**Chapter 14**
The castle walls had crumbled long ago, its towering spires reduced to scattered rubble that littered the ground like the bones of forgotten kings. Once an impregnable fortress, now every stone whispered the tale of an inevitable downfall—a story of glory swept away by the wind.
Thick fog coiled around the remnants of the walls, shrouding the place in an eerie silence, as if the castle itself pulsed with sorrow and rage. The ground was strewn with shattered stones and collapsed roof beams, while the cold wind moaned through cracks and crevices, carrying the whispers of soldiers who had fallen in endless battles.
The iron gate, once a symbol of invincibility, now hung from a single rusted hinge, creaking sharply with every gust of wind, as if groaning under the weight of memories. On the walls, ancient, weathered engravings remained—cryptic symbols of lost kingdoms and inscriptions no one could read anymore, telling of eras steeped in betrayal and blood.
In the castle courtyard, black knights stood atop their mighty steeds, their armor glinting under the dim moonlight, their faces concealed behind dark masks that revealed nothing of their identities. Behind them, a single man commanded the battlefield—not like a king upon his throne, but like a leader guiding an army ablaze with the desire for decisive victory.
Edmund, the King of Men, his long golden hair flowing like waves of gold in a dark storm, his golden eyes burning with an unquenchable fire, stood with unshaken confidence. A light beard covered his jaw, adding to his majesty and strength, as if time had forged him into a sharp spear piercing through the darkness.
This was not the king of the castle—he was the King of Men, the leader of an army of shadow knights who feared no death, leading his decisive campaign against the enigmatic Moon Sect. His gaze never left the horizon, where the Moon Sect's war vessels loomed in the evening, and on his face was a grim smile—one that heralded the beginning of a battle that would redraw the fate of this fractured world.
Inside the castle ruins, where cracked walls trapped echoes of screams and moans, the weak among humanity huddled in dark, frigid chambers. There, they were surrounded by the smoke of mysterious rituals and wreaths of dried herbs burning with faint flames, as if slowly absorbing the pain and fear from broken souls.
Those who wielded neither sword nor knight's armor raised their voices in prayer to forgotten gods, begging for protection from the curse of the coming war. Their fingers trembled as they traced ancient symbols on the ground with stones bearing lost inscriptions, their hearts filled with fear and hope.
In another corner of the castle, the powerful sorcerers stood, surrounded by black tomes brimming with ancient and bloody magic. Their eyes gleamed with an eerie light, their hands weaving intricate patterns in the air, summoning forces few could comprehend. They prepared to repel the impending attack—for while the enemy stormed the courtyard, they sought to hold back the tempests of darkness, transforming pain into power and terror into a shield to protect what remained of humanity.
The sound of unknown hymns echoed through the ruins, like a death melody heard only by those who had lost everything. In this crumbling castle, the hearts of the weak still pulsed with hope, even as the shadows deepened and war approached, consuming all without mercy.
---
In the isolated room, **Jin** stood in silence. The wall before him seemed endless, and time crawled as if it were another trial—one measured not in hours, but in heartbeats.
He turned his gaze toward the door, then closed his eyes slightly, whispering to himself in a voice so faint it was barely audible:
> *"I need to understand the laws of power here... The situation is different from everything I'm used to. Why did they tell me to stop?*
> *They're... just fourth-level beasts, nothing frightening about them. And yet... there's something unspoken.*
> *From now on, I must be more cautious... I'll ask 'Neomi' later about the true hierarchy of strength in the capital."*
Minutes passed, testing his patience rather than his skill, until the door finally opened. The clerk returned with a calm expression, though tension lurked behind her eyes:
> *"Alright... We'll begin the fifth test now."*
But before she could take another step, the silence was shattered by a sharp, unyielding voice:
> *"No."*
**Neomi** stood behind her, her eyes sharp as a blade, her tone cutting:
> *"That's enough. We're withdrawing.*
> *His strength has been assessed—there's no need for more... He surpassed the fourth level with ease.*
> *No matter what hunter's card he receives, it won't change anything. We're ending this here."*
The clerk froze, shock washing over her face as if she'd been struck without warning. She stammered, struggling to process the decision:
> *"But... Alisa... I mean, he cleared the fourth level effortlessly... Why withdraw now?"*
**Neomi** stepped closer, her voice low but laced with a cold threat:
> *"Just follow orders. We don't owe you an explanation."*
For a moment, the entire room seemed to fall silent. The clerk glanced around, searching for support—or even an explanation.
In her mind, the voices of the director and **Neomi** clashed endlessly.
But in the end... the decision was made.
Without another word, the clerk bowed slightly and began to carry out her orders.
---
The scene shifts to the **Heroes' Academy**.
Behind doors of black ivory, the grand hall of the academy is revealed—a place where majesty and dread intertwine, every corner pulsating with history written in blood and fire. The floor is polished from deep blue stone veined with gold, like the heartbeat of an ancient entity still alive. Above, black crystal chandeliers cast a faint glow, like moonlight watching a distant battlefield.
