Lukas' feet felt heavy against the countless steps of the Magic Tower, their steady rhythm echoing faintly through the spiraling stairwell. He had walked this path countless times before—too many times to remember—but tonight seemed different. The lamplight flickered against the walls, painting long shadows that seemed to chase after him as though the Tower recognized who was climbing its steps. This place had always felt timeless to him, a sanctuary where knowledge reigned supreme, yet now every turn of the staircase seemed to remind him that even here, the march of time could not be held at bay.

At last, he reached the Upper Floors.

Few had ever been able to climb to this level and now it was silent as death itself. And it was here where the Archmage Myrren had chosen to live out her final days.

Lukas pushed open a set of tall oak doors, the hinges groaning softly as though reluctant to part. It was here where Belanor had told him he would find Myrren. Inside, the room was dimly lit by a handful of candles whose flames quivered against the drafts creeping in through the high windows. And there, on a simple bed draped in white linens, lay the very woman who had summoned him.

A single attendant sat at her side, head bowed in quiet duty. The moment Lukas entered, the attendant rose, her expression unreadable as she met his eyes. She dipped her head low in his direction before slipping from the room without a sound, leaving the chamber to its two occupants.

Lukas stood in the doorway for a long heartbeat, taking in the sight of her.

This was one of the legendary Archmages of the Magic Tower, as old as the Master of Potions himself, the chronomancer whose mastery over time had once been unrivaled. And yet here she lay, a woman who had spent her life bending the flow of time now caught helpless in its current. The Archmage's Divinity had always been aligned with the temporal flow; her magic was a mirror of eternity itself.

Perhaps it should not have come as a surprise to Lukas that it was her who carried a message from the God of Time.

But even for one so gifted, time had proven merciless.

Her body had grown frail, her hair white as new-fallen snow and her face drawn with the lines of years uncountable. Myrren had lived longer than most could ever hope and now her battle against age was nearly at its end.

The war against the Puppet King Maelis had cost her dearly, not only in strength but in vitality. The fire that had once burned so fiercely in her was dim now, sustained by stubborn will alone.

Maybe she had been holding on, defying death's encroaching hand for as long as she could.

Maybe she had been waiting for him.

Maybe she had been waiting for the one they called Lukas Drakos.

Her eyelids fluttered, the faintest of motions, and her weary eyes opened to the world once more. At first they were clouded, unfocused, as though she looked not at the present but into the echoes of past and future alike. But then recognition dawned, sharp and sudden, and a frail laugh escaped her lips.

"It's about bloodydamn time," she whispered, her voice rasping with both amusement and weariness. Her lips curled into a smile that carried both reproach and warmth. "Lukas Drakos. The Champion of Kronos graces me with his presence."

Lukas stepped closer, his shadow stretching across the bed.

Had she always known the truth, that Klein had simply been a mask he had worn to hide his identity from the rest of the world? Had she seen through the guise from the very beginning?

It felt as though time itself had paused—if only for a moment—so that he and the dying chronomancer might speak of truths long hidden.

But Lukas did not utter a single word.

The King of the Dragons only inclined his head in acknowledgment, a silent gesture that carried with it the weight of understanding.

Myrren's eyes narrowed faintly, as though she expected no less of him. She had not summoned him to exchange pleasantries. She had summoned him with a message—one that bore the authority of the very Titan who had altered his fate, the god whose power wound through every fragment of his life, the one Lukas once knew only as the Man In Green.

She brought with her a message from Kronos himself.

Her breath rattled softly in her chest as she spoke, her voice both frail and commanding. "Pretending that I did not know who you really were almost sent me to an early grave. Kronos speaks of you highly. He speaks of you in a way I have never heard him speak about a mortal before."

Myrren's gaze was sharp, and her tone carried warning rather than celebration.

"But I am here to remind you, Pallas," she continued, using the name that marked his true self, "that you cannot allow your confidence to turn into arrogance. You may have defeated Oceanus' Champion. But it has come with a terrible cost."

Lukas' eyes widened, his composure slipping for just a moment, as he realized that somehow…she knew.

Because the cost Myrren spoke of was one he bore every hour of every day.

The clash against the Hero from Another World and the overwhelming force that had nearly broken the world around them, it had taken Lukas everything to defeat the man he once called his father. Lukas had reached further, delved deeper into his power than he ever had before. And in doing so, he had shattered something vital within himself. The victory had not been without sacrifice and it was his body that had paid the price in full. His Pool of Mana, once vast and unyielding, now lay in ruins. The currents of magic within him no longer flowed—they surged uncontrollably, wild and violent, like a river that had broken its banks.

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To even wield magic itself now was no longer possible.

To simply exist was agony.

Beneath the calm mask he showed the world, Lukas endured pain that words could not do justice.

