The capital of the Central Kingdom had always believed itself eternal.
White stone walls reinforced by layered enchantments encircled the city like a crown. Towers engraved with holy sigils pierced the sky, each one housing arrays designed to repel calamities. The capital had survived demon incursions, monster tides, and internal rebellions. It was a symbol of stability, divine favor, and control.
That belief shattered in a single afternoon.
The sky darkened without warning, not from clouds, but from corruption.
Mana twisted and bent inward, collapsing into a singular point above the capital's outer district. Priests cried out as their detection wards overloaded. Mage towers howled as containment circles fractured under pressure they were never meant to endure.
Then space tore open.
Elsharion descended without ceremony.
There was no explosion, no dramatic impact. He simply stepped into existence, boots touching the air as if it were solid ground. The moment he arrived, the ambient mana of the capital recoiled. Holy enchantments flickered, then dimmed. Divine wards lost cohesion. It was as if reality itself rejected his presence.
Behind him emerged two more figures.
One was massive.
The four star demonic Sea King, Terakul, unfolded from the rift like a living fortress. His body resembled a colossal turtle, layers of abyssal carapace overlapping like armored plates forged from black coral and ancient steel. Each step he took crushed stone beneath him, not from weight alone, but from pressure. The mana around him thickened, dragging everything downward.
The second presence was quieter.
Sylvanus, the fallen tree sentinel, took form in silence. Once a guardian of forests, now a vessel of rot and decay. His body was tall and humanoid, bark blackened and split, veins of sickly green mana pulsing beneath the surface. Vines slithered from his limbs, dripping decay that hissed when it touched the ground. Where he stood, grass withered instantly, stone cracked, and moisture evaporated into dust.
Three monsters.
Three heralds.
The capital did not understand what was happening.
The first attack came without warning.
Elsharion raised one hand, fingers curling slightly.
A wave of corrupted mana expanded outward, invisible yet absolute. Defensive barriers shattered like glass. Holy light dimmed, then vanished. The outer districts collapsed into chaos as buildings crumbled under spatial distortion alone.
He had not cast a spell.
His presence was enough.
Terakul moved next.
The Sea King inhaled deeply, his chest expanding as runes along his shell ignited. Then he exhaled.
A tidal surge of compressed mana erupted forward, not water, but pressure made manifest. Streets folded inward. Walls imploded. Entire battalions were crushed flat against the ground, their armor warped as if struck by a god's palm. Mage units attempted to respond, their spells dispersing uselessly against Terakul's natural mana suppression.
Every defense aimed at him slowed, weakened, then failed.
Terakul's carapace absorbed the attacks without damage. Each strike only fed the demonic core embedded within his shell, reinforcing his already monstrous endurance.
Sylvanus moved last.
Roots exploded from the ground, tearing through stone foundations and sewer systems alike. They coiled around towers and dragged them down with terrifying ease. Wherever his vines spread, decay followed. Steel rusted in seconds. Flesh blackened and rotted. Healing magic failed outright, overwhelmed by corruptive mana that devoured regenerative effects.
Knights charged him.
They died screaming.
Not from wounds, but from their bodies betraying them as rot spread faster than pain.
Within minutes, the capital's outer ring had fallen.
The inner city attempted to mobilize.
Emergency signals flared across the kingdom. Crystals shattered as messages were sent to every remaining hero, sect master, and military commander.
Return immediately.
The capital is under attack.
This is not a raid.
This is annihilation.
Elsharion drifted forward, unhurried.
He allowed the defenders to see him.
Golden eyed archbishops unleashed divine lances that evaporated before reaching him. Grand magi invoked forbidden circles that collapsed under their own backlash. Aerial units were swatted from the sky by a single casual gesture, gravity reversing around Elsharion's hand.
He spoke at last.
"Behold," his voice echoed, layered with authority that shook souls. "The consequence of arrogance."
A cathedral exploded behind him, its consecrated grounds corrupted beyond recognition.
Terakul roared, the sound shaking the city's foundations. The Sea King advanced toward the central military district, each step collapsing roads and shattering fortifications. Siege weapons fired in desperation, their projectiles disintegrating upon contact with his shell.
Sylvanus reached the mage quarter.
He raised one arm.
The trees lining the grand avenue twisted violently, their roots tearing free. They fused together into a massive construct of rot and bark, which slammed down upon the district in a wave of corruption. Mana conduits ruptured. Libraries burned with green fire. Spell towers collapsed inward, devoured by decay.
The Central Kingdom's command structure broke within an hour.
Messengers died mid flight. Communication arrays failed. Panic spread faster than fire.
They called for their heroes.
But many would never return.
Some were dead.
Some were too far.
Some, upon sensing Elsharion's presence, chose not to come at all.
By the time the sun dipped toward the horizon, the capital was unrecognizable.
The palace still stood.
Elsharion had deliberately avoided it.
This was not conquest.
This was a message.
He stood atop a ruined spire, surveying the devastation. Behind him, Terakul settled into a defensive posture, his massive body forming an impassable wall of abyssal armor. Sylvanus rooted himself into the shattered earth, spreading corruption outward like a slow, inevitable tide.
The Central Kingdom burned.
Refugees fled in droves. Borders collapsed under the weight of panic. Garrisons abandoned posts to rush back, only to arrive too late.
By the time the sun dipped toward the horizon, the capital was unrecognizable.
The palace still stood.
Elsharion had deliberately avoided it.
This was not conquest. This was not a declaration of war.
This was a reminder.
A reminder that a summoner exists. That a power unlike any other stirs in the shadows. That the world cannot ignore him.
Terakul and Sylvanus remained poised, silent guardians of his message. The destruction had been measured, controlled, meant to instill awe and fear, not to topple kings.
Across the Central Kingdom, rumors spread faster than any messenger could travel. Soldiers and mages spoke in hushed tones. Nobles whispered behind closed doors. Merchants abandoned their stalls to flee the streets.
Far away, in the frozen mountains, Aldrin felt it. A subtle vibration through his bond, a slight acknowledgment from his summons. He did not smile. He did not speak.
He only exhaled.
The world had been reminded. And from this point onward, it would always remember that he exists.