Ancient Era, Year 5108.
The Firenze Empire reached its zenith under the conquest of the Twelve Knights, bringing over eighty percent of the land's nations under its rule. Every defeated monarch was forced to kneel.
The few remaining holdouts, led by the Agal Empire, formed an alliance. Only through this union could they offer any resistance to the Firenze Empire, yet even so, their territories had drastically shrunk.
The martial prowess of the Twelve Knights surpassed all imagination. They could turn illusions into reality, manifesting fantasy into substance. A standard Tier 3 combatant stood no chance against them.
This was especially true of the legendary First Knight, Julius. Agal had fought a bitter, grueling war against him for millennia, yet even now, a definitive victor had not emerged.
Agal's presence was vital to the alliance's survival. His strength was indisputable, with Julius being the only one capable of matching him. Faced with Firenze's overwhelming power, the other kings were in despair, but Agal relished it, taking joy in battling a rival like Julius.
Through cycle after cycle of war and conquest, the names of the Firenze Empire and the Twelve Knights echoed across the land for thousands of years. Fugitive Grand Travelers even carried these tales to distant continents.
As their fame grew, so did the power of the Firenze Empire and the Twelve Knights, a primary reason why the allied kings found them impossible to resist.
Five thousand years had passed.
Outside the barrier, however, a mere fifty years had gone by.
One day, a massive fleet appeared off the coast. The fierce and formidable steel dreadnoughts showcased a terrifying aesthetic of pure power.
Onboard a dreadnought, several Grand Travelers stood with cold expressions, gazing toward the distant coastline. Although many Grand Travelers had joined forces, these few seemed more like a vanguard for a much larger group.
A faint ripple radiated across the deck as a sensory-type Grand Traveler focused on a point along the sprawling shore.
"A Tier 3. Just one."
"Only one?"
"One."
The men nearby sighed in relief. If there was only a single Tier 3, they held the absolute advantage in numbers. The threat was minimal.
The odds were in their favor!
"I've heard the Tier 3 combatants on this continent are exceptionally strong, especially those known as the Twelve Knights of Firenze," the sensory-type traveler warned, refusing to be careless. "Don't underestimate them. They aren't even in the same league as a conventional Tier 3."
"Understood."
"Relax, we're not exactly pushovers ourselves."
The men beside him radiated confidence.
Down at the shoreline, a knight slowly unsheathed his longsword.
The blade hummed softly.
In that instant, the sky, the earth, the ocean, and the wind all seemed to vibrate in response. He stood there as if he were an organic extension of nature itself.
The Fourth Knight of the Firenze Empire.
Bartholomew.
Legend had it that Bartholomew suffered a devastating illness in his youth, which robbed him of his sight and hearing. Even his ability to speak was stripped away by the disease.
He was blind and deaf, and no one had ever heard his voice. Before rising to the rank of Imperial Knight, he had spent his life in absolute solitude.
Yet, it was this very brokenness that granted Bartholomew an unparalleled level of focus and perception. Combined with his beast-like natural instincts, he possessed the rare ability to listen to the "Voice of All Things."
Mei had traversed countless worlds. Aside from herself, she had only encountered two others who possessed this exceedingly rare gift.
One was No. 1 from the Zombie World.
The other was Jayce from the Star Beast World.
Possessing this power meant that, to some extent, the individual had earned the recognition of the planet's Gaia consciousness. It was far more than just "hearing" nature.
Under normal circumstances, Bartholomew's combat power was considered mid-tier among the Twelve Knights. However, the moment he tapped into the strength of the Gaia consciousness, his prowess surged beyond all imagination.
Whether he could borrow the planet's power depended entirely on whether his opponent posed a threat to the natural environment. In an extreme scenario, if an enemy intended to obliterate the planet, Bartholomew would receive the world's total, unwavering support.
At the very least, he could force a mutual annihilation.
The numerical ranking of the Knights did not strictly dictate absolute power levels. Bartholomew was ranked fourth simply because such extreme circumstances rarely occurred.
