Jasper and James walked side by side through the bustling streets of Switzerland, the late afternoon sun casting sharp reflections off the glass buildings and polished railings. Jasper's hand rested casually on the hilt of his freshly-forged katana, the weight still unfamiliar but oddly comforting. It had only been a few days, but it already felt like a part of him. He glanced around at the city, overwhelmed by how alive it was—cars humming by, people chattering on phones, laughter from café tables spilling out onto the sidewalks. He didn't remember the last time he'd seen this much life all at once.
Meanwhile, James didn't share the sentiment. Every time a human came within even a few meters, his gaze sharpened like a dagger, eyes burning with quiet disdain. His posture stayed rigid, calculated—like he was bracing for an attack that hadn't come yet. When a woman accidentally bumped her shoulder into him, he didn't flinch, just slowly turned his head toward her with the kind of glare that made her stammer an apology and hurry off without looking back.
Jasper watched the whole exchange, eyebrows raised. "You're kind of terrifying," he muttered, mostly to himself. But there was no teasing edge this time. He couldn't really judge James for it—not when the man had done everything to get him this far. The forge. The power. The sword. The second chance.
And now, this—escorting him to a world government meeting, of all things. To talk about Menystria. The floating city carved into a mountain, home of gods and ghosts, now forced to play politics with the mortals down below. What could go wrong?
James kept walking, his stride long and purposeful, not slowing for anything or anyone. Jasper, on the other hand, was beginning to lag behind—his gaze locked on a cozy café tucked between two glass buildings. Warm lights, clinking glasses, the smell of fresh bread and seared meat wafting out through the open door. His stomach growled loud enough that he flinched.
James stopped a few steps ahead, exhaling through his nose. "You're staring like a starving dog. Do you want to eat?"
Jasper nodded so fast it was almost embarrassing.
Without a word, James turned and stepped inside the café. Jasper followed close, trying not to act like the scent alone was enough to make him melt. It was clean, quiet, filled with the warm murmur of conversations and clattering utensils. A place that felt impossibly distant from volcanos and godforges.
James reached into his coat, pulling out a small, worn leather pouch. From it, he dropped a few coins onto the counter—one silver, one gold, and two dull bronze.
Jasper leaned closer, eyebrows raised. "Wait, what kind of money is that?"
James didn't even look at him. "Stains. Symbols. Marks. Sigils. Four-tier system. You've been living under rocks, so I'll spell it out."
He held up one of the small bronze coins between two fingers. "This is a Stain. Lowest tier. You use this when you're desperate or poor. Ten of these make a Symbol—silver coin. That's standard for meals, lodging, cheap tools."
Jasper blinked. "Okay… and that gold one?"
"A Mark. Five Symbols to one Mark. You want armor, property, blacksmith work—that's what you use."
He dropped the last coin into his palm—a shimmering white piece, gleaming faintly even in the café's dim light.
"And this is a Sigil," James said, quieter now. "Five Marks to one Sigil. Rare. You don't flash this unless you mean business. These buy oaths, relics, favors from the divine. Or silence."
Jasper let out a low whistle. "And here I thought the economy was complicated before I met actual gods."
James glanced at him, dropping the coins onto the counter again. "It is. But at least here, value comes from the gods who built it… not the kings pretending they matter."
Jasper grinned. "So what's lunch cost?"
James nodded toward the bronze coin. "Couple Stains."
Jasper raised an eyebrow. "Guess we're the desperate kind, huh?"
James didn't answer. But he paid in exact change. Of course he did.
Jasper stepped up to the counter, eyes darting across the menu like he was solving a crisis. After a short, intensely focused pause, he finally pointed. "Chocolate lava cake. And tea. Strong."
The server nodded, rang it up, and handed him a small receipt-like tag. Jasper took it with almost reverent care before heading outside, plopping down on a chair just outside the café under the shade of an awning. The air was crisp but not cold, the city buzzing softly in the background.
James followed him out a moment later, but didn't sit. He stood beside the table, arms crossed, one brow slightly raised—watching Jasper like he was observing a strange animal in a controlled environment.
Jasper cut into the lava cake, molten chocolate spilling out like a dark promise. He took a bite, exhaled dramatically, then looked up at James with genuine confusion.
"Wait. How the hell did you pay with Menystrian coins in the middle of Switzerland?"
James looked unfazed. "Humans built a device a few years ago. Auto-conversion. It scans the coin's weight, material, divine signature—matches it to local currency value. If it's registered, verified, and not counterfeit, the system accepts it."
Jasper blinked. "So you can just walk into any country and pay with god-money?"
