The great gates of Virelion groaned open under Emberleaf hands.

Beyond them lay a city of stone and shadow—its streets choked with smoke, its banners sagging half-burnt against soot-streaked walls. From windows high and low, wary eyes watched.

They had seen Pride's armies return in triumph.

They had heard what the Scourge had done.

Now they waited—for ruin, for retribution, for the sound of steel upon stone.

But it did not come.

Kael led the first column through the breach—Blazebinder sheathed, stride unhurried. His Ember Guard moved in disciplined waves behind him, flame-linked repeaters slung low, no blades drawn.

At each corner, Flame Scouts peeled off—not to scout for enemies, but to distribute aid:

Food parcels.

Water.

Medical satchels.

Kael's voice rang out softly through the repeater net:

"No looting. No fires. No threats. We rebuild this city—not ruin it."

Word spread faster than any scout.

Civilians huddled behind locked doors. Then one. Then ten. Then whole families emerged, watching in stunned silence as the Scourge's forces marched without plunder—without a single torch raised in anger.

From the rooftops, Rimuru floated gleefully beneath a subtle illusion shroud.

"Deploying visual reassurances," she whispered.

Golden flame-vines curled across Virelion's abandoned banners—not burning them, but weaving gentle spirals of protective light. A symbol not of conquest, but of new order.

Onlookers gasped.

Children pointed.

Great Sage: "Civilian sentiment shift detected. Fear index decreasing by 37%."

Kael turned a corner near the artisan quarter.

An old mason stepped into the street, trembling, holding a trowel like a blade.

Kael met his eyes—and nodded.

The man's hand dropped.

Behind Kael, no soldier moved to threaten. No weapon gleamed.

The mason sank to his knees—not in forced submission, but in disbelief.

As the sun rose higher, Virelion's streets filled—not with soldiers, but with whispered questions:

"Why are they helping?" "He carries no crown." "He didn't come to burn us."

At the heart of it all, Kael marched on.

"Not a city to be chained," he thought. "A city to be freed—to remember itself."

The inner court of Virelion—heart of Pride's remaining power—stood behind a shimmering wall of force.

Four layers of woven mana pulsed through the arched gateway, etched with protective runes older than most of the city itself. Wardmasters had worked through the night to reinforce them.

It wouldn't matter.

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Rimuru hovered just outside the inner perimeter, her form pulsing with soft gold and blue.

"Such a stubborn little wall," she whispered. "But all things burn… some just slower."

Kael stood nearby with a small detachment of Ember Guard. His orders remained unchanged.

"No destruction. No needless force. We strip it bare and show them what strength looks like."

Great Sage: "Optimal method—gradual energy drain. Slime-thread siphon will allow for controlled collapse."

Rimuru grinned.

"Deploying threads~"

She unfurled hundreds of filament-thin slime threads, each tipped with a runic siphon. They slipped unseen through the ward lattice, seeking pulse points, anchoring at the most delicate seams.

The walls flickered once—twice.

A deep hum resonated through the stone.

Rimuru pulsed brighter, drawing the mana away in slow waves—not ripping, but unweaving.

Great Sage: "Drain at 42%. No defensive response triggered."

Guards inside the inner court watched in mounting dread as their once-impenetrable shield dimmed—layer by layer.

By the time the final pulse faded, the inner gateway stood open—unguarded, undefended.

Kael gave a single nod.

"Mark it," he said quietly.

Rimuru floated forward. At the heart of the threshold, she pressed one pseudopod to the stone and traced a glowing flower crest—a curling ember-blossom surrounded by delicate leaves.

The symbol shimmered gold against the gray.

A promise: this would not be a throne of ash.

Great Sage: "Mana walls disabled. Command hierarchy fracture near total. Resistance probability—minimal."

Kael stepped through the gate, Blazebinder still sheathed.

No flames. No fury.

Just quiet purpose.

The inner court chamber of Virelion was deathly still.

Smoke clung to the vaulted ceiling. Pride's banners hung half-torn across dark stone walls. The council table, once polished obsidian, lay scorched along its edges.

And at its head, alone, sat Lord Valen Dres—last regent of Virelion's inner court.

His once-pristine robes were ash-smeared, his circlet tarnished. In his lap, a broken scepter rested—its inlaid gem cracked clean through.

He looked up as Kael entered, Blazebinder sheathed at his side.

Rimuru hovered in silence behind him, her glow faint—no theatrics now.

Ember Guard lined the chamber perimeter, weapons lowered but ready.

Kael walked to the table without hurry.

"You expected fire," he said softly. "You expected a tyrant."

Lord Dres's voice was brittle. "You wear the title of Ashbrand."

Kael met his gaze.

"And yet you stand—alive."

Dres's fingers twitched. "I… do not understand. Why spare this city?"

Kael's reply came without hesitation:

"Because ruin is easy. Correction is harder. I choose the harder path."

Silence stretched.

Dres's shoulders sagged beneath the weight of his own failure.

"I am to be executed?" he whispered.

Kael shook his head.

"No. You will leave this city. You will walk out of these gates—without title, without command."

He leaned in, voice sharpened to steel:

"And you will tell every capital who let you fall… that I built what you destroyed."

Rimuru's form rippled, voice soft but clear:

"The words will burn longer than any fire."

Dres closed his eyes.

Defeat wasn't new to him. But this—this message—would outlive him.

He rose on unsteady legs.

"I will do as you command," he whispered.

Kael nodded once.

"See that you do."

As Dres staggered from the court, Rimuru drifted to Kael's side.

"He broke," she said quietly.

Kael's voice was calm, but the embers in his eyes burned bright.

"Good," he replied. "Now Pride's mask will crack in full view."

Dawn washed Virelion in pale gold and weary smoke.

The fighting was done. The banners had fallen. Yet no pillaging came. No flames rose to claim the stone.

Instead—order.

Ember Guard patrols moved in disciplined circuits through the market squares and civic halls. Civilians emerged slowly, first in wary twos and threes, then in steady waves.

They found Flame Scouts distributing water and bread—not coin, not chains.

They found wounded soldiers—both sides—treated side by side under makeshift tents.

And above it all, floating on a subtle weave of light, the old Pride banners had been transformed.

Rimuru hummed as she twirled high above the central tower.

With a playful flick, she released the final pulse:

"Deploying crest overlay~"

A soft illusion of a glowing ember-flower—the same mark left at the inner gate—unfurled across the highest remaining banner pole.

It shimmered in gentle red-gold hues, neither gaudy nor garish.

A symbol of renewal.

Below, the watching crowd stilled.

A merchant whispered, half in awe:

"Not conquered… marked."

From the eastern balcony of the central tower, Kael stood in full view.

He wore no crown. No cape. Only his traveling cloak and Blazebinder resting across his back.

He said no grand speech.

Only this:

"Not a city conquered." "A city freed to remember itself."

The words carried on the wind.

The first voice to answer was a child's—cheering softly.

Then others.

Not forced. Not staged.

A city's first breath of something new.

Kael turned from the balcony, voice low:

"Now we rebuild."

Behind him, Rimuru spun lazily.

"And the song begins."

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