"In the heart of great empires, silence after bloodshed is never peace it is fear pretending to sleep."
Morning came late to the capital of Asterion.
The sun rose weakly through a veil of gray clouds, as if hesitant to shine upon the city that whispered of death.
By dawn, every street, every tea house, and every corner stall carried the same story the tale of what had happened in the night.
Whispers spread faster than wildfire, and fear clung to the air like mist.
Assassins.
Sixteen dead.
The Aserra Mansion breached.
The impossible had happened.
No one knew who was responsible. No one knew how. But one fact remained clear — the assassins had not only entered the Asura clan's estate, they had killed sixteen guards of the most elite military family in the kingdom.
If assassins could strike the heart of the Asura stronghold, what was safe anymore? What power was untouchable?
Merchants barred their windows early that morning, nobles sealed their estates, and even minor sects stationed their disciples on high alert. The once-bustling upper district turned silent, every face painted with the same dread — if they could fall, anyone could.
By midday, panic had taken root in the court.
The King himself had issued a decree — increased security in all sectors of the capital.
Royal patrols doubled their numbers, checkpoints appeared at every major street, and guards were stationed in front of noble residences. Even the sky patrols — cultivators mounted on spirit beasts — began circling the capital perimeter.
The capital of Asterion, once a symbol of peace and order, now looked more like a city under siege.
It was the first time in years that such fear gripped the kingdom.
But beneath that fear was something far more dangerous — suspicion.
Every faction leader, every minister, and every noble house began whispering the same question behind closed doors:
"Who would dare attack the Asura clan?"
The implications were deadly.
If someone could infiltrate and slaughter within the clan that commanded the kingdom's armies, it meant only one thing — it was not the work of common assassins. It was the work of a faction.
And if it was the work of a faction, then the fragile peace between the five great powers was already beginning to crack.
The South Faction, ruled by Lord Valen, tightened their grip on internal spies. His people whispered that the attack was a warning from the royal faction.
The North Faction, under Second Prince Noah, issued silent orders to pull out all covert agents in the city — no one knew if the killers were after them next.
The East Faction, under Third Prince Makhail, saw opportunity. "If the clans begin to turn on one another," he said to his inner circle, "then the throne will be weak — and weakness breeds ambition."
The West, ruled by the Crown Prince Kaen, now faced pressure from all sides. His father's decision to increase security was interpreted as a loss of confidence in the royal faction itself. The people began to question his ability to rule.
And then there was the Asura Clan — wounded but silent.
The general, still away at the border by royal decree, could not return. The entire mansion was under lockdown, guarded and watched by the king's soldiers themselves.
The streets whispered:
"The great General's clan has fallen."
"The Asura bloodline is in danger."
"Even their own are being hunted."
What no one knew was that the dead were not guards of loyalty — but spies, traitors, and infiltrators from the factions themselves.
Someone had found them.
Someone had purged them all.
The mystery deepened.
The fear grew.
And the entire capital waited for the first spark that would ignite war.
At the Valen Mansion, Lady Lysandra Valen, first wife of the King's Hand, stood at her window overlooking the gardens below.
The morning light traced her profile — elegant, poised, and cold.
The faint scent of jasmine filled her chamber, the same flower her late rival once adored.
Her lips curved faintly as she looked at the horizon. "It's all coming together," she whispered.
Her long fingers traced the edge of her cup, the liquid inside untouched. "The city bleeds in fear, and chaos hides under the name of order. Perfect."
Behind her, the sound of soft footsteps — her maid bowed deeply. "My lady, the news from the court says the King has sealed the capital. No one may leave without a royal token."
Lysandra smiled. "Good. It makes things easier."
The maid hesitated. "And… about the young miss, Lyra. She has not left her courtyard since yesterday."
Lysandra's eyes sharpened, her smile still perfect. "Ah yes… my dear stepdaughter."
The maid trembled slightly under her gaze. "My lady, may I ask… is it true? You intend to…?"
Lysandra turned her head slightly, the faintest hint of a cruel amusement flickering in her eyes. "Kill her? Oh, child, that word sounds so… harsh."
She set her cup down gently. "I merely wish to correct a mistake."
Her tone was calm, but her words carried ice.
Lyra's face flashed in her mind — quiet, graceful, and fragile. The daughter of the second wife, the woman Lysandra had killed long ago.
The second wife, gentle and beloved, had been her only rival for Lord Valen's affection. And though she was gone, her shadow lived on in her daughter — Lyra Valen, the "defective" one without a Chaos World.
Lysandra's voice lowered, a whisper like venom.
"I killed her mother once. But she lived on through that child. It's time I finish what I started."
She moved to her vanity table, fingers brushing the letter sealed in gold ink — the official invitation from the Crown Prince Kaen himself.
The Royal Banquet. Four days away.
Perfect timing.
"The banquet," she murmured. "Where no guards are allowed. Where even the noble houses must bow to royal protocol."
She turned to her maid, her expression sharp and decisive. "Send word to my associates in the South Faction. Tell them the preparations for Lyra's engagement are complete. We will finalize it after the banquet."
The maid bowed. "Yes, my lady."
Lysandra smiled again — soft, beautiful, and utterly merciless.
"That poor girl thinks I've found her a husband," she said, her tone dripping with mock sympathy. "Let her hope for a happy ending. Hope makes despair sweeter."
She paused by the window, gazing at the rising sun. The light caught the crimson jewels in her hairpin — the same shade as blood.
"Lord Valen still protects her," Lysandra whispered to herself. "Always has. But even he cannot defy the crown. And once she steps into the banquet hall, she'll be alone."
Her voice lowered, her eyes cold and distant.
"The second prince's plans will distract the court… the third prince's schemes will ignite suspicion… and amid all that noise — her death will go unnoticed. Just another casualty in the chaos to come."
A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Perfect symmetry. A world where the strong consume the weak, as it has always been."
Beyond the mansion walls, the city continued to hum in anxious silence.
Shadows crept along rooftops, whispers carried between couriers, and the scent of tension filled the air.
Every noble could feel it the calm before the storm.
And in the hearts of the factions, plans unfolded like blades hidden in silk.
No one knew who would rise, and who would fall.
But all understood one truth:
The banquet would not be a feast of celebration.
It would be a feast of blood.
"Power never dies with war; it only changes its owner."