From the moment I was chosen by the holy relic

The morning mist had not yet completely dissipated from the towers and stone bridges of Elgarden, but the avenue before the city gates was already laid out as if welcoming the return of ancient kings. Silver and blue banners fluttered high in the sky, and the morning light filtering through them seemed to slice the sky into different colors. Citizens spontaneously gathered on both sides of the street, forming a long human wall shoulder to shoulder, children held in their parents' arms, their eyes wide open as they awaited the legendary envoys from various countries.

The guards of the Kingdom of Iser stood on either side. Their long, azure robes billowed in the wind like orderly waves, and the gems atop their staffs reflected the lingering morning stars in the sky. The king's confidant, the Archmage Thorne, personally led the procession to welcome the guests one by one.

First to appear was the Norstrian delegation, their armor gleaming like burning white flames in the morning light. The knights wore banners emblazoned with lion heads and silver flames, the emblem of the Eye of Justice seemingly radiating its own light on their shields. Leading them was a middle-aged knight with sculpted features, Sir Sigmund, Eric's old superior. He rode a tall, black-maned warhorse, its hooves echoing deeply and steadily on the stone pavement.

"Eric!" Sigmund's eyes twitched slightly when he saw them standing by the city gate, but he only nodded gently with the courtesy of a knight. The occasion was too solemn for him to pat the other on the shoulder and exchange pleasantries like an old friend. However, from his tone, it was clear that he was not angry about Eric's defection. As Eric's former superior, he knew Eric's character and believed that he must have some unspeakable reason. At the same time, he was also proud that Eric had won the Thousand Faces Illusion Championship.

Closely following them were the trade envoys from Astra. Their caravan was like a flowing treasure trove: thick red carpets with gold patterns were laid on the roofs of the carriages, and the copper bells jingled crisply with the turning of the wheels. The chief envoy was a tall, slender man with graying sideburns, but whose eyes gleamed with a shrewdness beyond his years—Minister Levin. As he alighted from the carriage, he rested his hands on his jewel-encrusted cane, smiled slightly, and seemed to be silently assessing everything around him: the height of the city gates, the equipment of the soldiers, even the enthusiasm of the crowd.

When Eileen saw them, she couldn't help but frown. She knew that a businessman's words were always like a coin, with praise on one side and calculations on the other.

Then, the earth began to tremble slightly, the rhythm of heavy steel boots pounding the ground. The dwarven delegation from Ferian appeared; they were short and stocky, their shoulders draped in thick animal hides, their armor inlaid with rare ores from the deep mountains, gleaming like molten gold in a furnace. Leading them was Grom Stoneheart, brother of the Blacksmith King, his arms as thick as hammers, his beard woven with silver threads. He chuckled in the deep, husky voice typical of dwarves, “What a tower! What a city! The stone is Northern granite, isn’t it? Solid as it is, but the carving lacks a bit of flair.”

Eric suppressed a laugh. The dwarves' straightforwardness was like a blunt axe—not sharp, but it struck hard.

Finally arrived was the elven procession, silent as the mist. Their horses were the color of snow at dawn, their hooves barely audible. The elven messenger, Irfan, wore an emerald green cloak, a sliver of moonlight-like golden hair peeking out from beneath the hood. His gaze didn't linger long among the crowd, but seemed to pierce through time and space, looking towards something far more distant. Eileen felt a slight tremor in her heart; those eyes reminded her of an ancient lake deep in the forest, so clear it could reflect all the secrets of a person's heart.

As dawn broke, the thin mist at the end of the avenue was gradually dispelled. The delegations of the five great nations arrived one after another like mountains and seas, but the drums at the city gates did not cease, for this time, Iser was summoning not only the strongest kingdoms, but also the surrounding small states—those forces often overlooked in the long river of history, yet playing crucial roles in geography and trade.

The first to arrive from the surrounding small kingdoms were the cavalry of the White Rock Duchy. Their banner was a white eagle with outstretched wings, its feathers as white as snow, a long spear clutched tightly in its talons. The cavalrymen's cloaks were woven from rough goat hair, carrying the chill of the high mountains. The White Rock Duke, who led the way, was only in his thirties, yet he had a pair of eyes as sharp as an eagle's. As he passed Eric, he paused slightly, as if he wanted to speak, but in the end, he only nodded to him. This was the taciturn nature of the mountain people; it wasn't distrust, but rather that words were too few to bear their weight.

Then, a sweltering heat wafted in from the south. It was the camels and war elephants of the Red Sand Chiefdom, their heavy hooves accompanied by the crisp sound of bells and the rhythm of drums. Their clothing, woven with gold thread and colorful beads, was dazzling under the blazing sun, creating an illusion, even in the early morning of Iser, that the desert was closing in. The chief, draped in a scarlet cloak, had dark eyes as deep as a moonless night. When his gaze swept over the pendant, a barely perceptible flicker of tension crossed his eyes. Eileen keenly sensed that perhaps this small nation knew more than it appeared.

