The week had passed in a blur of iron, blood, and ink.
The frantic energy that had gripped the Ant Tribe since Antares's bold declaration had reached a fever pitch, then settled into a grim, disciplined silence. The transition was complete. Spring was no longer a distant promise — it was a cold, wet reality seeping through the tunnels and caverns, bringing the turning point the tribe had waited centuries for. Antares sat behind his heavy obsidian desk, the surface covered in parchment maps, scout reports, and half-finished supply ledgers. The office was quiet, lit only by a single crystal lamp whose soft amber glow cast long shadows across the carved stone walls. He closed his eyes and focused on his hearing, sharpening it with the communicator ability that had become second nature. He could hear the footsteps of servants moving through the corridors, their numbers and positions clear in his mind. He intensified his focus further and caught the distant clatter of the army and foraging units making their final preparations before the march — the low murmur of voices, the clink of armor being buckled, the scrape of whetstones on blades.
He opened his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, which he had kept tied back since his intense sparring session with Eli and Levi. His bones and muscles felt stronger, harder, his speed noticeably increased. The raw power he had developed in the training arena hadn't fully settled within him yet. It sat just beneath his skin, waiting for the perfect chance to be unleashed. The surface and the enemies above would be the perfect test subjects.
A soft chime echoed at the door.
"Enter," Antares said, his voice gravelly from lack of sleep.
Yanrid stepped into the room. The commander of the foraging units looked weathered. His leather armor was damp, and a faint scent of pine and thawing mud clung to him. Today he wore lighter gear for easier movement rather than his full battle armor. He bowed — not the deep, formal bow of a courtier, but the sharp, respectful nod of a soldier to his commander.
"Sire," Yanrid began, his voice steady. "The final scouting rotations are complete. The perimeter around the tower and our temporary camp are safe for now. No signs of monsters or any kind of danger."
Yanrid had been gone for a week with a small team, scouting the surface on Antares's orders. The report was exactly what the King had hoped for.
"And the weather?" Antares asked, leaning back in his chair. "Is the cold still a major threat to us?"
Yanrid shook his head. "Winter is dying, Sire, but it's not completely gone. On the surface, the snow has turned to heavy, grey slush. The rivers are tearing big chunks of ice from the banks. The air is wet enough to seep into your bones, but the deep freeze is over. The earth is soft, almost muddy. It's going to be a messy season, Sire. The forests and meadows nearest to us are quiet but still dangerous. Some monsters and beasts are still sluggish in their dens, but the scent of life is returning. It's the best time for us to move."
Antares nodded, visualizing the scene. He could almost feel the damp wind on his face. "Good. We strike while the world is still shaking off its slumber. Anything else?"
"The greenery is starting to grow abundantly, Sire," Yanrid added, a rare hint of sentimentality crossing his stoic face. "It has attracted large herds of herbivorous monsters as well as some of the fiercest predators like demon wolves. We'll most likely have to keep the line tight and our defenses on point." He paused, letting the news settle, then continued, "Then we have to—"
Before Antares could finish the thought, Yanrid cut in respectfully. "I've taken the initiative to leave a few men on the surface to prepare the camp and start working on the defenses. I doubt they'll finish the full fortifications in time, but I have no doubt the camp will be ready for us."
"Good job, Yanrid. Now go and get some rest. You'll be the one taking us to the surface, and I need you at your best."
Yanrid nodded and left swiftly, his footsteps fading down the corridor.
Antares stood up. He felt a strange restlessness. For the last week he had been a whirlwind of motion — training, planning, shouting orders, and reviewing Ian's endless ledgers. Now, in the final moments before the Great Ascent, he found himself alone in his office. He began to pace the spacious room. It was a magnificent chamber, but he realized with a start that he barely knew it. He had been so focused on other matters that he hadn't truly inhabited his own home.
He trailed his fingers over the carved stone walls, feeling the intricate reliefs that told the history of the Antis line. He saw depictions of great hunts and ancient battles painted on the walls. He felt a strange resonance with the stone. The "Original Antares" — the prince who had died to give him this life — wasn't entirely gone. His memories were like faded ink, whispering through his mind.
As he turned a corner near a heavy bookshelf, his boot caught on something solid and immovable.
"Dammit," he hissed, stumbling forward.
He turned back to see what had tripped him. Tucked away in a dusty alcove, half-hidden by a moth-eaten tapestry, sat a heavy black chest. It was made of wood so dark it looked like solidified shadow, reinforced with bands of cold iron. In the center of the lid, a crimson ant head was carved into the wood, its mandibles wide and threatening.
Curiosity piqued, Antares knelt. The lock had broken when he tripped over it. He gripped the lid and heaved. It opened with a long, agonizing groan of protesting hinges.
Inside, resting atop a bed of yellowed parchment, was a bundle of heavy, dark cloth.
