(Within the Time-Stilled World, Cult Inner Territory, Skyshard City, Commoners’ POV)

The Cult was in chaos.

Nobody had expected to see Righteous Faction warships hovering above the skies of Skyshard City, for such a thing had not happened once in the past twenty years that they had lived within this sealed world.

The very appearance of those foreign vessels, their hulls glinting like dark mirrors against the eternal twilight, sent tremors of disbelief through every district, as people rushed out into the streets to witness what none had ever thought possible.

And yet, as dreadful as the sight of the enemy’s ships had been, the objects they dropped before being destroyed were far worse.

Thousands of small metallic capsules streaked down through the sky like falling stars, embedding themselves into plazas, market squares, and residential towers across the city.

Curious hands lifted them, fearful eyes gathered around, and soon the first of the recordings began to play— flickering holograms bursting to life before the stunned faces of the Cult’s people.

The scenes that followed shattered the silence.

Their Dragon, their savior, their symbol of endurance and victory, Aegon Veyr, was being paraded naked through the streets of righteous worlds.

His body was bloodied, his arms chained, his pride torn apart for the amusement of the Righteous crowds that hurled stones and laughter at him.

Each clip was worse than the last, each broadcast another knife twisting into the hearts of those who watched.

And when the final message appeared on the screen, a formal announcement of his execution sixty outside days from now, the outcry that followed shook the city itself.

"How dare they!" cried one woman, tears streaking through the soot on her cheeks. "How dare they treat our Dragon like a petty criminal!"

"They’ll pay for this!" shouted another, clutching a pendant of mana heart against his chest as if drawing strength from it. "They’ll pay with their lives!"

All throughout the city, the air burned with outrage. Commoners shouted and wept in the streets, the markets halted, the prayer halls overflowed, and the night sky filled with the echoes of their fury.

Yet beneath the chaos of the people, the soldiers of the Cult stood silent.

They had watched the same footage, felt the same rage crawl beneath their skin, yet their fury was tempered by something else— fear.

For as their minds turned from what the Righteous had done to what awaited them now, they all arrived at the same dreadful realization.

Someone would have to deliver this recording to Lord Skyshard.

And no one wanted to be that person.

The barracks fell into uneasy murmurs, the clang of armor faint under the weight of hesitation. Torches flickered against the iron walls as men exchanged anxious glances, each silently praying that command would assign the duty to someone else.

"I wonder who’s going to be the one to break the news to the Lord," one soldier said, his voice barely above a whisper as he rubbed his trembling hands together for warmth that was not there.

"Whoever it is," another replied grimly, "it’ll have to be a Monarch. Only a Monarch could withstand the Lord’s presence when he sees something like that..... for a weaker soldier will surely faint, or worse.... Die."

The others nodded in agreement, though no one spoke further. The mere thought of standing before the Shadow Dragon when he was angry was enough to make the bravest among them shiver.

Over the last twenty years, every single one of them had fought him at least once. It was a tradition within Skyshard City, a rite of passage for every soldier to face their Lord in combat.

And it was in those spars that they had all learned the same terrifying truth: the Shadow Dragon was not human.

Even when he handicapped himself, sealing most of his power and limiting his movement, his instincts were so refined and his killing intent so sharp that no one could stand before him without feeling their soul itself recoil.

When he walked through the training halls without suppressing his aura, the air seemed to warp around him, and the weaker warriors fainted on sight.

For them, he was not just a Commander. He was the most powerful being they had ever come across, with just an angry glance of his eyes enough to kill a dozen men.

"How many wins does the Lord have now?" a younger soldier asked hesitantly, his voice quivering as he tried to break the silence.

"I heard it’s over six hundred thousand," another murmured, though his tone was uncertain.

"Seven hundred twenty-three thousand," a veteran corrected, his eyes wide with reverence. "As of yesterday. My brother was one of his opponents. He said it was like fighting the universe itself, every strike he made, the Lord had already seen before he moved."

The others fell silent, the number alone too immense to comprehend.

Seven hundred twenty-three thousand victories without a single defeat.

That was the power of their Lord.

That was the monster one of them would now have to face, not in battle, but in grief and fury, when the time came to deliver the news of what had happened to the Dragon and present him with the cursed recording.

The silence in the barracks grew heavier by the minute, thick enough to choke on, as even the sound of breathing seemed too loud. No one met another’s eyes. The lamps flickered under the weight of their shared fear, and though none dared to say it aloud, every man knew that whoever carried that tape was already dead.

As the tapes continued to play across Skyshard City, casting flickering images of humiliation and chains upon the skyline, every man in that barracks prayed that someone else, anyone else, would be chosen to tell him.

For deep within their hearts, they all knew one truth.

When Leo Skyshard learned what had been done to Aegon Veyr, the universe itself would tremble in response.