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Chapter 603: Divine Offspring and Heaven's Mountain
Thrace Kingdom, Northern Aether Plain.
The land here was smooth and vast, a boundless expanse of fertile fields and dense forests. The Logan River, born from the snow-capped peaks of the North, flowed southward, bestowing rich waters upon the riverbanks. Once, the Northern Aether Plain had been the tranquil rear of the Faldran Empire—its people lived in peace and prosperity.
But those days were gone.
After the collapse of the Faldran Empire, countless Aetherians were forced from their homes, dragged into the brutal wars of the South, and perished on the blood-soaked battlefields near the Holy City.
Meanwhile, the Empire of Ashen from the Far North pressed relentlessly, devouring territory from the Thrace Kingdom bit by bit. Without warning, this once-peaceful region had become a frontline.
At this critical moment, Walter Graham—formerly a rebel general—was suddenly granted a title by His Majesty Wilhelm: Duke of Northern Aether. He was given full authority over all affairs in the region.
The news stunned the people of Thrace. Many doubted their own ears.
After all, just a few years prior, Walter had led a military uprising, openly rebelling against the Thrace Kingdom’s leadership. He had repelled multiple armies sent to crush him, even daring to call Wilhelm himself “a man who had forgotten Honor.”
Yet some saw the truth: the Thrace Kingdom had long abandoned any hope of suppressing the Divine Offspring Duke in the North. This so-called "ennoblement" was merely a formality—adding insignificant lands to Walter’s existing domain, turning him into a shield against the northern invasion.
In Collins City, nestled along the Logan River, ships of all sizes drifted in from upstream, the bustling harbor alive with commerce. Known as the "Lion City," the people of Collins took pride in their majestic lion symbol—courage, honesty, and justice had been their heritage for generations.
And it was here that Walter Graham held sway. With his army, he had repelled Thrace’s repeated assaults time and again.
At the city’s entrance stood several colossal stone lions, their towering forms casting solemn shadows over all who approached—guardians of stone, silent and unwavering.
On the top of the tall city wall, a man stood motionless, as if carved from marble. His face was sharp, chiseled by years of war, his expression grave. He was massive—over two meters tall—his broad frame barely concealed beneath heavy silver armor.
But it was his back that drew the eye: two immense wings folded tightly against his spine, giving him the appearance of a celestial being who had descended to earth.
This was the newly appointed Duke of Northern Aether, the rebel leader of the Thrace Kingdom, and once a Judgment Knight of the fallen Faldran Empire—Walter Graham.
Now, he gazed toward the horizon. His golden eyes, still glowing faintly with the remnants of the Sun God’s radiance, held a solemn depth.
“The Empire of Ashen…” he murmured, his voice low and heavy.
In the days of the Faldran Empire, he had shattered the magic vessels of the Gis-Yangki, severed the head of a devil in Avernus, and stood alone against the tide of demons on the Vast Abyss Plain.
By all rights, he should have been fearless—unafraid of any challenge.
Yet now, facing the Empire of Ashen from the North, he felt unease. Not just fear of the enemy, but dread of the future.
The Holy Faldran Empire—his once-unshakable pillar—had crumbled. The Sun God, who had granted them strength, now slept in deep slumber. And Walter’s own power had dwindled to less than sixty percent of its former glory.
Worst of all, he had discovered that the Emperor’s second son—Wilhelm, who now claimed the title of King of Thrace—had utterly abandoned Amanata, embracing the power of darkness.
What would become of the Faldran legacy? And what of him?
Walter shook his head, offering a wry smile. He sighed softly.
“If King Aragon were to rise again… what would he feel, seeing his own son turn to evil, warring for power against his own kin?”
He paused. “Who would have thought the once-glorious Sacred Faldran would fall into such ruin?”
“Lord Duke.”
A young Angel Divine Offspring descended from the sky, wings fluttering as he landed gracefully upon the city tower. He knelt halfway, bowing his head in respect.
“Speak, Ian. What of the cities?”
“Lord Duke, the rebels have kept their word. They’ve withdrawn all their troops. Cities like Milet, Dalden, and others now stand defenseless.”
Walter smirked coldly. “Ah… His Majesty Wilhelm never disappoints. Still as treacherous and cunning as ever. No wonder he’s thrown himself into Hell.”
Ian frowned. “If they’ve pulled back, isn’t that a good thing? Now we can consolidate all of Northern Aether’s resources and strike at the rebels.”
Walter turned toward the rolling Kartpa Hills to the north, his voice heavy. “Do you still not see? This means the Empire of Ashen is preparing to advance south. The traitors of Thrace want me to fight them—force us into mutual destruction—so they can steal a moment’s breath.”
Ian paused, stunned. Then he clenched his sword. “Then why should we defend these devils who’ve allied with the Dark? If that’s the case, we must refuse their cities!”
“No, Ian.” Walter shook his head again, his smile bitter, yet his gaze unwavering. He turned to face the young warrior.
“Can you abandon the people of ten or more cities? Let them become slaves to the Empire of Ashen?”
Ian hesitated. Then, slowly, he shook his head.
Walter continued, “This is Wilhelm’s open strategy. He’s gambling that we still have a conscience—something he and his court have long since discarded. Something they don’t value human life.”
Ian gritted his teeth. “I can’t believe King Aragon had a son like this!”
“Ian,” Walter said, “we have no choice. We must take over the ruins he left behind. We must stand between the Empire of Ashen and the people of Northern Aether.”