Then came the vassal states of the West Wind. They were not a single polity, but an alliance of several coastal city-states. Their fleets came from the river mouth, their masts towering, their hulls coated with preservative resin and shell powder, exuding a salty, damp sea air. The sailors carried lances and harpoons, serving as both warriors and fishermen. The leading sea marquis wore a pearl-encrusted crown and an ancient sea god's amulet at his waist, said to protect its holder from storms. As he disembarked, he smiled at Levin of Astra: "The winds of the sea are harder to control than your gold." Levin merely narrowed his eyes slightly, offering no reply.

Next came the envoys from the Kingdom of Qinglin, hailing from the wetlands and dense forests of the eastern border. The carriages were covered in fresh vines and flowers, as if they had brought the entire forest into the city. The leader was an elderly queen, her eyes reflecting the shadows of the deep forest, yet her voice was as gentle as a stream: "May the herbs we bring heal not only the body when necessary." Her words startled Eileen slightly. Was it a premonition of darkness, or had she glimpsed the future?

Finally arrived was the entourage from the Northern Free City. They lacked uniforms, displaying only heavy furs and cloaks of various colors. Their weapons were also haphazard, including battle axes, longswords, and some even carrying bows and maces. This delegation resembled a hastily assembled mercenary group, but their leader, a gray-haired female mercenary captain, possessed an aura that made the surrounding soldiers instinctively give way. Her eyes swept over the group, offering no pleasantries, only a low, somber voice: "We've heard that what we're facing this time is something even the prophets couldn't predict."

When all the delegations gathered in front of the city gate, the scene was as exciting as a tidal wave, with banners, animal horns, drums, sea breeze, fragrance of flowers, the rustling of armor and the low braying of camels all mixed together.

Thorne raised his staff high, and blue light poured down from the sky, like a door to the future slowly opening. Eric felt a sense of oppression spreading through the air. He knew that from this moment on, the fates of the five great nations and numerous smaller nations were tied together by an invisible thread, and the other end of this thread was being tightly gripped by a darkness that was awakening.

Beneath the golden dome, light poured down from the high windows like a waterfall cascading from the sky, making the huge obsidian floor in the center of the hall resemble the deep sea.

The long table for the attendees was laid out in an arc, with envoys from various countries seated on it. Nosteria and Ferian were placed next to each other, clearly a deliberate test. When Sigmund sat down, the metallic clang of his armor sounded particularly jarring in the silence; Grom Stoneheart merely snorted coldly, placing his heavy hand axe horizontally on the table, as if ready to turn the council into a battlefield at any moment.

"Gentlemen," King Iser's voice was steady and powerful, like spring water gushing from a deep well, "today, we gather here not to talk about past glories, but to discuss our future survival."

Levin of Astra smiled slightly, tapping the ground lightly with his jeweled cane: "The future is certainly important, Your Majesty, but if we don't clarify the past, who can guarantee that the future won't repeat the same mistakes? Take, for example, the ownership of the Mel Gold Mine."

The air tensed slightly at these words. Leah cursed inwardly, thinking these merchants were indeed up to no good, always looking to stir up trouble. Eric noticed Sigmund's fingers tapping lightly on the table, a habit he used to suppress his anger. Sure enough, his voice was low and restrained: "The Mel gold mine is mostly located within Nosteria, and we were the first to discover it."

Grom Stoneheart sneered, his beard trembling slightly: "Exploration? Without Ferian's mining and forging, you won't get a single grain of gold."

"A single grain of gold," Sigmund's gaze was sharp as a knife, "is not the only thing that wins on the real battlefield."

Before the two could finish speaking, the chief of the Red Sands chiefdom slammed his hand on the table: "Stop arguing, how about we all give in a little?"

Grom glared at him fiercely, which made him shrink back into his seat. In front of the five great powers, the words of the other small countries were practically meaningless.

The elven messenger Irfan spoke slowly, his voice as cold as the night wind: "The debate over the ore may last for a hundred years, but darkness only needs one winter to turn the debate into ruins."

The king's gaze swept over the crowd, like a silent blade: "That is why I summoned you here. As I said in my letter, our history has been censored, and we don't even know when it was censored. Moreover, the power of the pendant is beyond my complete control, which means that the source of the dark forces may be far deeper than we thought. If we cannot unite, we will only fall one by one."

A brief silence fell over the hall, broken only by the crackling of firewood in the distant fireplace. Eric felt a sense of oppression; everyone had their own agenda, but the king's words weighed heavily on all their calculations, bringing them to a temporary halt.

The group remained silent, even the most meddlesome envoy from the small country simply lowered his head and sipped his wine, not daring to break the silence at this moment.