Otherwise, excluding Julius, the rest of them combined wouldn't stand a chance against him.
Of course, every Knight had their own unique specialties.
They couldn't be judged by a single standard.
Depending on the battlefield, the combat effectiveness and destructive potential of each Knight fluctuated wildly.
Bartholomew walked across the surface of the sea as if it were solid ground. The ocean radiated waves of joy and vitality.
Aboard the dreadnoughts, the travelers immediately braced themselves as if facing a Great Foe.
"Careful."
"He's coming!"
...
[ History of the Firenze Empire · The Naval Battle of Crescent Moon Bay ]
[ Fragment: On that day, enemies arrived from across the sea. Bartholomew, the Fourth Knight of the Firenze Empire, single-handedly sank the invading fleet and crushed the host of foes. The sheer scale of destruction permanently altered the local coastline, giving birth to what is now known as Crescent Moon Bay... ]
Observers watching from the shadows witnessed Bartholomew's display of power. After a swift reassessment, they abandoned their plans to venture toward the Lost Lands.
The next several hundred thousand years remained tranquil.
Perhaps the situation on other continents had grown so volatile that the powers there could no longer afford to open a new front and provoke the wrath of Firenze.
Since Firenze's primary focus was centered within the Spacetime Barrier, the Twelve Knights felt no urge to cross the oceans and expand their territory unless faced with an external threat.
For a time, an uneasy peace reigned.
...
Ancient Era, Year 5217.
The Agal Empire.
"Oh? Is this the thing?"
Agal examined the object in his hand with keen interest. It was clearly the severed arm of a statue, pure white and seemingly as mundane as any ordinary object.
"Your Majesty, we have scoured the earth and finally secured this. With its aid and your Strength, you will surely be able to stand against the Firenze Empire!"
The ministers could barely suppress their excitement. Firenze was simply too powerful; the Twelve Knights alone had swept across the entire continent.
They dared not imagine just how formidable the pathologically mysterious Empress of Firenze must be.
The mere thought was enough to drive one to despair.
But this treasure changed everything.
It was the most precious relic of Antut, the Land of Miracles from the Era of Gods and Kings, a fragment of the Mother God statue that had once gathered the faith and devotion of countless believers.
Even if it was only a severed arm, it was enough.
Legend had it that Antut was a kingdom that made both gods and kings tremble in awe. It was a perfect Utopia that countless souls yearned for, a place where every wish was granted, every desire fulfilled, and every sorrow erased, allowing one to live a life of eternal, carefree bliss.
A relic like the Mother God's arm could no longer be measured by the standards of Sacred Relics; it was a Divine Artifact.
Agal could sense that it allowed him to command all extraordinary forces as his own.
With just a slight probe, Agal felt the incomprehensibly vast power hidden within the arm, a pure, staggering surge of subjective power.
Agal was all too familiar with this power; it was the very source of his own abilities. Yet, he had never before witnessed subjective power of such crystalline purity.
The moment Agal grasped the severed arm and began to draw out its essence, an ethereal, hallowed song seemed to echo from the depths of antiquity, reverberating between the heavens and the earth.
BOOM!
A blinding, holy white light instantly swallowed everything.
Within that brilliance, Agal stood as an observer to history. He saw the Era of Gods and Kings, a time lost to the unfathomable reaches of the past.
In a dim, lightless dungeon, a butterfly shimmering with a faint white glow alighted upon a frail young girl. It was the descent of Hope, a symbol of a miracle. A figure materialized within the cell.
The girl's eyes were clear and untainted. She looked at the visitor and asked:
"Are you the god who has come to redeem me?"
Agal could not discern the figure's face, nor did he understand the significance of this scene. He merely watched in silence. In the blink of an eye, the girl appeared in the wilderness.
Kindness.
Beauty.
Agal bore witness to her journey across the world. Every virtue imaginable was manifest in her; she was a girl who seemed to exist only in the realm of fantasy.