"If it's real god-money, yes." James narrowed his eyes slightly. "Doesn't work for Evodil's old coins, though. Too unstable. Dangerous. And outlawed."
Jasper chuckled through a mouthful of cake. "Sounds about right."
James didn't respond. Just stood there, watching.
Judging. Quietly. As always.
After a while, Jasper leaned back in his chair, satisfied, brushing a few stray crumbs off his lap. The plate was clean, the tea long gone. He reached into his coat and pulled out a single Mark—a polished gold coin that caught the sunlight just right—and placed it on the table with an easy grin.
"For the service," he said, standing up.
James scoffed, clearly unimpressed. "You realize that's worth five meals, right?"
Jasper shrugged. "They brought me cake. Cake deserves respect."
James shook his head but didn't argue. They stepped back into the crowd, the world of honking cars, blurred conversation, and the distant echo of humanity pretending everything was fine. This time, Jasper didn't let himself get distracted. No more cafés. No more wide-eyed tourist moments. His stride matched James', steady and quiet.
James, for his part, continued glaring at every passing human like he was silently daring one to speak to him. No one did.
Eventually, the streets began to narrow, the chatter fading behind them as they moved toward a more secluded part of the city. And then they saw it.
A set of towering black metal gates stood before them, silent and still. They were surrounded by a perfect arc of white marble walls, carved with careful symbols that glinted faintly in the sun. Just inside the fence, meticulously trimmed hedges and bushes added to the illusion of peace, though Jasper could already feel the tension building behind those gates.
This wasn't a mansion. This wasn't a palace.
This was the World Government's door. And it was open.
The gates opened with a deep, mechanical groan, like the city itself was reluctant to let them in. James didn't hesitate—he stepped through immediately, his coat trailing behind him like he belonged there. Jasper, on the other hand, paused for just a second. Not out of fear, but out of tension, that strange weight behind his ribcage that came from being too close to power and not close enough to control it.
James glanced back, already irritated. "You're breathing like we're walking into a battlefield."
"We might be," Jasper muttered under his breath.
James scoffed. "Get in. You're sweating through that red shirt already."
Jasper rolled his shoulders and stepped forward, trying to gather himself. The crimson polo clung to him a bit too tightly from the heat, his black shoulder straps digging into his arms beneath the weight of the katana on his back. His pants were dark leather, sleek but worn-in just enough to move comfortably. The puffy collar around his neck—it was more for flair than protection, but it gave him presence. His curly dark hair, messy and slightly damp, hung just low enough to shadow his eyes. He didn't look like a warrior, not yet—but he didn't look like a civilian either.
He joined James at the heavy double doors. Without a word, James opened one for him.
The interior of the building was... sterile. Immaculate white stone floors, obsidian-tinted walls veined with silver, and a ceiling so high it could've swallowed a cathedral. The lighting was soft but cold, casting everything in a neutral, colorless tone. Pillars lined the hallway, each marked with the crest of a different nation. No banners. No noise. Just the click of their boots against the polished floor.
Jasper looked around as they walked deeper inside. "This feels less like a government building and more like a grave."
James nodded once. "Good. That means they did it right."
James and Jasper walked deeper into the marble corridors, each step echoing softly beneath the arching ceilings. The further they went, the quieter the building became, as if even sound had to bow before whatever decisions were made here.
Jasper, of course, was far too distracted to notice the tension.
His eyes darted from wall to wall, taking in framed documents, faded photographs, and relics sealed behind crystal panels. An old flag with burn marks along the edges. A silver dagger labeled "Treaty of Frosthollow." A painting of a man shaking hands with something definitely not human. History was bleeding through the walls here, and Jasper was soaking it in like someone walking through a museum he wasn't allowed to touch.
James kept walking, barely glancing at the displays. He paused once, seeing Jasper lean toward a parchment too closely, and sighed.
"That's from the Second Accord," he muttered. "Humans trying to legalize magic regulation. Didn't last three years. They burned their own charter out of fear."
Jasper blinked. "That's kinda cool."
"It's kind of stupid," James corrected. "They're always trying to build laws around things they don't understand."
Eventually, they reached the end of the hallway—a tall navy blue door with golden knobs, polished and perfectly centered in a marble frame. There were no guards, no emblems. Just a single plaque near the base with one word etched in silver: Council.
James stopped and turned toward Jasper. "Do you remember why we're here?"
Jasper blinked. "To… eat dessert and walk dramatically through political buildings?"
James exhaled slowly, clearly done with him. "We're here to initiate a potential cooperation with the World Government. If they agree, Menystria will be registered as a sovereign entity. Recognized. Protected."
