The next few days in Four Stars Academy were silent. The students who survived didn't remember a thing about the incident, thankfully so. Kime didn't have to wipe their memories only a little manipulations here and there to concoute a memory more suitable for their minds.
As for the disappearance of their fellow trainees, the story being told was that they quit the academy after they experience in the dungeons.
The remaining classes, left for their dungeon expeditions as well, it would have proven something was wrong if they suddenly cancelled it.
Itoyea and Binturu had left for their own dungeon expedition two days ago and like the rest of their class had not returned.
Kutote was the only one tasked with the burden of the truth, he has begged Headmaster Kime not to tamper with it. He planned on using it to make sure nothing like such happened again.
Kime himself wasn't sure he would have erased it even if Kutote asked. After all, all heroes who managed to break through all limits always had their such experiences.
Instructor Keel Kun recovered fastest, he was up and running before the end of the second day. Avery and Itekan however showed little to no signs of improvement.
Especially Itekan, with his SS fractured. Kutote has been around a couple of times checking on him, but he had yet to regain consciousness.
***
At the edge of the continent.
A small nation called Brunix...
Gathered in a dark hall sat the remains of the apostles of Death. Of the original twelve apostles, Carpathia had killed six during the attack in Tamoru.
The rest now gathered to discuss their next course of action.
The second Apostle, Damien the Gold-Blooded had taken charge. As the second in command and most powerful of them all it was expected.
The eight Apostle, Ostarion the Ice-Fist asked. "What do we do now, Arch Priest Damien?"
"We have to gather our strength in silence for now-" Wesley the Dark Alpha, the Fifth Apostle said.
Till now, Damien said nothing. His hand rested on his elegantly jawed face as he pondered on the next course of action.
Thud!
A whirlpool of blood suddenly seeped through the holes and gaps in the doorframe. The blood gathered together and reformed a body. Aitken. Though he had survived, he was not complete, parts of his face were missing and he was as pale as blood could be in the presence of oxygen.
"Aitken, you lucky bastard survi—" Larriu, the laziest of the Apostles and second youngest save Aitken rejoiced till Aitken stopped him.
"Lord Noir has been sealed—" Aitken begun.
"You have a plan?" Rex the King slayer, the third Apostle asked, by now, Damien was watching him intently.
"Yes. Right now. He's been sealed. There's only one who can help us from here"
"You don't mean—" Rex started.
"Yes. I mean the god Jakari, the nephew of our Lord god, the god of the flames" Aitken said.
There was an uproar after this statement, itw as simply absurd to invoke another god in the business of mortals, especially after how badly their first invoking went. The remaining apostles roared their opinions about Aitken's plan.
"Do you think it is easy to break through the seal and reach hell! We would be inviting divine attention!" Tolkien the seventh Apostle of Death stated, the most pressing issue with Aitken's plan.
"It is possible, of we go through the sub-planes" Rex the King slayer said.
"Brother Rex! You can't possibly be thinking of this seriously" Wesley the Dark Alpha asked.
"-It isn't such a bad idea, think through it, Wesley, Lord Jakari is favoured by our God, Noir as his favorite nephews. He was one of the only gods who searched for our Lord after the war 5000 years ago," Rex stated.
"Even then-" Ostarion started to argue.
"The only issue I can find is—" Rex said looking at Damien.
"Yes—Who shall we send?" Damien finally spoke.
"I shall go." Aitken volunteered
"So will I" Larriu concoured.
"Well it is settled"
There was gnashing of teeth and mumbling but none voiced out any objections.
Within the next few days, the apostles would send their envoys to the realm of the gods. Heaven.
***
The Kingdom of Brandish...
King's Court.
Seated on a throne of gold, was the King of Brandish, Quinnson Guel. By his side, the Royal High Priest of Light, Namor.(Chat GPT elaborate on this sentence, make it more grounded in Mysticism and Grace.)
Before them stood a man who wore a purple overalls, his hair was a sandy brown and he had a rough look, as of one who had experienced the worst of life.