Her footsteps covered the globe. Filled with Hope, she once visited the cathedrals of the Alaya Church, yet she never found the god who had granted her salvation.
So, she began to bestow that divine mercy upon the world herself. Slowly, followers gathered behind her—one, then two, then three—until a Holy Cathedral was established.
Until she carved the statue of the Mother God with her own hands.
Agal looked at the statue, and a sudden realization struck him.
"Antut?"
He watched the rise of Antut, the birth of miracles, and the founding of the Utopia. He saw the Golden Ark descend eternally upon the earth; it was a kingdom of dreams.
And then, he witnessed Antut's fall and its absolute collapse.
"The Mother God is dead!"
"Burn the heretics!!"
Crazed believers spiraled into hysteria. Devout maidens attempted to drive back the terror with hymns, singing through their tears. And finally, the Saintess departed this world forever amidst the roaring flames.
As the Holy Cathedral came crashing down, a single figure emerged from the ruins, sword in hand. The visions of the past halted there. When the white light dissipated, the severed arm of the statue was gone.
Agal's own right hand, however, now radiated a boundless and holy power. He frowned slightly, plagued by doubt. What was the connection between himself and Antut? Why was his power so fundamentally similar to theirs?
Shaking off the thought, Agal clenched his right fist, feeling as though he had grasped the very fabric of fate.
"Firenze... this war is mine to win!"
Not long after, the Firenze Empire and the Agal Alliance engaged in the most cataclysmic conflict of the Ancient Era. Both sides suffered staggering casualties.
Agal faced Julius in their final confrontation. This time, both went all out, their clash nearly shattering the Lost Lands themselves.
To Agal's shock, even with the power of Antut, he could not easily overwhelm Julius. Even a mere fragment of that statue held the accumulated faith of a millennium, yet Julius stood firm.
For the first time, Agal felt a primal, soaring thrill.
In the final moments, blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, but his expression was one of unbridled ecstasy.
Standing high in the heavens, he poured every ounce of his being into a strike intended to end the war forever.
"Hahaha! Julius, you truly are full of surprises! Give me everything you've got! I won't hold back as I crush you—this is the end!"
RUMBLE!
Agal's terrifying energy formed a colossal vortex, churning the sea of clouds into a spiraling maw as thunder shook the world.
Even now, he looked down upon the world with an air of absolute superiority.
Facts meant nothing; he simply could not conceive of his own defeat.
Agal's royal pride and arrogance reached their zenith.
CRACK!
It felt as though a fundamental shackle had been violently snapped. Agal's power shook the world, ascending into a realm of strength never before seen.
"As you wish."
Julius's face was a mask of grim resolve. His small frame stood like an unyielding rock amidst the roaring torrent of the energy vortex. He had long since cast aside his life; his only thought was his vow.
"I shall offer this victory to my Empress... and prove my loyalty through your downfall."
This was the singular vow of the Twelve Knights.
"Then I shall fulfill your destiny myself," Agal declared, his posture that of a god.
He unleashed the full weight of his power.
BOOM!
The earth convulsed.
The residual shockwaves radiated beyond the continent, whipping the oceans into a violent frenzy. A beam of blinding light erupted toward the heavens, its brilliance extinguishing vast swaths of stars.
The outcome was not a definitive triumph.
Blood trickled from the corner of Agal's mouth. He had reached his absolute limit. Even after breaking through to a new plane of existence, he had been forced to pay the price of his life to bring Julius down.
No.
It wasn't exactly a defeat.
And it certainly wasn't a victory.
"To think it would end in mutual destruction," Agal remarked. Yet, he felt no regret. Instead, he felt a strange sense of gratification. He had not been wrong; Julius was indeed his true rival.
Even now, he could not fathom the nature of the power that allowed the Twelve Knights to manifest fantasy into reality. He suspected that Julius's final, extreme eruption of strength had been rooted in that very essence.
Millennia of mutual conquest had pushed both empires to the brink.
Now, with no one left to bar his way, Agal walked through the imperial capital of Firenze as if entering a ghost town.