He slowly drew his greatsword—nearly three meters long. His golden eyes blazed with radiant fire.
“Lord Duke.” Ian pressed his silver blade against the greatsword. His voice trembled. “I will always stand behind you. I will be your sword.”
One by one, more Angel Divine Offspring arrived, placing their blades against the greatsword, interlocking in a chain of resolve.
These warriors had come north with Walter, driven by pure idealism. They could not tolerate the darkness of Thrace. They longed to return to the radiant glory of Amanata, to reclaim the sacred light of the old Faldran era.
But their dream was a fading hope.
Once all the commanders had assembled, Walter’s face finally broke into the confident smile of a true Faldran warrior.
“Men, move your armies to the cities left behind by Thrace. Fortify them immediately. The Empire of Ashen could strike at any moment. Ian, you remain in Collins City—its defenses are your domain.”
The angels saluted and departed. But Ian lingered, unable to suppress his question.
“Lord Duke… what of you?”
Walter looked up, toward the sky. He gazed at the sun still high above, its golden light reflecting in his eyes like a flame.
“I’ve studied the Battle Image Projection of the Red Emperor. I’ve analyzed the weapons of the Empire of Ashen. By ourselves, we cannot stand against them.”
He raised his sword. A blinding beam of white light erupted from its tip, piercing the clouds. The sky trembled.
“Boom!”
His voice roared like thunder across the Northern Aether Plain, echoing through the valleys and plains.
“Faldran men will never become dragons’ followers. We will never be devils’ slaves. We. Will. Never. Submit!”
Walter spread his wings and soared into the sky, ascending rapidly. The beam of light and his figure merged into the clouds, vanishing into the heavens—leaving only a flurry of white feathers, drifting like snow.
At that moment, every Angel Divine Offspring, every citizen below, looked up. Their gazes filled with reverence and awe.
“Long live!”
“Faldran men will never be slaves!”
The people roared with excitement, their voices rising like a storm—rekindling the spirit of a glorious age, when they had still been proud citizens of the Sacred Faldran Nation.
---
Heaven’s Mountain, First Layer: Lunia—also known as the “Silver Heaven.”
The sky here was always dark, yet studded with silver stars, their light enough to illuminate the endless Silver Sea Coast.
Portals from other realms opened at the edge of the wine-dark sea—a vast, sacred bay brimming with holy water. Along the shore stood castles and fortresses of dazzling white stone, built in countless styles, housing diverse peoples. Many of them traded openly with the sea elves of the Material Realm.
At the Stellar Coast, the most magnificent structure stood: a colossal fortress of shimmering marble, its walls glittering like a night sky full of stars. Thus, it was known as the Bastion of Stars.
Within its halls, horn messengers—divine heralds—rushed in and out, bearing interdimensional missions. It was also the residence of the First Heaven’s Lord.
On a high tower overlooking the starlit sea, a slender, radiant woman floated gently, her skin like flawless white marble. She flapped her pure white wings, and in her hand, a horn pulsed with a calming light.
She was the Horn Messenger—the celestial courier, the harbinger of the divine army, the bearer of messages between gods and mortals.
“Lord,” she said, bowing. “The Faldran Divine Offspring has left. He is said to be journeying to Mochulia, seeking King Bahamut’s palace.”
“I know,” came the calm, emotionless reply. “Go, complete your quest.”
From the towering citadel, a figure stood—three meters tall, silver-skinned, with dark purple eyes. Genderless, majestic.
He wore a flowing lavender robe, dusted with starlight, and his massive wings—covered in soft white feathers—gave him an air of serene elegance. In his right hand, he gripped a longsword crackling with lightning. At his waist, a gleaming silver horn rested.
This was Barachiel, the Lord of Silver Heaven, commander of the Messenger faction, leader of the horn bearers, and protector of mortal messengers.
One of the Seven Glorious.
Immortal, nearly divine.
If slain, he would unleash a sacred pulse—marking the killer with an eternal brand, visible to all lawful, good beings across realms.
And within Lunia, where Heaven’s Mountain had granted him recognition, Barachiel’s power rivaled that of a faint divinity.
“Kai Xiusu Claudew Noirikexius…” Barachiel murmured.
He knew the name.
As a messenger between heavens and realms, he had heard of this rising figure—once a shadow, now a storm.
The Emperor of the Empire of Ashen. The Red Dragon who rose like a comet, shaking the fate of the Feiansuo Continent.
He had defeated Bahamut’s favored, consumed the Pasha of the Fire Giant Empire, and slain an Abyssal Lord who had descended into the Material Realm.
To the Aetherian Divine Races, Kai Xiusu was a dangerous force. Yet… perhaps not beyond redemption.
Barachiel opened his left palm. A lifelike image of the Red Dragon appeared—fierce, glowing, radiating hunger and wrath.
“Greed. Violence. Never satisfied. Just beginning to build his nation… and already craving expansion, plunder, conquest. He still cannot suppress the innate nature of the Red Dragon.”
He clenched his fist.
“Then I shall teach him—the true meaning of Justice and Order.”
“Boom!”
Barachiel raised his lightning-encrusted sword, and a thunderclap split the sky. The bolt struck the heavens, illuminating the entire Silver Sea like day.
All celestial beings nearby lifted their heads. Their gazes turned upward, solemn and alert.
The Seven Glorious would soon lead their celestial armies into war.
They knew—any moment, they might be called to fight.
(End of Chapter)
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