Messengers rode like arrows, scrolls burned with urgent seals, and spiritual birds cut across the horizons. By nightfall, every market stall, every tea house, every palace hall in the Seven Nations buzzed with the same words:
"Kent King, the mysterious warrior with the heavenly sword, has claimed the Golden Heir's title!"
In noble estates, anxious elders murmured about the rise of a youth whose face was still hidden beneath the beast veil mask. In sects, disciples whispered as though his name itself carried thunder. In taverns, drunkards slammed cups on tables and retold the story, exaggerating how Shui Lan was strangled by flaming chains and nearly roasted alive.
And in the grand halls of power, patriarchs and matriarchs counted the risks, the alliances, and the fortunes waiting to be seized.
But Kent, the center of this storm, was not in a war council.
