CHAPTER 33: UNITED.

The door to the meeting room burst open as Solas strolled in, whistling a light tune, completely unfazed by the importance of the gathering.

His hands were stuffed into his pockets, his posture loose and carefree. He wore simple, mismatched clothes—nothing formal or fitting for the occasion—and his hair was a mess, like he’d just rolled out of bed.

"Hey there, fellas," he said with a shameless grin, pulling one hand out to lazily wave at the table full of powerful figures.

"Hello," Arson Windgale replied with a calm nod.

Yellindra gave him an exasperated look. "Just sit down already," she said with a sigh, clearly used to his antics.

Eric glared at Solas, clearly annoyed by his late arrival. But before he could open his mouth to scold him, someone else beat him to it.

A low voice rumbled from across the table—quiet, but sharp enough to cut through the air.

"...You’re late."

Solas turned toward the speaker, still wearing that same lazy grin, though there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes now.

The man who had spoken sat straight-backed, his presence heavy and intimidating. He wore a long white coat traced with crimson and blue patterns, its fabric pristine and sharp like his tone.

His hair was black as night, slicked back with not a strand out of place, and his eyes—dark and deep like a pool of ink—were fixed on Solas with intensity.

Two long, curled horns jutted from his head, black and smooth like polished stone. Dark scales crept along his neck and jawline, giving him a draconic appearance.

He was the black dragon Morrack Glayder.

And the way he was staring at Solas—it was like he was looking at his greatest archnemesis.

"Oh, would you look at that—Rack is here," Solas said with a smug grin, dark amusement glinting in his eyes. "Come on, don’t tell me you’re still salty about that duel. I almost forgot about it, honestly."

His tone dripped with mockery, clearly poking at Morrack on purpose.

From the start, Solas never liked dragons—especially the high-and-mighty, prideful ones. Morrack was the perfect example of that.

So when the chance came to face him in a duel, Solas didn’t just fight to win—he fought to break that towering pride. And he did, in the most humbling way possible. Breaking the pride of the dragon like a fragile glass.

"Call me that again, and I’ll rip your head off," Morrack growled, his voice low and sharp like a blade on stone.

His dark eyes narrowed, turning almost pitch black as a sinister aura burst out from him. The temperature in the room seemed to spike, not from heat, but from raw pressure.

The air trembled.

The wooden table groaned under the force, its edges creaking as if the weight of a mountain had dropped on it. Even the crystal lamps above rattled faintly.

Had Morrack not deliberately held back and focused his pressure only on Solas, the entire room might have collapsed into rubble.

"Hm? What was that, Rack? I didn’t quite catch that," Solas leaned in, cupping his ear with a playful grin, his voice oozing mockery.

"You son of—"

"Enough."

Before Morrack could finish and let his rage explode, a deep voice sliced through the thick tension like a blade through silk. It wasn’t loud. There was no magical force behind it. Just quiet authority — the kind that made people listen.

Alaric, the Principal of Eldoria Academy, didn’t raise his voice. He simply glanced at Solas and pointed at the empty seat beside him.

"Sit down, Solas. That is no way to speak to a representative of another race."

Then his gaze shifted to Morrack.

"And Sir Morrack, I ask you to calm yourself as well. We have important matters to address — ones that demand our full focus."

"Tch, fine fine... you’re always such a buzzkill, old man," Solas muttered, raising both hands in mock surrender. But he obeyed. No one in that room, not even him, wanted to make the old man mad at them.

He was scary, when angry.

"Well then, let’s begin the meeting," Alaric said, his deep voice steady and cold. "As you all know, in the past years—sixteen, to be exact—the frequency of demon activity has increased dramatically. They’re appearing more often... and killing more than ever before."

Snap!

With a sharp snap of his fingers, the center of the round table shimmered, and a three-dimensional hologram flickered to life on the wide obsidian table, glowing faintly with blue runes.

It was a map—the map of Etherias.

Seven vast continents floated midair in the projection. Their borders pulsed softly with energy, as if alive.

Alaric pointed toward the western region of the map, where the Land of the Dwarves, the Red Dragons, and the Phoenix lay.

"Seventeen advanced-rank mana mines have been attacked," he continued. "Looted, left barren... and worse, every person present—guards, miners, mages—was either killed or corrupted by demonic energy."

The map flickered, and seventeen red dots lit up across the western lands. They blinked ominously, like wounds carved into the land itself.

