The dawn broke softly over Elerion, gilding the marble rooftops of the capital with threads of gold. The distant chime of cathedral bells resonated through the morning air, echoing across the royal district as the banners of the kingdom fluttered in the wind. Inside the grand hall of the Royal Knights, rows upon rows of armored men and women stood at attention, their blades reflecting the sunlight streaming through stained glass windows.
Ragnar adjusted the crimson cloak draped across his shoulder, the emblem of the dragon sigil stitched into the fabric glinting faintly. His expression was calm, but behind his eyes, thoughts rippled like storm clouds. He had lived through battles against forces beyond mortal comprehension, yet standing here among these knights—the most loyal of Elerion—felt strangely grounding.
At the far end of the hall, a figure clad in ornate silver armor stepped forward. His very presence commanded respect; his aura was that of a warrior who had long transcended fear. Sir Lancelot, the commander of the Royal Order, raised his sword high.
"Today," his voice rang like a strike of thunder, "we celebrate the investiture of those who have proven their worth through courage, honor, and unyielding resolve!"
The hall erupted with cheers and the sound of clashing metal as the knights saluted. Lancelot turned toward Ragnar, his expression solemn yet approving.
"Ragnar" he declared, "your valor, power, skill you own have earned you the right to command. From this day forward, you shall lead the 7th Knights—those who represent the kingdom's youngest strength and future hope."
The title fell upon Ragnar like a weight of both pride and responsibility. He knelt, lowering his head as Lancelot placed the ceremonial sword upon his shoulders.
"Rise, Commander Ragnar of the 7th Knights."
The hall echoed with applause. Ragnar rose, his crimson eyes meeting Lancelot's steel-gray gaze for a brief moment of understanding. The older knight nodded slightly. He saw in Ragnar not just power, but potential—a leader tempered by hardship and guided by unseen purpose.
After the ceremony, as the crowd dispersed, Ragnar found himself standing before his new unit. Twenty individuals, each radiating arrogance, confidence, or both. They were heirs to noble houses, wielders of ancient techniques, prodigies of their age—yet they looked at him with thinly veiled curiosity.
The first to speak was a tall young man with golden hair, his armor polished to a mirror finish. "Commander, huh? I've heard your name before—Ragnar the Crimson Blade. The commoner who rose through the ranks after draw battle with Grand Commander. Quite interesting story."
Ragnar regarded him coolly. "And you are?"
"Leonhard Lucandel, son of Grand Duke Lucandel," the youth said with a smirk. "I lead the sword unit in my family's regiment. I hope your commands are as sharp as your sword."
Before Ragnar could answer, a young woman with long black hair tied neatly behind her back spoke up. Her eyes were sharp as daggers. "And I am Seraphina Baskerville. My house does not tolerate incompetence, Commander. I suggest you keep that in mind."
Ragnar's lips curved slightly, but not in amusement. "Good. I'd rather lead wolves than sheep."
For a moment, silence hung in the air. Then, a faint laugh came from the corner—another knight, leaning casually against the wall. "I like him already."
Ragnar turned toward them all. "Your duties are simple: protect the order of the capital, hunt magical beasts, and uphold the honor of Elerion. I don't care about your titles, your families, or your pride. Out there, the only thing that matters is that you don't die."
The tone in his voice left no room for argument.
When the briefing ended, Lancelot approached Ragnar privately. "They are ambitious and reckless. But I chose you because I know you can command them. They need a leader who is unshaken."
Ragnar nodded silently. "I'll handle it."
As he looked toward the city beyond the glass walls, where clouds gathered faintly in the distance, he couldn't help but think—perhaps this world was finally giving him something worth building, rather than merely surviving.
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In another world, the sound of wind whistled through the rusted watchtower of the abandoned base. Noctus adjusted the strap of his scythe and looked down at the scattered debris below.
Marcus stood behind him, arms crossed, his expression stern but weary. "You're serious about going outside?"
Noctus turned his head slightly. "I am. We can't keep hiding here forever. If we want to rebuild, we need more people. More hands, more eyes, more life."
Marcus frowned. "Out there, it's crawling with them. Not to mention the high-level ones. You've seen what happened last time."
"I also saw what I can do," Noctus replied quietly. His gaze turned toward the horizon, where smoke from burning ruins drifted lazily. "We've got power now. And power means responsibility."
Marcus hesitated. He still remembered the storm from the night before—the impossible tornado that swept through the sea of the undead, turning even the strongest mutants into dust. That wasn't human strength. It was something beyond it.
Finally, Marcus sighed. "If you insist on going, take someone from Jace's team. We need cooperation between the two groups."
Noctus didn't argue. "Then I choose Artemis."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "The samurai girl? She doesn't talk much."
"She listens," Noctus said. "That's enough."
Later, as he approached the barracks where Jace's group stayed, Artemis was already waiting outside, her katana worn on the hip. Her expression, as always, was composed—unreadable.
"You knew I'd pick you?" Noctus asked.
She looked at him, the faintest smile ghosting across her lips. "You're predictable."
He smirked. "Let's hope the world out there isn't."
The two walked side by side into the ruins, the wind howling behind them, carrying with it the ashes of the old world.
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On the Arkworld AW-03, the sea shimmered beneath the morning sun. The airship drifted calmly, slicing through clouds of mist as seagulls cried faintly above. Inside Tiama's cabin, the soft hum of the engines filled the air.
Gaiard stood by the window, his sharp eyes studying the endless horizon where the ocean met the sky. The reflection of sunlight painted a faint glow over his earthy-green hair.
"I don't know much about the world's situation," he said, his tone light but thoughtful. "So I'll just stay here for a while. Then I'll leave. What do you think?"
Tiama set down her cup of tea and looked up at him. "I'll go with you."
He blinked, caught off guard. "Huh!?"
"I'm going to Arkworld for informations," she continued calmly. "But if it's just around one area, I might have to find another way. Traveling by sea is also a good idea."
Gaiard stared at her for a moment, then let out a low chuckle. "Okay! Listen to you! But before that, let's deal with some trouble."
Tiama tilted her head slightly. "That fat guy Edward?"
"You guessed it right."
A mischievous grin crept onto Gaiard's face as he cracked his knuckles. "I've been very lenient but it seems he's reached my limit. I think it's time someone taught him that the ocean doesn't belong to one man."
Tiama smirked softly. "Then let's pay him a visit."
The two exchanged a look—a silent understanding forged not by words, but by the shared rhythm of the elemental power and emotion waves inside.
As the engines roared to life, the AW-03 turned gracefully toward the sunlit horizon, leaving behind a thin trail of mist.