Chapter 217: Preparations

It was time.

Aiden felt it in the marrow of his bones, in the faint electric tremor beneath his skin, in the way the night sky seemed to pulse around him as though the world itself recognized the shift.

Too many unexpected events were unfolding too quickly. Threads he had intended to pull gently were now twisting, tangling, accelerating. The plot—

his

plot—was turning faster than he could track, yet not fast enough for what he needed.

He needed to push harder. Push through. Use everything he had.

Even the things he wished he didn’t.

The moon hung high and sharp above them, a thin silver blade cutting through the clouds. The air was cold and brittle, biting with the scent of frost and distant static.

Catherine flew holding Aiden, her draconic armor glinting faint gold under the moonlight, her wings leaving trails of shimmering mana that bled into the darkness like strokes of light on black canvas.

They cut through the night sky in silence, their flight swift and purposeful. Aiden’s gaze stayed fixed forward, the wind whipping his hair back, the pressure of altitude tightening his chest. The higher they flew, the clearer everything became—stars sharp, air sharp, intentions sharper.

When they finally slowed, descending toward the ragged precipice of the Sky Dungeon’s entrance, Catherine’s brows furrowed. The jagged spires of floating stone cast long shadows over them.

The dungeon pulsed faintly, the air saturated with a strange pressure—like the atmosphere just before lightning strikes. A low hum vibrated through the cliffs, as though the dungeon itself were breathing.

Aiden landed first, boots crunching on the crystalline rubble that littered the ground. Catherine touched down a moment later, wings folding neatly behind her. Her hand remained near her sword, the tension in her stance impossible to hide.

"Why are we here?" she asked, voice low, cautious. "This place... this is where the abomination came from."

Aiden only answered with a quiet exhale, the faintest fog forming in the cold night air.

"For materials," he said. "Things we’ll need for what I’m going to do."

She blinked, eyes narrowing.

"And what exactly

are

you going to do?"

Aiden didn’t answer.

Not immediately.

The silence stretched—and in that silence, the dungeon breathed again, a slow, resonant pulse echoing through the stones beneath their feet. Catherine’s grip on her sword tightened. Every instinct in her armor-clad body urged her to stay alert.

A whisper of movement stirred the shadows.

A presence—familiar to Aiden but sharp as a blade to Catherine—unfolded from the darkness beyond the dungeon mouth. The stone around them vibrated with the soft, rhythmic thrum of approaching steps.

Catherine instantly lifted her blade.

"Who’s there!?"

Aiden lifted his hand in a calm, controlled gesture.

"Relax," he murmured. "He’s.. my partner."

Catherine froze.

Partner?

Nothing in that word matched the dread uncoiling from the shadows.

Then the figure stepped into the moonlight.

And Catherine’s breath went cold.

The one Aiden called partner...

was the monster she had fought.

The creature that had burst from the dungeon.

The one who had destroyed the manor.

The abomination—

Aros.

But this was not the same beast that had torn through stone and flesh weeks ago. Aros’s form had changed—evolved. His armor, once jagged and scaled like a dragon forged in darkness, now lay thinner, almost refined, like tempered obsidian shaped into a more humanoid silhouette.

His elven features had sharpened into something eerily beautiful and dangerously peaceful. His presence was still immense, still monstrous—but now wrapped in the illusion of calm.

He smiled.

A slow, serpentine curl of the lips.

"So," Aros drawled, dragging his gaze over Catherine with a strange curiosity, "you brought a guest this time, Aiden."

"Indeed," Aiden replied, voice steady. "It’s time."

Aros’s dark eyes gleamed with something too ancient to name.

"Time?" he echoed. "So the maneuver begins?"

Catherine wanted to answer. Wanted to snap, demand, challenge. Her hand twitched on her sword, but she didn’t step forward. Her trust in Aiden held her back, tethered her, forced her to swallow the sharp instinct to attack.

Instead, she studied Aros with a cold, conflicted tightness in her chest. Hatred simmered beneath her ribs. She couldn’t forget the mansion’s rubble, the screams, the infernal surge of power that had nearly leveled her home. And yet... she remained behind Aiden.

Because if Aiden said partner, then Catherine had to trust the man she had already followed through blood, memory, and truth.

Aros tilted his head, wings folding neatly behind him.

"So it begins," he said. "The maneuver you described. I was right not to kill you.... Every prediction you made has unfolded—one by one. Even the unrest."

His tone shifted, becoming low and edged.

"The elves, the dwarves, the arcanes... every species within the dungeons prepares. All because of the tremors beginning in your empire."

Aiden shrugged, almost smug.

"I told you so."

Aros snorted—a deep, vibrating sound.

Then he tossed Aiden a hefty black bag.

It landed with a thud heavy enough to shake dust from the dungeon walls.

Inside the bag—Aiden already knew—were materials. Rare. Forbidden. Precious.

A to SSS-grade items.

Ruin-filled crystals.

Bound herbs.

Catalysts.

Materials that could alter fate if used correctly.

Materials no human guild could acquire openly.

Aiden crouched, opening the bag.

The crimson glow of ancient ruins reflected in Catherine’s widened eyes.

Aros stepped forward, placing a hand on Aiden’s shoulder.

Aiden’s bones creaked audibly under the grip.

"Aiden," Aros said, voice dropping, darkening. "I don’t care what else happens. I want the elves gone. Extinct.... Whatever the cost."

Aiden scoffed, brushing off the creature’s hand with a casual flick—even as pain shot through his shoulder.

"I’m a man of promise," he said. "You’ll get your downfall of elves."

Aros nodded once, expression shifting to something unreadable. Then his wings unfurled, massive and obsidian, catching the moonlight in jagged streaks. He launched into the air, flying back toward the yawning entrance of the Sky Dungeon.

