The High-Human capital did not exist on Gilbert.
Not in any way that mattered.
Where the mountain once seemed unremarkable to lesser eyes, there was instead a misalignment—a place where magicules hesitated, where sound dulled, where instinct whispered elsewhere. The High-Humans had not built upward or inward.
They had stepped aside.
Their civilisation occupied the same space as Gilbert's lands, but at a different frequency of existence. A parallel stratum, phase-locked to the world yet unreachable by it. Stone, sky, and light overlapped perfectly—and never touched.
Only High-Humans could enter.
Only High-Humans could remain.
Inside that layer, the capital unfolded in impossible geometry. Structures did not rest on ground; they floated in agreement with it. Roads curved in ways that obeyed circulation rather than distance. Light came from nowhere specific, refracted through ambient magicules so dense they behaved like atmosphere.
High-Humans walking in the grand streets.
High-Human evolution had long discarded modesty as irrelevant. Their bodies were optimized—symmetry refined, proportions precise, beauty sharpened into function. Clothing followed comfort and efficiency, not concealment. Flowing fabrics clung lightly or fell away entirely where circulation demanded open surfaces.
Skin was not displayed.
It was utilized.
Women were effortlessly alluring, curves unrestrained, movement fluid and confident. Men were equally striking—clean lines, controlled strength, faces sculpted by refinement rather than labour. Attraction existed, but it held no power here. Aesthetic superiority was simply a biological outcome.
Among these extraordinary beings, Siena walked through them, rushing to the council convergence.
Siena wore pale, open-backed layers that shifted as she moved, exposing skin where magic flowed fastest along her spine and shoulders
She crossed into the Council Convergence.
The chamber was circular, suspended in a pocket of stabilized reality. No walls, no ceiling—just a continuous horizon of softly glowing ley currents, bending inward toward the councilors who stood within it.
Twelve figures. Perfect circulation. Perfect control.
"The awakening is confirmed," the First Councilor said calmly. "Mount Hulios. Fifth Great Era. As recorded."
No one reacted.
Destiny was punctual.
"The Devil King's emergence will cause magicule collapse across high-density zones," another councillor said. "This layer will experience pressure first."
"We are insulated," a third replied. "This dimension was designed to isolate us from such fluctuations."
Siena stepped forward before she could stop herself.
"Isolation doesn't mean exemption."
The council turned—not in anger, but attention.
"Our layer still draws from Gilbert's magic," Siena said. "We are not outside the system. We are just closer to its core."
She raised her hand, and an illusion bloomed—two worlds occupying the same space, one faint, one brilliant. The High-Human layer pulsed too brightly, drawing currents inward.
"We're amplifying the imbalance," she continued. "If the Devil King is correction… then we are the distortion he will prioritise."
Silence.
The First Councillor studied the image. "You're suggesting we throttle circulation to our world."
"That would mean regression," another councilor said."Voluntary inefficiency," said a third."Unthinkable."
Siena met their gazes, one by one. "So is extinction."
The First Councillor raised his hand.
"We will not diminish ourselves," he said evenly. "But we will adapt. We will ally with the Elves. Share stabilisation methods.Prepare defensive measures.".
He turned to Siena.
"You will serve as liaison for our people.An Observer and a Analyst."
Her breath caught. "I—"
"You see pressure before rupture," he said. "That makes you useful."
Siena bowed.
As the council dispersed, she remained standing at the convergence's edge, watching the twin-world illusion fade.
Two realities.One space.Both drawing from the same source.
Somewhere beyond layers and frequencies, the Devil King walked openly upon Gilbert's soil—unhidden, unphased.
And Siena, citizen of a world that existed without being seen, wondered if the greatest mistake the High-Humans had ever made was believing invisibility meant safety.
The illusion receded slowly.
Not collapsing, not shattering—just withdrawing, like a tide that had shown its depth and decided that was enough for now. The parallel layer folded back into imperceptibility, leaving the stone chamber of the temple to reassert itself around them.
The flame at the center of the room flickered once.
Then steadied.
No one spoke immediately.
Tolstoy was the first to break the silence, scratching at the back of his neck. "So," he said, tone light but not careless, "they don't live in the world. They live next to it."
The priestess inclined her head. "Yes."
Grey exhaled slowly. "That's not insulation. That's pressure avoidance."
"It worked," she said. "For a long time."
Faker's gaze hadn't left the space where the illusion of the High-Human capital had last shimmered. "Until it didn't."
The priestess glanced at him, then returned her attention to the illusion basin.
"You saw Siena," she said. "She is… different."
Grey nodded. "She noticed the imbalance early."
"And was ignored," Tolstoy added.
"Not ignored," the priestess corrected gently. "Heard—and weighed."
Faker finally turned. "That's worse."
The priestess didn't argue.
"She will serve as liaison to the Elves," she continued. "An observer. An analyst. A compromise between certainty and doubt."
Grey frowned. "That puts her directly in the path of this war."
"Yes," the priestess said quietly. "History has a habit of doing that to its perceptive ones."
Tolstoy folded his arms. "So the High-Humans choose optimisation over restraint. The Elves choose harmony over escalation. And the Devils…"
"Choose correction," the priestess finished.
Silence settled again.
Grey stared at the floor, jaw tight. "They're all convinced they're right."
"They usually are," she said. "From their own vantage."
Faker let out a breath that might have been a laugh, if it had contained any humour. "That's the problem with parallel dimensions."
Tolstoy glanced at him. "Yeah?"
"You stop feeling the friction," Faker said. "Until something strong enough ignores the boundary."
The priestess"s fingers curled slightly around the edge of the basin.
"The Devil King does not recognise layers," she said. "Only imbalance."
Grey looked up. "And faith?"
She met his gaze. "Faith was built after this war. To prevent the next."
The illusion basin darkened, reflecting nothing now.
"What you have seen," the priestess said, voice steady but heavy, "is the beginning of the First War of Reckoning. Tomorrow, we will follow its opening moves."
Tolstoy exhaled slowly. "Can't say I'm looking forward to that."
"No one ever is," she replied.
The flame flickered once more.
History had been shown, not as legend, not as spectacle, but as inevitability.
And they were still only at the beginning.