The hall was older than memory itself.
Pillars carved from the bones of forgotten mountains loomed skyward, holding the ceiling like titans frozen in devotion. In the heart of that colossal chamber—the World Parliament, where the five Empires united—silence trembled under the weight of expectation.
They called this gathering the Summit of Calvizor, named after the man who once tamed gods in the form of beasts. Calvizor Xinxu, the greatest beast tamer in human history—the founder of the order known as Logue Porl Megus.
Three words from the lost Garkos language, meaning "Peace should be the first priority."
Yet as Jonathan Valence sat among the lowest seats in that darkened expanse, the air reeked not of peace… but of the storm before war.
No light touched the faces of those who gathered—only silhouettes whispered through the misted glow of soul-flames burning above. A parliament of shadows.
In the backmost row, the Foreclaim Authority sat—lords of towns and cities, minor nobles whose power governed mortal soil. Jonathan's family belonged here; it was their rightful place, their ceiling.
Above them, seated in rising tiers like the steps of a forgotten ziggurat, came the Sect Bow Authority, custodians of local sects and guilds; then the Administrative Authority, ruling provinces and empires' veins of commerce and strategy.
Higher still stood the V. Shorfian Authority, a bloodline divine and untouchable—descendants of the Shorf Ox Blood, only five families bearing that sacred ichor.
And above all, like suns above mortal dust—the Royal Core Bloods, the three divine houses that carried heroism in their lineage:
Dor.G.Tonk, the descendants of Goumor Honsen, the hero who cleaved the Sudian Tree and slaughtered the city of the damned to halt the spread of the zombie plague in Year 662.
Fang.H.Gurr, heirs of Horkel of Muregh, the nameless savior whose legend was sealed by mystery and myth.
And Howl.C.Yong, the bloodline of Cavizor Xinxu, who slew three corrupted beast gods alone and forged the unity of the five empires themselves.
At the peak, five thrones were placed. The Five Kings sat there in shadow like constellation. Their faces could not be seen, only their crowns faintly shone. Cold eyes gleamed sharply under the high ceiling.
The murmurs stopped when the Host of the Summit spoke.
He spoke with ritual precision—first honoring the five kings, then the noble heads, then finally the fallen. His tone turned grave as he reached the reason for this gathering:
"The invasion from the stars… the fall of Kamurine upon Earth."
A ripple of unease coursed through the hall. Jonathan's pulse quickened. The Kamurine, the alien scourge—beings that had descended in radiant vessels, demolishing towns, summoning impossible arenas of stone and flesh.
The host continued, recounting the devastation of Lord Vashko's Town, erased to summon an arena vast enough to swallow a kingdom. Thousands dead. The ultimatum burned into every ear—nine days to choose the Nine Warriors of Earth for the Tournament of Survival.
Then the hall erupted.
Like beasts unchained, the nobles began shouting, their polished manners devoured by panic. The sound became a chaos of clashing wills.
"Where are the world's strongest?!"
"Why hasn't the Private Society acted?"
"Where is Lucias? Why do we wait to be slaughtered!?"
It was no parliament now—it was a fish market of fear.
Jonathan could barely hear himself think. He sat small in the crowd, his teacup trembling, a bead of sweat running down his neck. He was used to being invisible—a Valence, a name that held weight only in dusty ledgers. His father had clawed their house from Foreclaim to Sect Bow Authority, but they were still small—too small to speak amid giants.
Then a sound silenced the chaos.
A knock.
Just one.
It came from the round table where the Five Kings sat.
The sound echoed like a hammer on the heart.
"Enough," said the first king—his voice cold, layered with quiet power. "To strike the Kamurine without understanding is suicide. Their weapon—the Cosmic Expropriator—absorbs mana greater than the population of Earth itself."
A chill slithered through Jonathan's bones.
Cosmic Expropriator. Even the name reeked of godhood.
Another king leaned forward, his shadow stretching long across the stone.
"We must entrust this to the Administrative Authority. They can coordinate the response—"
"No," another voice cut in, sharp as drawn steel.
"The Shorfian Authority must take command. Their sacred artifact are the only tools that can counter alien mana. To entrust this to bureaucrats is folly. Also the "Shorfian magic" that magic is rare only they could counter those kamurine by shorfian magic"
Murmurs swelled again, bitter and fierce.
The summit was dissolving into argument once more—until the first king spoke again, his tone iron, calm, final.
"Then let the task fall to the Valence Family."
The silence that followed could have shattered mountains.
Jonathan froze. His mind blanked. He thought he misheard. But the name still hung in the air, heavy and undeniable—Valence. His family's name.
The hall exploded.
Nobles shouted in outrage; chairs screeched, robes flared.
"How dare you—!, is the king gone mad"
"A Sect Bow deciding the fate of humanity?!"
"This is treachery!"
Jonathan's cup fell, scattering his hot fog across his lap. from the heat of tea hot water, he barely felt the burn on his bare skin as if nothing touched. His heart was beating too fast like he raced a marathon just now.
His family's name had never been spoken in this hall—not once in fifty-five years of summits. Never in his father's time. Never in any time.
He wanted to vanish into the marble.
The two kings who had argued earlier stood, furious. One's voice thundered across the chamber:
"How can a Sect Bow house bear the world's fate? The Valence are untested—children in armor!"
The other added,
"This is blasphemy against the hierarchy itself!"
But the first king did not flinch.
"The invasion began in Murrchel—in Valence jurisdiction. Logically, it concerns them first. And if we are to act, we must act now, not bicker over crowns. Valence will choose the Nine Warriors."
The words fell like judgment.
The uproar continued, but the command stood like a pillar amid the storm.
Jonathan could barely breathe.
In that moment, as his trembling gaze drifted up toward the unseen thrones, a flicker of realization sparked within him—terror and pride entwined.
His family name had been chosen not as mockery, not as jest… but as burden.
Then one of the silent kings finally spoke, voice low and reluctant:
"I hate to admit it… but Valence fits the task. I've heard of Jonathan—the scholar who grades men by strength. The one who wrote The Ninety-Nine Strongest in History."
A few heads turned toward him.
Jonathan swallowed hard, cheeks burning. He hadn't thought anyone had read that book—it was meant as an academic jest, a catalog of warriors across eras. Yet here, before kings, it was treated as prophecy.
As the summit continued its slow descent into layered argument and reluctant acceptance, Jonathan Valence sat motionless.
Inside him, panic and awe warred in silence.
The black hall seemed to tilt around him—the pillars, the statues, the burning soul-lights—all shifting as if to watch him.
He was no hero, no commander. Just a scholar from a middle family, a man who believed numbers could measure might.
And yet… destiny had dragged his name into the center of the world's storm.