like something had already begun.
Far above the mortal world, beyond kingdoms, cities, and the fragile reach of ordinary life, there was a place untouched by time. Calm. Radiant. Still.
Alam Maxwell stood at the edge of that expanse, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. He looked composed, relaxed, unbothered. But beneath the surface, a small unease festered—something he hadn't felt in a long time.
"…That aura," he muttered under his breath.
His fingers flexed lightly at his side, an unconscious gesture.
Two weeks ago. That fleeting moment still lingered in his mind. A presence had brushed against him in Alora—a spark of something unfamiliar—and vanished before he could understand it.
It hadn't been threatening, not in a conventional sense. Not overwhelming, not suffocating. But it had been… wrong. Out of place.
He frowned, replaying it in his memory.
"…What did that person come to do in Alora?"
The thought felt uncomfortable, yet he could not dwell on it. He had faced countless threats, crushed beings far stronger than most could even imagine, ascended beyond the reach of ordinary existence—and yet, that brief presence had left a mark. A subtle chill. A trace of uncertainty.
Alam's jaw tightened. He didn't like unknowns. He didn't like things moving without his awareness. And this—whatever had touched his senses—was precisely that.
He exhaled slowly, trying to dismiss it.
"…Hopefully it won't affect me," he said softly, almost to himself.
He straightened, easing the tension in his shoulders. The unease didn't vanish—it was simply set aside. For now, he chose to ignore it.
The light around him remained steady, unchanging. Nothing seemed wrong. To any observer, he was calm, composed, fully in control.
But for a fleeting instant, a god had felt something he could not immediately command. Something that had unsettled him, briefly reminded him that even omnipotence had its edges.
And far below, the world was already shifting. Unseen. Unnoticed. Movements that would ripple through kingdoms, bloodlines, and the very balance of power. By the time Alam Maxwell realized what that presence truly was… it would already be too late.