The room fell into a heavy silence. All eyes slowly turned toward one particular figure seated near the edge of the table.

Samuel Blackshade.

A dwarf through and through—short stature, thick arms like carved stone, dark skin roughened by forge heat, and braided beard hanging proudly. His frown was deep, his eyes heavy with fury.

"It was a sneak attack," Samuel growled, his voice rumbling with quiet rage. "They picked the one day where our security was thin. Even after a full sweep of the mines and surrounding areas, we couldn’t find a single trail. Nothing."

"It was a sneak attack," he said, voice rumbling with quiet rage. "They struck on the exact day when our security rotation was thinnest. And when we began searching... there was no trace of where they came from. Or where they went."

His fists clenched. You could almost hear his bones groaning under the pressure. He wasn’t just angry at the loss of the mines, but at the deaths of his people.

No one said anything at first. Because they all understood, him.

If there was one thing that defined Etherias—it was unity. It didn’t matter what race you came from—elf, dragonkin, human, beastfolk, dwarf, or otherwise. If you lived on the continent, you were one of their own.

There were still conflicts, of course. Disputes over land, trade, or pride. But since the Great Cataclysm, the people had learned to solve their problems—because the real threat was not each other, but the world beyond.

That was the unspoken law of the land. If you lived on Etherias... you were their people.

And their people were being slaughtered.

"I see," Alaric murmured with a nod, his expression darkening. His hand moved across the holographic map, now pointing toward the southern reaches—a more scattered and wild terrain.

Suddenly, more red dots flared into existence. Dozens of them. Each one a place once called home.

"These," Alaric said grimly, "are the towns and small cities destroyed in recent demon attacks. Many of them were rural, yes—isolated countryside settlements—but that doesn’t make the lives lost any less valuable."

Silence settled over the room like a heavy curtain.

"...It was the same with us," came a calm, solemn voice.

Everyone turned to look at Arson Windgale, the elven representative. His silver hair shimmered slightly under the room’s glow, but his eyes remained still and cold.

However, he shook his head slowly. "We tried to track them. Follow their demonic energy trail. But... it disappeared. As if they were never there to begin with."

That alone sent unease through the room. Demons appearing and vanishing without a trace—without even leaving behind corrupted residue—was far from normal.

Even Solas, usually smug, had gone quiet, tapping his fingers lightly against the armrest.

Something wasn’t right.

And everyone in that room felt it in their bones.

"However—here, this."

Alaric’s voice turned heavier as his finger shifted on the map, now resting upon the central continent—the heart of Etherias, and the land where the prestigious academy stood.

The area lit up in a harsh blare of crimson red, covering an entire province in warning light.

"This wasn’t a covert operation. It was an open strike," he said, his voice like stone. "They attacked in broad daylight. Not for conquest, but chaos. To inspire fear. To remind us that they’re still here."

He paused, then added, "And they would’ve succeeded completely... if not for the two who stopped them."

The room fell into a moment of stillness. Until—

"They dared to attack the central continent?!"

Eric’s voice roared, fury radiating from every word. The temperature in the room soared, waves of blistering heat spilling from him as the air shimmered and the floor beneath his feet cracked.

The very walls of the room began to melt at the edges. But no one flinched.

They were Archons—beings who had surpassed the limits of mortals. Simple heat, cold, pressure—it meant nothing to them.

Across from him, Arson Windgale leaned forward slightly, his expression calm, but his voice turned cold.

"Hmm... so they’ve stopped hiding," he said with a chilling smile. "How amusing."

His grey eyes, usually soft like forest mist, now gleamed like frost on a battlefield. That smile, though slight, could freeze the blood of any lesser being.

No one in the room argued. They all felt the same.

Hatred. Fury. Resolve.

The demons hadn’t just crossed a line.

They’d declared war.

******

(A/N)- So, most of you will be thinking about the racial, or land conflicts after reading. When i said that the Etherias is united in one, i didn’t mean that there was no racial discrimination or you know people like arrogant young master of fuck clan or inferior being of this race and that. There are, people like that you will see in the story.

However what i mean by that is that they are united when fighting an outer threat. Like take this for an example- if the northern army is fighting and the archers of the army needs help, so the dragon of the south army will keep his pride aside and will lend his back to the archers to fly high. Or theages of the other army will help.

Hope, this help you clear the doubt.