The wind of his departure whipped Catherine’s hair back.

For a long moment, only silence remained.

Then Catherine stepped forward.

"What," she asked sharply, "the hell was that? And what’s in the bag?"

Aiden reached inside, pulling out a crystal.

A blood-red crystal, etched with ruins that pulsed faintly like a living heartbeat.

"This," he said, "is a blood rune."

Catherine inhaled sharply.

"Blood... rune?"

"Used only by master blood manipulators," Aiden continued. "It increases the efficiency of blood magic."

Catherine blinked, and then realization crashed through her expression.

"Aiden... your incubus abilities... they’re all tied to your blood. Your charm. Your dream-weaving. Your—"

"Yes," Aiden said simply.

She stared at the crystal—at him—her pulse quickening.

"What are you going to use it for?"

Aiden smiled.

Not cruel. Not warm. Not deceptive.

Just... certain.

"For politics," he said. "For the coming political warfare."

He closed the bag.

"And for ensuring my house reigns on top."

.

.

.

The next day.

The atmosphere in the manor was heavy—stretched thin like a thread pulled too tight. Morning sunlight leaked through the windows, soft and golden, but it failed to warm the tension lingering in every corner. The air felt brittle, as though a single wrong breath might cause it to splinter.

Flora and Luna stood in the foyer, staring down at the letters before them. Their faces held a mixture of confusion and dread. Neither spoke. Neither dared to.

And then, slowly—

Recognition.

But not the comforting kind.

The seal was unmistakable.

The handwriting was not.

Flora’s breath caught, sharp and audible in the quiet hall.

"This... this isn’t Father’s handwriting."

Her voice was small, too small for a woman who had endured so much. She lifted the parchment closer to the window, letting the thin light touch its edges. Her golden pinched together, a tiny tremor visible at the corner of her mouth.

She looked again, closer, squinting. "But the seal... it’s the Leonidus crest. Perfect down to the wax pressure." Her thumb grazed the imprint, feeling the grooves she had known since childhood. "Exactly right. Even the ridges..."

Luna shifted beside her, swallowing hard. Her usual cheer had evaporated, replaced with a silent, desperate hope that this was all some kind of mistake. She clutched her own letter tighter, nails digging into the paper.

Aiden stood behind them, silent.

He didn’t need to inspect it.

He already knew.

Something cold slithered down his spine—dread, certainty, and the memory of Catherine’s father’s warning blending into one sickening pulse. It felt like icy fingers brushing the inside of his ribs, squeezing, reminding him of the stakes he had dragged into motion.

He murmured, barely above a whisper.

"Your father lord Augustus... he might not be... okay."

The words sat in the air like a drop of ink bleeding into water—expanding, staining everything.

Sabrina stepped forward abruptly, the sharp echo of her heel slapping against the marble breaking the silence. Anger and anxiety warred in her eyes, searing and frantic.

"What do you mean?" she demanded. "Explain. Now."

Aiden inhaled slowly through his nose, then exhaled even slower, grounding the swirl of thoughts threatening to spill out.

"The same reason both you and Catherine were summoned..." he said.

Sabrina stilled. The motion was so sudden it was as though someone had clipped her strings. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged.

Flora’s fingers trembled on the letter.

Luna bit her lip, worry clouding her usually bright gaze. Her shoulders curled inward, as though she wished she could shrink from the truth before it fully revealed itself.

Aiden looked at all of them. He made sure to meet each gaze, steadying them with the calm he himself didn’t fully feel.

"The capital," he said. "Everything in this empire originates from there. All power. All decisions. And now... everything is unfolding, like I told."

His voice wasn’t loud, but it filled the hall completely.

The silence that followed was suffocating—thick, heavy, charged. Tension pooled in the air like storm clouds gathering before a downpour. Even the maids felt it; none dared pass through the foyer, choosing instead to drift like shadows along the outer corridors.

"Aiden," Flora said quietly, the tremor in her voice betraying her fear, "should we go?"

"Yes," Aiden answered. "All of you should go. Flora. Luna. Sabrina. Catherine. Even Tanya and Akidna."

Seven pairs of eyes turned to him, each filled with a slightly different shade of apprehension.

"And you?" Catherine murmured. She stood near the base of the stairs, half-cloaked in shadow, her posture tense. Her hand lingered near her chest, as if bracing for an answer she already suspected.

Aiden smiled.

The expression was soft at first—gentle, reassuring—but underneath it, something sharper flickered. Determination. Calculation. Steeled resolve.

He would come, yes.

But not yet.

"Soon," he said softly. "I have unfinished duties."

He lifted his gaze, letting it drift briefly toward the grand window overlooking the courtyard. The morning wind ruffled the banners, sending a muted fluttering into the hall. A reminder that outside their walls, the world was already shifting.

He looked down at the parchment in his hand—the letter sealed with the sigil of the High Church. The paper smelled faintly of incense and sanctified wax. The writing was elegant, ceremonial. Each stroke too perfect to be anything but intentional. Script meant not merely to inform, but to bind.

To the Prophet, Lucifer.

The title itself seemed to hum faintly, like the whisper of a thousand prayers forced through a crack in reality.

The Pope summons you personally to the High Church.

Aiden’s fingers tightened around it. The parchment bent, creasing under the pressure of his grip.

It was time...

It was time, he would take over half the church.

The thought was not arrogance—it was certainty. A cold, polished truth he had been shaping for weeks. Months. Perhaps longer, if he counted the echoes of the plot he had already crushed underfoot.

His smile sharpened, predatory, controlled.

Pieces were falling into place.

Too quickly.

Too perfectly.

Too dangerously.

And yet—he felt no fear.