The golden throne room of Solara bustled with political chatter and the occasional sound of papers shuffling. At the center, Velsun, ruler of Solara and True Dragon of the Sun, sat on his throne—composed, but visibly bored.
In front of him, Belmor, the kingdom's ever-ambitious Minister of Trade, was once again rambling on about taxes and tariffs.
"…And if we adjust the export tax on rare-tier ores, we can see a treasury growth of approximately 3.2% by the next quarter, factoring in northern guild productivity and—"
"Belmor," Darius, Prime Minister and former King of Solara, interrupted with a sigh, "you've brought this proposal up three times already this week. We are not turning Solara into a market stall."
Darius stood proudly beside the throne, arms crossed. Despite stepping down, his authority was unquestionable, and he still treated council meetings like military strategy sessions.
To Velsun's other side stood Zalario, the ever-composed Primordial Angel. With his black eyes sharp and unwavering, he rarely spoke unless necessary—but missed nothing. Close by, Karlos, Velsun's Awakened Demon Lord and personal butler, stood with a relaxed air, hands folded behind his back and a smirk always tugging at his lips.
Then the atmosphere shifted.
The great doors of the hall slammed open as Seris Halden, head of Solara's border defenses, rushed inside. She moved fast and without ceremony—something that never happened unless the situation was dire.
"Lord Velsun!" she called, breathless but controlled. "Forgive the interruption, but something urgent has occurred."
The room stilled. Velsun straightened slightly, his expression calm but alert.
"What is it, Halden?" he asked.
Halden stepped forward, boots echoing against polished marble. "Several kingdoms are falling—collapsing within hours. Reports are coming in from all over. The cause seems to be a powerful daemon summoned from the underworld. He's destroying nations one by one."
She paused, then continued, "Our spies claim he isn't alone. He has two subordinates—female."
Velsun's gaze sharpened slightly. "Can you describe them?"
"Yes, my lord. The leader has red hair. The other two are women—one with green hair and the other with blue." Her tone was grave.
In the quiet that followed, a voice echoed inside Velsun's mind—dry and casual, but unmistakable.
"Lad," said Mimir, his ultimate skill, "sounds like the Primordials are on the loose. Lovely. Guess the world's officially in trouble again."
Velsun said nothing aloud but nodded slightly to himself.
Karlos, having listened in full, suddenly stepped forward with a serious gleam in his eye—though the corner of his mouth twitched with excitement.
"Lord Velsun," he said, "that description matches three of the Primordial Daemons—Red, Blue, and Green. Three of them. Together. That's never happened before."
He rolled his shoulders, like he'd been waiting for a fight.
"Let me go. I'll take Zalario and Reinhart with me. We're more than enough to handle them."
Then, with that trademark smirk, he added, "Besides, Lord Veldora's also nearby. Just in case someone needs backup—not that we'll need any, of course… though maybe Reinhart will."
From across the chamber, Reinhart, Solara's finest swordsman, immediately snapped, "Shut up, you damned daemon! I don't need backup! I can handle one of them just fine on my own!"
Karlos chuckled under his breath. "Yeah, yeah. We'll see."
Despite the humor, tension lingered in the air like a storm waiting to break. The balance of the world had shifted. Three Primordials had descended upon the surface world, and kingdoms were already crumbling.
War was coming.
The room remained quiet after the last exchange. All eyes turned to Velsun, who was calm yet firm—carrying the weight of command.
"**Reinhart, Zalario, Karlos—**you three may go," Velsun said, his eyes sharp. "Track them. Observe if needed. But if a battle breaks out…" he paused, letting his aura subtly rise, "…and if things go out of hand, call me."
He narrowed his gaze. "I'll come personally."
The message was clear: they had his trust—but he would not let the Primordials roam unchecked.
Zalario gave a silent nod.
Karlos smirked, placing a fist to his chest. "We won't let you down. Lord Velsun."
Reinhart cracked his knuckles, eyes gleaming with determination. "We'll handle it. Even if they're Primordials, we're not exactly lightweights either."
Karlos threw him a sideways grin. "Aw, look at you trying to sound cool. Don't trip over yourself when one of them starts monologuing."
Reinhart rolled his eyes. "Shut up."
"No, you shut up."
"Enough," Zalario said flatly, though there was the faintest twitch of amusement at the edge of his mouth.
Velsun exhaled softly, watching the three of them with a mix of pride and focus. He trusted them. But he also knew the truth—Guy, Rain, and Misery weren't just any enemies.
This wasn't a minor threat.
"Go," he said.
With a flicker of teleportation magic, the three vanished from the throne room—off to intercept the storm that had just begun shaking the world.
And Velsun sat back down slowly, resting his chin on one hand.
"So it begins," Mimir murmured in his mind, his tone quieter than usual.
And Velsun just watched the light from the sun above him—knowing shadows were rising fast.
As the magical traces of Zalario, Karlos, and Reinhart vanished into the ether, silence fell upon the throne room once again.
Velsun leaned back slightly, resting an elbow on the armrest and bringing two fingers to his temple. His golden eyes narrowed as he shifted the conversation inward—not to anyone around him, but to the ancient, sarcastic voice residing within.
"So, Mimir… What do you think of our chances?" "We've got Zalario, a fellow Primordial. I believe he can handle one of them. Karlos too—he's no ordinary daemon anymore. He's awakened as a True Demon Lord and mutated into a Daemon Emperor. That puts him above regular Daemon Lords—even if he's not a Devil Lord like the Primordials." "And then there's Reinhart. He's still growing… But he's not weak either. The General of Solara. I had him blessed by Ramiris and the Greater Light Spirits. He's already a Chosen Hero... though he hasn't reached his true awakening yet."
There was a brief pause.
And then, as expected, Mimir spoke up in that dry, ageless tone of his—laced with wit, but sharp beneath the humor.
"Tch. You're assembling a fine lineup for sure, lad. Zalario is solid. Karlos is unstable but brutal. Reinhart's the wild card."
"But let's be honest here. You're dealing with three Primordial Daemons, one of whom—Guy—just went from Archdaemon to Devil Lord in a single breath. That kind of leap is unheard of. Add in Rain and Misery, both powerful enough to rule continents on their own…"
"They're not the kind of enemies that go down from strength alone. These three have lived since the beginning of time."
Velsun frowned slightly but said nothing aloud.
"Now," Mimir continued, "Zalario can hold his ground, yes. Karlos too, thanks to that freakish mutation of his—Daemon Emperor, huh? Very rare evolution. He's basically pushing the ceiling of daemonkind without being a Primordial."
"But Reinhart?"
"You've given him all the tools—a hero's soul, powerful blessings, a proper title. But the truth is… until he awakens as a True Hero, he's fighting uphill. The kind of uphill where the hill punches back."
A slight smirk tugged at the corner of Velsun's lips. Mimir's honesty was brutal—but never inaccurate.
"Still," Mimir added, a bit more softly, "don't write him off. You've seen it yourself—some of the greatest powers are born mid-battle. Pressure breaks the weak… but for some, it's what forges them."
Velsun finally sat upright again, exhaling slowly as the light from the throne room windows cast long shadows across the floor.
The game was set. The pieces were moving.
And though he had sent three of his best… he was under no illusion that this was a guaranteed win.
If anything, it was the beginning of a war only the strongest could survive.
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