Jasper rubbed the back of his neck. "Right. Paperwork and god politics. My favorite."
James narrowed his eyes. "This isn't a joke. If this goes well, we stop being shadows. We become something real. Something permanent."
Jasper nodded slowly, adjusting the katana on his back. "Guess we better not screw it up, huh?"
James didn't respond. He just reached forward, gripping one of the golden knobs.
And opened the door.
James stepped through the door first, posture rigid, his steps echoing like a gavel in the silence beyond. Jasper followed close behind, eyes immediately locking onto the massive, circular chamber they were now inside.
The room was vast but somehow suffocating. A long obsidian table stretched around the center like a closed loop, with a single glowing ring embedded into its surface. Around it sat nearly two dozen figures—presidents, prime ministers, monarchs, high-ranking military leaders. Each in tailored suits or ceremonial garb, the air thick with quiet power.
Directly ahead, a tall, grey-haired man with sharp cheekbones and a stoic expression tapped a pen against his notes. The nameplate in front of him read: USA – Chancellor R. Morley.To his left, a woman with a tight bun and steely eyes glanced over her silver-rimmed glasses. Russia – Director Valeriya Stroganova.Beside her sat a man with a long scar along his cheek, military ribbons across his chest. Germany – Commander Albrecht Kreutz.A few others—quiet, unreadable, marked only by the crests in front of them. Japan. South Africa. India. Brazil. United Nations.
No one spoke yet.
James walked to the two seats waiting for them near the open side of the circle. He sat without hesitation, eyes sweeping the room once, then lowering to the notes he didn't bring—but was already composing in his head.
Jasper took his own seat more slowly, his hands gripping his knees to keep from tapping nervously. He wasn't used to this. Being looked at like this. Judged like this.
Every glance felt like a spotlight. Every whisper like a threat. He wasn't sure if they saw a weapon or a child with a blade he couldn't control yet.
James leaned in slightly, voice low and even.
"Don't fidget. These people can smell weakness."
Jasper nodded once, swallowing hard, sitting straighter.
The meeting hadn't even started yet. But the war for perception already had.
A tense silence hung in the room, as if the air itself was waiting for someone to speak first. Then James leaned forward, resting his forearms lightly on the table, and spoke with the kind of certainty that made diplomats grip their pens a little tighter.
"I won't waste time," he began. "You all know why we're here."
Chancellor Morley from the USA gave the faintest nod. "To discuss the matter of the floating territory known as Menystria."
"Correct," James said. "I'm here to request its official recognition as a sovereign nation."
There were some quiet murmurs around the table. Valeriya Stroganova of Russia narrowed her eyes slightly, tilting her head. "A nation built on what used to be a crater. Floating islands with anomalous gravitational properties, hosting individuals with no documented history, population count, or economic structure."
James didn't blink. "Yet capable of sustaining life. Infrastructure has been built. Agriculture tested. Resource extraction ongoing."
"And its people?" asked Commander Kreutz of Germany, folding his hands on the table. "You're not exactly… known."
James didn't smile. "There are four of us, currently. Myself. Jasper. Noah. And Evodil."
Silence followed that name. Morley exchanged a glance with Stroganova.
"Evodil," the Chancellor repeated, slowly. "Is that the same figure rumored to be a 'shadow being' operating out of Eastern Europe a few decades ago?"
James gave the slightest nod. "He's our security director."
Jasper winced at that.
The murmurs rose slightly again, but James continued.
"You're looking at a stable structure with self-regulation, power generation, and localized trade capacity. We don't ask for aid. We ask for status. Recognition."
"And what exactly do you offer the world in return?" asked a soft voice—this one from the South African representative, a woman in a clean green coat. "We have sovereign nations with armies and centuries of culture. You have four people and floating land."
James leaned back in his chair, voice lowering slightly. "We offer isolation. We offer a neutral zone. We offer control over our powers… so long as no one tries to take that control from us."
That got their attention.
The quiet became measured. Careful.
Morley scribbled something in his notes. "And if we say no?"
Jasper glanced at James, unsure what would come next. But James didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"Then we stay where we are," he said. "But we won't stay silent."
And with that, the weight of Menystria—not as a city, but as an idea—settled on the room like a blade waiting to be drawn.
The tension didn't break—it simply shifted.
Someone scoffed. From the far end of the table, a man with thin glasses and a sharp, expressionless face leaned forward. He wore no national badge, only a steel pin shaped like an eye on his lapel.
