Across the vast lands of Elyrain, only four beings are currently said to have stepped into the Second Stage of the Domain Realm (Domain Paragon).
They were not mere rulers or conquerors—they were forces of nature, sovereigns whose very existence bent the laws of the world around them.
They were the monarchs of an age, the pillars upon which the continent's fate balanced.
They were known, in reverent whispers and fearful prayers, as the Four Thrones of Elyrain.
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Far to the west, beyond the borders of Voltaire and Infris, rose the Empire of Gaia—a realm carved from mountains and wrapped in forests older than recorded history. The capital, Gaias, shimmered under the noonday sun, its marble towers stretching skyward like the hands of giants.
Inside the grand palace, Emperor Ether Gaia sat upon a throne hewn from the heart of a mountain. His frame was vast, his presence steady and immovable—like the earth itself. Ministers crowded the hall before him, their anxious voices echoing off the stone walls as they delivered grim tidings.
"Your Majesty," one of them began, his tone unsteady, "the Terra King's Egg has resurfaced. Scouts say both Voltaire and Infris are mobilizing. Shall we… remain idle?"
For a moment, only silence answered. Then Ether Gaia's deep voice rolled through the hall, calm yet resonant—like thunder rumbling beneath the ground.
"So," he said slowly, the faintest curve of amusement touching his lips, "even the heavens seek to test the balance of power."
He rose, the weight of his presence pressing down upon everyone in the chamber. Even the air seemed to grow heavier, bending beneath his will.
"Then let it be known," he declared, his eyes sharp as obsidian, "that Gaia does not watch the world burn from afar. We are the world's foundation. Sound the horns. Assemble the legions. I shall lead the march myself. Let Elyrain tremble beneath the unshakable will of Gaia."
The ground itself seemed to quake in answer as the ministers fell to one knee, their voices rising in a single, thunderous cry.
The Earth Fortress was moving.
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Meanwhile, far to the north, the Empire of Frost gleamed like a kingdom of crystal beneath a pale sky. The capital, Icelane, sparkled in the light—its towers of white stone and glass rising like frozen flames. Inside its grandest hall, silver banners swayed gently as Emperor Ivan Frost lounged on his throne with an amused smirk.
"So…" he murmured, voice smooth as chilled wine, "the mighty emperors of Elyrain are baring their fangs over an egg?"
His laughter was soft, almost charming—but the ministers who heard it felt the blood drain from their faces. They knew that laugh. It meant the emperor was entertained.
And when Ivan Frost was entertained, people died.
"Very well," he continued, rising to his feet with predatory grace. The temperature in the hall seemed to plummet. "If the others are marching to claim this prize, why should Frost remain still?"
His gaze swept the room—sharp, glacial, merciless.
"Summon the banners," he commanded. "Gather the knights. The world has grown complacent… it's time they remember why they called me the White Devil."
The hall fell silent, but not from fear. It was reverence—cold, lethal reverence. For every soul in Icelane knew what came next would stain the snow red.
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And so, the balance shattered.
What began as a border conflict between Voltaire and Infris had spread into something far greater.
The four titans of Elyrain had risen from their thrones.
Alaric Voltaire, the Golden Weaver.
Rayling Infris, the Azure Flame Fiend.
Ether Gaia, the Earth Fortress.
Ivan Frost, the White Devil.
Each a monarch. Each a calamity. Each a god of war in their own right.
And now, all four had turned their gaze toward a single prize—
The Terra King's Egg.
The drums of war no longer signaled a battle.
They heralded a cataclysm.
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