Moving through the sewers, Mozo counted his steps in silence, keeping a steady rhythm in his mind. At the same time, he scanned his surroundings, mapping every turn and stretch of tunnel against the route he'd reconstructed from memory.
At seven thousand eight hundred steps, he stopped.
Based on his stride length, the distances he'd estimated from the map, and the sequence of turns he'd taken, this should be the spot.
The Sun King's memories were hazy at best, so Mozo had marked out several possible locations in advance. He planned to test them one by one—this was the first.
After a quick glance around, he crouched and placed a hand against the ground. Then, closing his eyes briefly, he ran through the fragmentary memory once more.
Finally, he spoke in a low voice:
"By the Eternal Guardian of the Twin Sacred Trees, Lord of all High Lords, the Exalted One above the Sun, Leader of all Elves, Sovereign of Rivendell, Slayer of the Demon Dragon, Repeller of Polsius, King who annihilated foreign gods—I call upon this name." (Ancient Elven)
"Elves of Asgar, guardians who once obeyed my command, wardens of the Ageless Witch—grant your blessing. Answer me. Respond. Your king has returned. Honor the ancient covenant. Hear the song of the Twin Sacred Trees. Lead me to the promised land." (Ancient Elven)
The moment his words faded, a deep green formation began to spread outward from his palm, lines of light weaving together into a complete rune circle beneath his feet.
Seeing it, Mozo let out a long breath.
The memory hadn't failed him. And luck was on his side—he'd entered the responsive range on the first try.
Far below, deep underground, an enormous semicircular chamber stirred to life.
Ancient mechanisms—countless gears forged in a forgotten age—began to turn under an unseen force.
The towering pillars supporting the chamber, etched with intricate patterns, glowed with a vibrant green light—the color of life and nature.
Across the chamber, four thousand nine hundred massive metallic spheres lit up one by one, each radiating a crimson glow.
Then, at the central platform, a column of green light descended from above.
The king… had returned.
On the outskirts of Cromwell City, a hawk moving at unnatural speed suddenly dove from the sky, transforming midair into a middle-aged man in aristocratic robes.
Anyone who saw him would recognize the man immediately—
Count Hahn, the city's mayor.
Unlike landed nobles, Hahn held a court title—no fief, no hereditary claim. But titles were complicated things. Sometimes the distinction mattered greatly. Sometimes it didn't matter at all.
In Hahn's case, it didn't.
He simply had no interest in managing land or building a legacy. Otherwise, as a Sequence Three demigod, there was no way he would've remained just a count—let alone a court noble.
He also held another role: the governor of the Special District, personally appointed by the three Empresses—Day, Night, and Dawn.
The title "mayor" barely scratched the surface of what that meant.
As he landed, Hahn frowned toward the Old District.
He'd originally been on his way back to the capital to report to the Empresses when urgent news forced him to turn around.
Even so, he hadn't taken it too seriously at first.
"The Great One is about to return."
To younger operatives, that sounded terrifying. But Hahn had lived long enough to see countless prophecies like this—most of them exaggerated, or outright false alarms. After all, they usually came from mid- or low-sequence diviners.
He remembered one particularly absurd case: a prophecy claiming an ancient god would revive.
And technically, it had been true.
There had been a resurrection ritual.
The problem?
That god's "uniqueness" had already been taken and sealed away by the great Saint John. Without it, what was left wasn't even a god anymore.
The whole thing had turned into a farce.
So this time, Hahn had initially assumed the same.
The one who made the prophecy was only Sequence Six. Errors were expected at that level.
But the moment he neared the district—
His instincts erupted in warning.
Not a subtle hint. A full, relentless alarm.
This time… it was real.
Without hesitation, Hahn reached into his coat and pulled out over a hundred ancient silver coins.
Each coin bore a different engraving: elves, humans, goblins, even legendary figures like Saint John.
This was one of his favorite Sealed Artifacts.
Formed from the lingering essence of a fallen Sequence Four demigod—a noble executed during the Cromwell era—it was officially designated 1-141, though most knew it by another name:
Judas's Silver Coins.
The name itself had come from Duke Cromwell, though Hahn still had no idea who "Judas" actually was.
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the coins into the air.
They didn't fall.
They hovered.
Only when Hahn blew lightly across them did two coins drop back down.
He caught them and glanced at their faces.
One bore the image of an elf.
The other depicted the Twin Sacred Trees.
Hahn clicked his tongue.
"So not just any 'Great One'… An elven figure. Closely tied to the Twin Trees."
"A High Lord, then?"
As he gathered the coins, he pulled out a feathered pen and began writing in midair.
At the same moment, inside the study of the Day Empress, words appeared on a blank sheet of parchment.
She picked it up, scanned the contents—and her expression hardened instantly.
Her reply came without hesitation:
"If it threatens the stability of the Special District, kill it in advance."
When Hahn received the response, he sucked in a sharp breath.
Even if it was an elven High Lord… eliminate it without hesitation?
Was the Special District really that important?
Even he couldn't quite understand it.