"I'm going to be blunt," he said. "You expect us to believe that you're… gods."
Jasper blinked, sitting up straighter.
The man didn't even look at him. "I've seen the reports. The blurry footage. The so-called black holes in the Alps. Shadow anomalies. Glowing arrows splitting buildings in half. You know what else I've seen? Photoshop. Holograms. Hacked military drones. Deepfakes."
He clasped his hands in front of him. "I'm a realist. And a skeptic. Until you show me something I can quantify, I'm not calling anyone a god."
James didn't blink. "And who are you, exactly?"
The man gave a thin smile. "Dr. Emil Varos. Special Liaison of the Global Scientific Authority. I make sure the rest of the world doesn't burn itself chasing myths."
James considered that for a moment. "So you're the high priest of your own religion."
Varos raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"You worship reason like others worship divinity," James said flatly. "You believe if you can't measure something, it must not be real."
"I believe extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence."
"And you'll get it," James replied. "When you need it. That is the difference between power and proof."
Across the table, Valeriya let out a breath. "So this is your doctrine, then? Rule by implication? You bring shadows and fire and strange islands and demand a seat at the table with four names?"
James shook his head once. "We don't demand. We announce."
The silence that followed was thick.
Jasper shifted in his seat, muttering low. "Can't believe I'm the normal one here."
Only James heard him. And smirked—just a little.
Another voice joined the room—measured, accented, and unbothered.
"I find it curious," said Commander Kreutz of Germany, "that an unregistered territory with unknown population, undefined borders, and untraceable resources is asking for recognition without submitting a single document."
James didn't look at him. "We don't operate on your systems."
"That's exactly the problem," said the South African delegate, folding her arms. "Nations have structure. Laws. Currency systems we can verify—"
"We do have those," Jasper muttered.
The table turned toward him.
James glanced sideways. "Sit still."
Jasper sighed, shrinking into his chair. "Fine."
Director Stroganova tapped a pen against her tablet. "Then submit your systems for inspection. We will evaluate your infrastructure, your chain of command, your military assets—"
"No," James interrupted.
There was a pause.
"No?" she repeated, one brow lifting.
"We don't need oversight. We're not asking to be ruled. We're asking to be acknowledged."
Varos leaned back. "That sounds awfully like a cult demanding legitimacy."
James's voice dropped lower. "Then maybe it's time the world recognized that your governments aren't the only ones writing history anymore."
"Is that a threat?" asked Morley.
"It's a statement," James said flatly.
Silence followed again. Some scribbled notes. Some exchanged looks. The room was a minefield of egos waiting for a spark.
And somewhere, beyond the walls of politics and patience—
The air shifted.
Jasper stood.
It wasn't graceful. It wasn't rehearsed. But it was loud enough that his chair scraped harshly against the pristine floor, and every head turned to look at him.
James didn't even move his eyes—he just said, low and cold, "Sit down."
But Jasper didn't.
"No," he said, jaw clenched. "You all sit here acting like we're some threat just because we don't kneel. But we haven't hurt anyone. Not once. We built something—something real—while the rest of you are still fighting wars over lines on maps you didn't draw yourselves."
A few murmurs flared. Stroganova rolled her eyes. Morley glanced at one of his aides.
"You're out of your depth, kid," Commander Kreutz growled.
"I'm living in that depth," Jasper shot back. "And you know what? Menystria doesn't need your permission to exist. We didn't come to beg. We came to give you a choice—because we thought there was a chance you'd listen."
James slowly turned his head, gaze like a blade.
But Jasper kept going.
"We're not your enemies. We're just tired of being treated like freaks for surviving in a world you let rot."
"Enough," Varos snapped. "This is a diplomatic chamber. Not your soapbox."
A tense shuffle echoed from the back corner of the room.
Then another.
James turned his head slightly. "...What was—"
BOOM.
The explosion wasn't a sound—it was a scream that tore through the very air, rupturing walls, collapsing marble, and flaying flesh in an instant.
Half the council vanished in red mist. Bodies were shredded by molten stone and splinters of white-hot gold as the obsidian table snapped in half like glass. Valeriya's head exploded from the pressure before her body even moved. Kreutz was blown through the stone wall, his spine snapping as he hit the corridor beyond.
Jasper was thrown like a ragdoll across the room, slamming into a column, blood erupting from his mouth on impact. His ears rang—no, screamed—his vision blurred with red and dust and something thicker.
James hadn't moved.
A perfect circle of destruction surrounded where he stood, warhammer in hand, shadows boiling around his boots.
Flames danced along the ruined walls, licking up the banners and charring the seal of the world government black.