Antares reached in and pulled the fabric out. It was long — longer than his height — and heavy with the weight of history. He unfurled it slowly, his breath catching in his throat.
The banner was a masterpiece of old-world craftsmanship. The background was deep, blood-red silk so fine it felt like water against his calloused palms. Stitched into the center in shimmering black thread was the silhouette of a Great Ant, seen from above, its mandibles flared in a permanent snarl. Above and below the icon, the words were embroidered in gold that had faded to a dull, dignified bronze:
**"GLORY TO THE ANT KINGS AND THE ANT GOD"**
It was the war banner of his forefathers.
He felt a sudden, violent jolt of memory — not his own, but the prince's. He saw his grandfather, a titan of a man with a white beard, holding this banner high as he told the young Antares stories of old wars. His grandsire had died in his bed, a rare mercy for their kind. But then the memory shifted. The red of the banner became the red of fire. He saw his father, the previous King, charging into a wall of green skin and jagged steel. He saw the banner falling into the mud, soaked in the blood of the Antmen as the goblins swarmed over them.
Antares's hands began to tremble. A hot, searing wave of rage boiled up from his gut, turning his vision red. *Goblins.* The word felt like a curse in his mind. Those filthy, parasitic scavengers. They hadn't won through honor; they had won through numbers and treachery. Their mages had made blood sacrifices and summoned demons that possessed their soldiers, turning them into grotesque beings that slaughtered the Antmen with utmost savagery. Thousands fell that day, and his father was one of them. To make matters worse, before retreating to their lands, the goblins had used a combination of curse, dark, and plague magic to leave a virus-like disease on the members of the Ant Tribe who had strong mana, resulting in the near extinction of the Arcanis clan.
The original Antares's soul screamed for vengeance — a high-pitched, vibrating need for retribution that merged perfectly with the Earth-born Antares's protective instincts.
"They will pay," Antares whispered, his voice vibrating with a power that caused the crystal-lamp to flicker. "War-chief… I will turn their caves and settlements into their tombs."
"Sire?"
Antares snapped his head toward the door. Ian was standing there, holding a stack of final logistics reports. The old butler's eyes dropped to the cloth in Antares's hands, and his breath hitched. The reports slipped from his fingers, fluttering to the floor like wounded birds.
"The… The Sovereign Banner," Ian whispered, his voice cracking. He stepped forward, his legs shaking. "I haven't seen this since… since the day your father rode out to fight the goblins."
Ian reached out a withered hand, his fingers hovering just inches from the fabric, afraid to touch it. "We thought it was lost in the retreat. To think it was here, in this chest, all this time…"
Antares saw a single tear track through the deep wrinkles on Ian's face. The old man wasn't just a butler; he was a survivor who had seen three generations of Ant Kings, Antares being the third. He was the bridge between the glory of the past and the uncertainty of the future.
"Prepare it, Ian," Antares said, handing the heavy silk to the old man. His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. "Clean it. Repair what needs repairing. I am taking this with us. When we emerge on the surface, I want the sun to hit this banner first. I want every creature on the surface to see it and know that the Ant King is back."
Ian took the cloth with the reverence one would show a holy relic. A small, trembling smile touched his lips. "It shall be done, Sire. It shall be as if the Old King himself were riding with us."
Ian turned to leave, his pace more hurried than usual, but Antares stopped him.
"Ian? Who did the sewing back then? Do we have anyone left who can work silk like this?"
Ian paused, his shoulders drooping slightly. "In the old days, Sire, we had a whole team of Silk-Weavers and Seamstresses. We have a few elders who can patch a tunic or mend a sail, but a specialist who can weave mana-thread or repair royal silk? No. We are a tribe of warriors and foragers now, Sire. The arts we once had have… faded."
Antares looked at the bare stone walls of his office. "We're going to fix that, Ian. A kingdom isn't just a sword. Once we secure the surface, I want you to start a census. Find anyone with even a spark of talent for the crafts. We're going to build more than just an army."
Ian gave him a soft smile. "You truly are your father's son," Ian murmured, bowing one last time before disappearing into the corridor.
Antares stood in the silence of his office for a moment longer, the anger at the goblins settling into a cold, hard stone in his chest. He looked at his hands — the hands of a King, but also the hands of a soldier. He left the office, walking through the halls of the palace. The guards snapped to attention as he passed, their new iron armor gleaming in the crystal light. He felt the weight of their expectations. Thousands of souls were counting on him to lead them back into the light.
He reached his private quarters at the top of the tower. He was exhausted, his mind spinning with the logistics of the 4,000-man march, but he remembered Zarah's words. She had promised him a surprise before he left — something to mark the occasion of the Great Ascent.
He pushed open the heavy oak doors to his room.
"Zarah?" he called out. "I'm here. What's this about a—"
He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes wide open, surprised by the sight he was blessed with.