His name was Marsle* the mercenary. Beside him were two scientists dressed in a white overalls with the royal insignia of Brandish.
"I have found the runaway subject, A107p, he's found refuge in the territory of one of the Legends, Kime" Marsle said.
"So? The legends are the skies under the sky, I am the son of the most high god of light! We fear no one" The king, Quinnson Guel said.
Marsle frowned at this. The news of what happened at Tamoru had like most of the world been heard of. It was unwise to face a legend in his territory.
He wasn't ready to die yet.
"I have an idea, instead of simply barging into his territory let's call a Tattum-Deru" Namor said trying to be the voice of reason.
"I like that, let's do just that, let's call for a Tattum-Deru!" King Quinnson Guel smirked and spoke as if the idea of a Tattum-Deru were originally his plan.
"What, may I ask your highness, is a Tattum-Deru?" Marsle asked confused.
"It's a tournament held between the Five Hero Academies in the continent. Each tournament is deadly and a test of a Hero's courage and grit."
"Most importantly—"
"Yes. It would allow us to infiltrate Four Stars Academy!!" King Quinnson Guel said laughing. The sound of which grew louder and darker.
***
The damage done to Tamoru would was irreparable and only time could really tell if it would heal.
Cracks spidered through the once-proud city, entire districts swallowed by the earth or crumbled into dust. Rivers, once clear and pure, now ran brown with the blood of the fallen and the debris of shattered homes. Forests that once sheltered birdsong were reduced to blackened husks, and the mountains that watched over the kingdom had been splintered and scarred, their proud peaks broken like a beggar's staff.
The total number of lost lives during the incident was in the hundred of thousands and injured, in their millions. The number of those left homeless and displaced were in their millions.
The people wandered through these ruins like the living dead—eyes hollow, hands trembling as they picked through what little remained of their lives. Kings and queens, lords and ladies: all their gilded titles meant nothing in the face of such ruin. Their palaces and castles stood as mocking reminders of their impotence, spires still gleaming while the streets below drowned in ash and misery. The images captured and sent by the Knight Vael back to the kingdom, told them of the Chrisom Knights undeniable loss and made them even more aware of how desolate their efforts were and how badly they underestimated Mt. Dekka.
Yet, even in the face of such devastation, these people did what they had always done when the gods turned a deaf ear to their cries: they prayed. They lifted broken voices to cold heavens, offering up sacrifices and supplications to absent deities. Every temple was filled to bursting, the air thick with incense and the stench of desperation. Priests in blood-red robes sang hymns of salvation that never came, promising that the gods would reward those who endured.
What bitter irony it was, to see them cling to faith like children grasping at shadows. Their prayers fell like water on stone, lost in the silence of uncaring divinity. No comfort came. No sign, no miracle. Yet they wept and danced and called it hope.
The royal family—they alone were seemeingly unharmed by the devastation caused by Carpathia and the apostles. After all they had hid behind the thick walls of their fortress, coated with runes and protected by the country's best barrier casters.
They were untouched by the cold winds that swept across the wasteland outside. They held feasts of hollow grandeur, toasting to a future that would never come while the land choked on the past. Though their voices rang with false certainty, their laughter thin and fragile, a cracked porcelain mask over the horror of what they had allowed to happen.
Nobles and lords who had once squabbled over petty grievances now found themselves stripped of titles and power, unable to command even the respect of a beggar. Their riches meant nothing; the peasants they had once scorned no longer bowed to them, for all were equal now in the face of oblivion.
And still, the people sang their songs to the gods, as if the sky might split open and rain down mercy. They knelt on broken floors and whispered fervent prayers, their faith a testament to humanity's endless capacity for self-delusion. It was almost admirable—almost—how they refused to see the truth: that the gods had abandoned them, if they had ever listened at all.
But the gods did not answer. They did not weep for the thousands upon thousands of lives lost, nor for the children who would grow up in a world of ruin. They watched from their lofty thrones, or perhaps they watched not at all, for to them these mortals were but the dust beneath their feet.
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Spiritual Signature (SST)