He moved toward the throne room, step by step.
After thousands of years, the palace appeared neglected, a tapestry of ruin. Cracks and weathered stone bore the heavy marks of time.
In the heavy silence, Agal reached the foot of the throne.
With every step, he felt the passage of ages: the rising and setting of suns, the dance of dust motes in the fading light.
It was only when he drew close that he finally saw the faint shadow seated upon the throne. The monarch of Firenze. The sovereign to whom the Twelve Knights had pledged their souls.
The Empress leaned casually against the throne, her vast, profound gaze seeming to hold every ultimate truth of the world. All of existence resided within her eyes.
Stillness.
A deathly silence.
Mei simply watched Agal's approach. Agal, however, froze in his tracks, his pupils shrinking to pinpoints as if he were witnessing the impossible.
The silhouette on the throne.
The Mother God of Antut.
The two figures, spanning two different eras, slowly merged into one.
The Ancient Era drew to its close.
[ Ancient Era · The Empire ]
[ Fragment: The battle between the King of Agal and Julius brought the era to its conclusion. With the collapse of the two great empires, the Ancient Era met its end. After Julius fell in battle, his rival, the King of Agal, succumbed shortly after to his catastrophic wounds... ]
...
[ Upgrade Task 5 · Completed ]
[ Reward: Transfinite Fusion x1 ]
[ Transfinite Fusion Charges: 3 ]
Agal was the fifth host of the Subjective Aspect following Hlevi. His new traits were derived entirely from it, which was why he possessed such an intimate familiarity with subjective power.
In that final battle, he had successfully ascended to Tier 5.
As for Hlevi, the first Holy Son of the Alaya Church during the Era of Gods and Kings, it was he who had brought a definitive end to both Alaya and the remnants of the previous era.
His final fate remained a mystery.
His last footsteps were traced to the void between two eras. No one knew his true identity, and no one was left to pen his legends.
Only the fragmented scripts of the divine era held any mention of his name.
Mei had not performed a fusion since the last Transfinite Fusion. Having accumulated three charges, she considered it for a moment but decided to save them for later.
Root Distortion was serving her well; she would keep it for a while longer.
Upon the throne of Firenze, Mei's phantom gradually faded, vanishing into nothingness.
...
Time flowed like water.
In the blink of an eye, the Third Era arrived. As the Lost Lands transitioned into this new age, the Spacetime Barrier enveloping the continent silently dissolved.
From that moment on, the flow of time within the Lost Lands synced once more with the outside world. While ten thousand years had passed within the accelerated barrier, only a century had elapsed outside.
The geopolitical landscape of the external continents had barely begun to shift, yet the Lost Lands had already undergone two massive cycles of upheaval during those ten millennia.
The Grand Travelers had suffered devastating blows and no longer dared to show their faces. Tier 4 was manageable, not entirely unreasonable, but the emergence of Tier 5 was simply intolerable.
It broke the game.
The disturbance Agal had caused back then was so immense that even Grand Travelers far beyond the Lost Lands could not fail to sense his overwhelming power.
Now, they had all retreated like frightened quail.
Trembling in the shadows.
As a result, the Grand Travelers on this planet had entered a strange state of hibernation. However, this was merely temporary. The moment they realized Agal was dead, the world would likely plunge into chaos once again.
After the rain, the air was exceptionally crisp, the humidity carrying the faint scent of damp earth and wildflowers. Birds fluttering across the country lane were startled by the soft, melodious strumming of a lyre.
The music was elegant.
Utterly enchanting.
A wandering minstrel plucking at his strings chanced upon Mei. He offered a polite smile. "It seems we are heading the same way. If you don't mind, please allow me to play for a while."
"By all means," Mei nodded.
Suddenly, the rustic path was filled with a brisk, lighthearted melody.
The wandering minstrel was just an ordinary man, devoid of any special power, but he possessed a profound sense of romanticism—the defining trait of a poet.