The walls are adorned with massive paintings of terrifying precision—depicting heroes fallen in celestial battles, their charred faces forever gazing inward as if bestowing a legacy... or a curse. Along the sides stand statues of knights and sorcerers from bygone eras, their armor worn, their swords embedded in stone, yet their presence still filling the hall.
The academy's students move with quiet confidence—the kind only earned by surviving the first crucible. Their robes are entirely black, threaded with crimson patterns that flow across shoulders, sleeves, and hems, as if blood itself had been stitched into the fabric. The design blends elegance and terror, royal in appearance but marking those who have endured their first trial. Some carry swords etched with incantations, while others clutch dark leather-bound books under their arms, their engravings pulsing faintly, as if alive with magic.
Beneath the high arches carved in forgotten tongues, whispers of magic and history echo. Ancient inscriptions glow on the walls, proclaiming: *"Those unburned by the first fire are unworthy of glory's flame."*
In the hanging gardens, the elite train amidst strange trees shedding violet leaves like dying hope, their practice grounds paved with the bones of an ancient dragon. Above floating stone platforms, students duel under the watchful eyes of professors hidden in shadowed balconies—their faces unseen, their judgments unheard... only enforced.
In the academy's corridors, silence reigned as if the walls themselves listened to the breaths of survivors.
Some students walked slowly toward their rooms, exhausted and hollow, their footsteps dragging behind them remnants of what they had witnessed in the trials.
In a small, dark room, **Leona** collapsed onto her bed as if fleeing everything the moment she touched the pillow.
She whispered, her voice barely escaping her lips:
> *"I... survived."*
Her eyes stared at the dimly lit ceiling, but her mind was elsewhere.
Without moving much, she glanced at the neighboring bed... it was empty.
> *"Where is she... Lisa?"*
A small question... but it carried a weight heavier than the moment could bear.
She remembered the bow—how it shattered, how **Lisa's** eyes had trembled, not from fear of death, but from something else.
> *"Will... her mother punish her? Because of the bow?"*
**Leona** fell silent, and the quiet filled the room again—but her mind refused to stop asking questions.
What happened today wasn't just a trial... It was a door opening to a deeper, far more dangerous world.
---
On the highest floor of **Mount Unity Castle** lay the private chambers of the **Queen of a Thousand**—a room unlike any other in the fortress.
Its walls were smooth, crafted from rare white stone that reflected light like a mirror, adorned with golden filigree that curved gracefully along the edges. The floor was polished rose-tinted marble, embedded with tiny crystals that shimmered with every step.
At the room's center stood an enormous bed, its frame gilded and ornate, its four posts draped with deep wine-red silk curtains. The bedding was impossibly soft, the pillows covered in dark red fabric that gleamed under candlelight.
The high ceiling was painted with simple starry skies, as if night itself had been captured within. A massive window on one side overlooked the clouds and surrounding mountains, letting in a cold breeze that carried the scent of rain.
In the left corner stood a small blackwood table, holding golden mirrors, ivory combs, and delicate perfume bottles. To the right, a slightly ajar wardrobe revealed the queen's garments—opulent silk cloaks in black, red, and gold, each telling of a battle or royal occasion.
The room was profoundly quiet—not ordinary silence, but the hush befitting a woman whom all regarded with utmost caution. A woman who sat upon her small throne near the balcony, gazing at the sky... as if contemplating something greater than the world itself.
**Alethea, the Queen of a Thousand**, embodied unforgettable beauty—as if born from the depths of the sea yet kissed by the desert sun.
Her wavy golden hair resembled calm ocean waves glimmering under moonlight, cascading softly over her shoulders like liquid gold. Her eyes, gleaming with pure gold, held depths beyond measure—windows to ancient secrets, exuding both power and mercy.
Her face bore delicate, balanced features—a broad forehead reflecting her intelligence and wisdom, with a light beard-like shadow along her jawline adding to her regal majesty. Her lips were red as blood, holding between smiles and silence both promises and secrets known only to a few.
When she walked, the wind moved through her hair as if nature itself bowed to her will, every step filling the space with an aura of magic and mystery.
---
**Lisa** stood before her mother, her exhausted eyes fixed on the ground, her hands trembling uncontrollably as if the entire world pressed down on her.
Her mother stood firm, her gaze sharp as arrows piercing **Lisa's** heart, her voice cold and cutting as frost:
> *"You wretched fool... You were always like this, and you still disappoint me."*
> She paused, then added harshly:
> *"You broke the bow... No one in the history of the 'Elite' has ever done that before.*
> *You're a failure—you can't even control your own weapon."*
> Then, as if the final word would destroy everything:
> *"If only your brother were still alive... He would have been better than you."*
The words struck **Lisa** like a thunderbolt. Something inside her shattered—broken beyond repair.
Tears welled in her eyes as her mind drifted back—to a time when she was just a child, her innocent face untouched by sorrow.
She saw her brother's smiling face—the smile that had always protected her from the dark.
> *"Little sister, I'll always protect you. I promise."*
Those words, that voice, that warmth—it all rushed back, igniting a tiny flame of tenderness and hope amidst the sea of pain.
---
**[End of Chapter 14]**
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Do you think this moment marks the beginning of Lisa's downfall… or the start of her transformation?"