CHAPTER 253: REQUEST

As the doors opened and the figures stepped inside, a subtle but immediate shift swept through the hall. The change was instinctive—no one spoke, no one moved by order, yet one by one, every person in the room stood. A quiet stillness fell as heads lowered, not in fear or submission, but in recognition of something far greater: a legacy that demanded reverence.

Twelve City Managers were entering.

Each of them had lived more than 250 years. Time had worn their bodies down. Some leaned heavily on canes, others were guided carefully by aides. A few moved forward in wheelchairs, connected to softly humming medical devices that helped regulate their breathing. Their skin was pale, their movements slow and uncertain. They looked like men nearing the edge of life—hollowed out, fragile, already halfway gone.

And yet, not a single person in that room viewed them with pity.

Their appearance—worn, brittle, and ghostlike—did nothing to lessen the weight they carried. No one dismissed them. No one forgot what they represented. These were the ones who had once held up a broken world. When everything collapsed, they didn’t run or disappear. They stayed behind. They organized. They rebuilt. They gave what little remained of the world and of themselves so others could survive.

The room remained silent as they passed, the sound of their movement swallowed by the weight of memory and respect. From researchers and STF commanders to every remaining player in the room, no one returned to their seat until all twelve had reached the front and carefully taken their place.

It was the first time anyone had seen all twelve together in one room.

They were people who almost never left the safety of their private quarters. For most, just walking into an uncontrolled space posed a serious risk. For them to leave the environmental security of their cities, to abandon the conditions keeping them alive, and to appear here together—physically present—was something none of those watching had ever thought possible.

And that alone changed the air in the hall.

The atmosphere grew tense—not from fear, but from the weight of anticipation. Whatever had called them here, whatever force had pulled them from behind their layers of protection, had to be powerful beyond comparison.

Everyone already knew who it was.

His name didn’t need to be spoken. It echoed silently through every breath, every glance. His weight was already in the room, even if his steps hadn’t yet touched the floor.

Whatever influence he held, whatever authority had brought the untouchable to heel, it was about to reveal itself.

And whatever he had come to say would not be ignored.

And then, the one they had all been waiting for revealed himself—without ceremony, without delay.

From the far edge of the stage, the sound of footsteps broke the stillness. Each step landed with precise weight, slow and deliberate, like the ticking of some vast clock counting down to inevitability. A tension spread through the hall—not sudden, but steady—curling into spines and coiling behind ribs.

He emerged from the shadows like a figure drawn in ink.

His entire form was wrapped in obsidian black. The fabric clung to him like liquid armor, polished yet unornamented, as if carved from intent itself. Nothing about him shimmered. Nothing needed to. His presence didn’t beg for attention—it swallowed it. A quiet, composed force that bent the gaze of every person in the room without demand.

Loose strands of black hair framed a face unblemished by time or strain, his features carved with an almost unnatural symmetry. But it was his eyes that broke the air.

They didn’t merely reflect the world—they folded it. Within those pupils, there were depths that moved, slow and infinite, like constellations rearranging themselves behind a pane of still water.

Anyone who met his Gaze felt a moment of vertigo, as if they were being seen not as who they were, but as the total of all they had been—and all they might become.

No one dared breathe too loudly.

His arrival didn’t need an introduction. It didn’t even require acknowledgment. The way the stage held him, the way the silence settled around him—it all spoke on his behalf.

Because he wasn’t just a man.

He was the convergence of everything they feared, everything they followed, and everything they now depended on. The one who had summoned them. The one whose voice, when it came, would not carry opinion but declaration. And the one who, whether they liked it or not, now stood as the face of humanity itself.

"I appreciate each of you for taking the time to be here."

Adyr’s voice was low, steady, and almost casual, delivered without force or emphasis. It was the kind of tone someone might use in a quiet conversation, not while standing before the most powerful people alive. And yet, the effect it had was anything but subtle.

The moment the words reached the room, a strange chill ran through the crowd. People didn’t know why, but something about it unsettled them.

Then he bowed his head.

Just slightly—barely more than a tilt. A simple gesture of respect and gratitude.

And that was when the discomfort deepened.

It wasn’t the act itself. There was nothing wrong with showing humility.

But coming from him, it felt... off. Almost unnatural. As if the very idea of this man lowering his head violated something everyone instinctively believed. Like watching the sky fall in the wrong direction.

Their minds told them it was a respectful gesture.

But their bodies whispered, This isn’t how it should be.

What none of them realized was that Adyr had already filled the room—quietly, effortlessly—with his Presence and Grace.

His Presence didn’t overwhelm. It didn’t shout. It simply was. And with it came a kind of stillness, a pressure so subtle it could be mistaken for calm.

But it was his Grace that completed it. Where Malice might inspire fear, Grace stirred the opposite: Mercy. Not human mercy—gentle, flawed, familiar—but something colder. Broader. Detached. The kind of mercy that belongs to something above, not equal.

That feeling—being in the presence of something greater—was what unsettled them.

It reached into something primitive, something old and buried, and awakened it. And once that sensation mixed with the soft authority of his Presence, no one in the room could help but feel as though they were standing in front of a higher being.

Adyr’s Gaze swept across the room, making every one of them feel exposed, stripped bare in a way that left no part of them hidden. It added an extra weight to the growing belief that he was no longer human. And when he saw that same expression mirrored on every face, he felt a deep sense of satisfaction.

These bloodline talents are truly terrifying, Adyr couldn’t help but think, quietly pleased by the power he now carried.

"I called this meeting because there’s something I need from you."

Adyr’s tone was steady and professional, not forceful—but not soft, either. He didn’t give an order, nor did he ask for permission. Instead, he presented his words with the careful precision of someone who understood influence better than authority.

He spoke as if he were offering them a choice. As if their decisions would be entirely their own.

And that was exactly how it felt.

By the time his voice faded, most had already begun to agree, without even hearing what he was going to ask.