Every step he took sent knives of raw energy tearing through his veins. Every breath he drew felt as though it might be his last. He bore it without complaint, for there was no remedy, no solace, only endurance. But he knew the truth, even if he did not speak it aloud and even if he himself did not want to accept it.

This Shattered Pool would be the death of him.

Slowly and inevitably, the uncontrolled torrent of energy would strip him down, tear at his very soul until there was nothing left but remnants of the dragon he had become.

That was why Lukas had not fought alongside Rosalia and the rebellion.

It had not been cowardice, nor lack of will, but the stark reality that he could not fight.

His body had betrayed him. His strength, once the stuff of legend, was failing him.

Time itself seemed to conspire against him, each day narrowing the window he had left. It was like sand slipping through his fingers, just like sand falling to the bottom of the hourglass within Kairos Castle. He could sense the beginning of the end, just as one feels the calm before the storm.

Because of this, to Lukas, it felt like it was now or never.

He had to put an end to Daerion and his wicked ways.

In fact, it was the Kingdom of Nozar where Lukas wished to head to next but now he knew that Kronos did not agree.

"You already know, Lukas Drakos," Myrren whispered, her voice no louder than the faint flicker of the candlelight that illuminated her frail form. Her eyes, clouded with age but still glimmering with the clarity of a seer, fixed upon him with unwavering certainty. "You already know where the answers to all your questions lie. It is in Khaitish where you will find a way to heal your broken body, and it is there where you will learn what you must do for the sake of your people. For the sake of this world. Find the beast who wears the horns of your forefathers around his neck. And he will be the one to give you the cure you seek."

The words struck him with a finality that allowed no space for doubt.

Because those words, they were not hers alone.

They were from a being that possessed knowledge beyond mortal foresight. Lukas recognized the cadence of foretelling when he heard it, the echo of Kronos's will threaded through her weakening voice.

The God of Time looked upon past, present, and future as a single tapestry. The Titan knew the threads that had yet to be woven, the frayed edges that would one day unravel. And if Kronos had spoken through the Archmage Myrren, if he had praised Lukas while warning him of arrogance, then the path ahead was narrower than Lukas dared to imagine.

The King of the Dragons stood in silence, the words pressing down upon him as if the Tower itself had leaned in to hear them spoken. Lukas stared down at her, this woman who had lived her life at the edge of eternity, and though her body had withered, her presence was still commanding as ever.

Myrren had become a vessel for this very message and every syllable she uttered was sharpened by certainty.

For the briefest of moments, Lukas wondered if Kronos himself had taken her hand, had guided her tongue to speak what he must hear.

For so long he had wandered in shadow, searching for direction where none had been offered. He had questioned his place, his purpose, and why he alone had been granted this second chance. Doubt had grown in him like a sickness, more painful at times than the shattered storm of mana now running rampant within his veins. But now, here in this quiet chamber and just like he had within Kairos Castle, the God of Time had set him upon his path once more.

It did not matter if it made no sense to him now.

It did not matter if Khaitish was a land shrouded in mystery, a Kingdom as old as memory and as enigmatic as the stars.

What mattered was that Kronos had spoken. The way forward had already been revealed to him and although he had forgotten it, Lukas would follow it now; no matter what it demanded of him.

"Very well," Lukas said at last, his voice steady though his heart thundered in his chest. "Thank you, Myrren."

There was nothing else to say.

The old Archmage's lips curved into the faintest smile, one that spoke of peace.

She had done her part.

She had delivered the message entrusted to her, a final task for a chronomancer whose life had been spent threading the delicate fabric of time.

Now she could rest.

The light in her eyes softened but it did not dim. It was the look of one who had seen her duty through to the end.

Lukas turned from her bedside, each step heavy but purposeful. Behind him, the chamber grew still once more. The whisper of her breath was barely audible, but the smile lingered, etched upon her lips like the final brushstroke upon a masterpiece. She would fade in her own time, as all must, but she would do so without regrets.

And Lukas—he carried her words with him as a blade carries its edge.

It was not Nozar where Lukas needed to be, but the Kingdom of Khaitish and the land of the Beastkin.

It was there that he would find Pythia of Delphi, the one who Kronos promised would answer all the questions that even Varian's reocrds would not be able to answer. It was there that he would uncover the words that had already decided destinies long before they had come into this world. Words that Daerion had twisted to manipulate Celina, the Divine Knight, and bend her will to his own. It was there, in those lands, that Lukas would confront the truth of his existence, the reason he had been placed upon this world in the first place.

It was there where Lukas Drakos would find the Prophecy.

And so, as the door closed softly behind him, the King of the Dragons left not as one uncertain of his path, but as one who had been given purpose.

Time pressed on, relentless as ever, but now it carried Lukas toward Khaitish—and toward the fate that had awaited him all along.

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