People weren't screaming anymore.
They were already dead.
James stepped over debris, boots crunching bone and marble alike as he made his way to Jasper's crumpled body. His expression didn't shift—not out of cruelty, but focus. The boy's chest was still rising, shallow and uneven. Burn marks ran along his arms. His left eyebrow was split. But his pulse—slow, steady—held.
Still alive.
Barely.
James crouched beside him, brushing off ash from Jasper's shirt. He grunted softly and lifted him by the shoulder, dragging him against the ruined wall and propping him into a sitting position. Jasper coughed, red leaking from the corner of his mouth, but his eyes fluttered open for a moment before drifting shut again.
"You'll live," James muttered.
He stood, dusting off his sleeves with a sharp flick, then turned and walked to the center of the ruined chamber. The once-polished floor was cracked open like a wound, blood and molten metal pooling where the obsidian table had stood. Above, the ceiling was gone entirely, vaporized by whatever weapon or force had triggered the blast.
Through the gaping hole in the roof, the sun shone down.
A perfect circle of fire, hanging over a circle of ruin.
James raised his hands slowly, almost reverently, and for a moment the sun responded—pulsing once, as if it could hear him.
"It ends now," James said, voice calm, low, and absolute. "Time to nip the rebellion in the bud."
He closed his palm.
The earth groaned.
A heat wave surged outward like a ripple from the gods' own judgment. Every scorch mark on the walls deepened. Metal fixtures began to melt. The ground itself cracked open beneath what remained of the council floor, glowing veins of magma pulsing upward.
The sun above flared, and Menystria's God of War made it known: mercy was no longer on the table.
Inside the manor carved deep into Menystria's floating stone, the light was still.
Evodil lay sprawled across his long dining table, head resting lazily on one hand, the other flipping a single poker card between his fingers—his card. The Joker. A smirking version of himself painted in minimalist ink, black-and-white with just a hint of red where the smile stretched too wide.
He stared at it like it might blink.
"'The Blank Deck'…" he muttered aloud, eyes narrowing.
He twirled the card once, letting it glide between his fingers like a coin. Then again.
"Or 'Jester's Troupe.'"
The words hung in the air, faintly echoing in the vast stone hall. The shadows near the fireplace didn't stir. The manor was always too quiet when it mattered.
Evodil tilted his head back, groaning. "Ugh. Why do I have to name it…"
The card stopped mid-spin in his fingers.
That's when he felt it.
A pulse—hot, wrong, real. Like the sun had coughed through the cracks of reality and landed on his back. His whole body stiffened as the heat pierced through the manor walls, bleeding through even the wards etched into the stone.
He leapt from the table without thinking, the chair he kicked over bursting into embers before it even hit the floor.
The poker card fluttered to the ground, landing face-up.
Joker.
Evodil cracked his neck, shadows already crawling up his arms like loyal dogs begging for command. His smirk returned—not the usual amused grin, but one thinner. Sharper.
"Guess James found his lighter again."
He vanished from the manor in a blink of shadow, headed toward the sun.
Deep within the underground district, beneath stone and crystal veins, Noah was working—not reading, not sketching diagrams—building.
The meadow was calm as ever, glowing faintly with its bioluminescent grass and strange spiral trees swaying in the still air. But in the middle of that serenity stood the outline of a half-finished structure—his project.
Noah adjusted the plank in his hands, lining it up carefully with the frame of what would soon be a proper storage house. He was tired of relying on Evodil's manor—too many of his materials ended up missing, tampered with, or "repurposed" for whatever nonsense the God of Chaos decided counted as interior design.
Across from him, Ariela moved with careful grace, gathering more cut boards he'd laid out earlier. She hummed softly—no real tune, just the sound of someone content with the moment. Every so often, she handed him tools without asking. Measured twice when he didn't say a word. A strangely peaceful presence… even if she was life incarnate, and he was about as emotionally stable as a cracked gemstone.
He muttered something under his breath as he set the glass into the frame for the first window. Almost done. Just a little—
Then it hit.
The heat.
Sudden, unnatural. So strong it bypassed depth itself—bypassed logic—and bled through the very rock around them. The air didn't just warm; it tensed, like a held breath before a scream.
Noah froze.
The glass in his hand cracked under the pressure, a thin web forming across the surface.
He didn't look at Ariela. He didn't have to.
"I had a theory this might happen," he muttered, voice low, steady. "But not this soon."
His eyes rose toward the unseen ceiling far above, toward the world that was about to change.
"I guess this is going to be a war of superiority, huh?"