As they passed a certain landmark, he ceased his playing and struck up a conversation with Mei as if they were old friends. He pointed toward a distant mountain; despite the distance, a massive notch carved into the ridgeline was clearly visible.
"Legend says that gap was torn out by an arrow from Tellugh."
Mei turned her head, looking in the direction the poet indicated.
The minstrel gently plucked the strings again, his voice like a low hum as he explained to Mei: "Tellugh was the Eleventh Knight of the legendary Firenze Empire. His archery was divine. They say a single arrow of his could erase a mountain from existence—a figure straight out of myth and heroics."
Mei asked, "Do you believe those legends?"
In the Third Era of the Lost Lands, few people actively manifested supernatural powers. Extraordinary forces were beyond the reach of the common folk; the age of myths and legends had faded.
Transcendence lay dormant, shrouded in absolute mystery.
"Of course," the poet replied cheerfully. "Have you ever seen a river waterfall hanging inverted in the sky, or humans dancing among the birds? If the myths and legends are all true, wouldn't that be a truly romantic thing?"
His words were filled with longing.
In the present day, both the Era of Gods and Kings and the Ancient Era were regarded as nothing more than distant fables. Romantic poets wove them into verses and sang them to the four corners of the world.
The vast, magnificent epics were now merely bedtime stories.
The minstrel turned to Mei. "Among the Twelve Knights, which one do you admire most?"
Mei did not answer.
The minstrel continued, speaking to the air: "For me, I most admire the only woman among them, the Seventh Knight—Soma. For a woman in that era to possess a martial prowess equal to any man... I can only imagine what a magnificent sight she must have been."
The legends of the Firenze Empire and the Twelve Knights were widespread; every poet knew the tales by heart, and the songs composed in their honor were beyond counting.
That era of surging tides.
That epic that set the blood on fire.
Each of the Twelve Knights possessed a unique and striking personality that left an indelible mark on history. Those vivid, resounding voices and figures of the past had, in a flash, become nothing more than lyrics in a melodic song.
Winding through the mountains, the two traveled an unknown distance until they reached a sprawling wilderness.
The minstrel's music shifted from its light, airy tone, becoming somber and slow.
"In the epics of the Firenze Empire, this moor is recorded as the site where the Fifth Knight, Camelo, fell in battle. His opponent was the King of Agal himself. By the time Tellugh arrived with reinforcements, Camelo had already perished from exhaustion."
The slightly dejected strings spoke of a tragic destiny, yet for Camelo, this was a supreme honor.
He had achieved his heart's desire: to die at the hands of a worthy foe, rather than by Tellugh's friendly fire.
As grand as the early chapters of the Firenze Empire were, its final days were equally harrowing.
The world projected its own sorrow onto the Knights' tragic fates, unaware that this was, in truth, the Twelve Knights' ultimate wish.
A bit further ahead, a massive crater—resembling a meteor strike—came into view.
A shattered, rusted sword stood embedded in the rock; one could not tell if it was a replica left by a traveler or truly a relic of Camelo.
After gazing at it for a moment, the two resumed their journey.
As the music faded into the distance, the melody turned upbeat once more, the wind carrying away the weight of history and time, leaving behind only a single, rusted blade.
...
That night.
In a distant village, a young child asked why the moon in the sky always looked like a piece was missing. The adults said that the missing chunk had been cleaved away by a knight named Julius.
The child asked if it was true.
The adults immediately burst into laughter.
Under the starlight, a fire flickered on the wild plains.
The two sat around the campfire.
The minstrel asked Mei if she would be interested in hearing his theories regarding the identity of the Empress of Firenze—the most mysterious figure in all of legend.
One theory suggested that the Empress of Firenze might have been a certain deity from the Era of Gods and Kings, though unfortunately, no written records ever confirmed this.
Thus, people loved to speculate on the origins and identity of the Firenze Monarch, as if she were not merely a legend, but a person who had truly breathed and walked through the halls of history.
Mei found it quite amusing.
"Of course I'm interested. Let's hear it."
"They say..."