HAREM: WARLOCK OF THE SOUTH

The moment Ryon collapsed into the embers of the Hollow Flame Monarch's remains, silence surged through Fyrhaal like a tidal wave. No wind. No roar. Just the stillness of a breath caught in time.

Elara ran to him, sliding on the fractured runes that burned hot beneath her boots. The sigil burned into Ryon's chest pulsed with golden fire—intertwined with cold blue veins of frost, warring inside his skin. His body convulsed, torn between two ancient forces that should never have met.

"Hold him down!" Elara cried. Shaera and Kaela pinned his arms as he spasmed, his eyes glowing white.

Neive began to chant. Her voice was uneven, her lips trembling with dread. She had seen many deaths. But never this kind of transformation.

"I don't think he's dying," she whispered. "I think he's... shifting."

Aurelia stepped forward, her breath short. "The Monarch chose him. That bond was older than us. It waited for someone who could carry both flame and frost."

"But it will tear him apart," Elara said.

"No," Aurelia corrected. "It will rebuild him."

With a violent surge of light, Ryon's body lifted off the ground. The symbol on his chest flared brighter, and a phantom Monarch made of fire and ice hovered above him, roaring silently to the skies.

The cavern walls cracked. Ancient glyphs shattered. And then, all at once—

The flames went out.

Ryon collapsed, smoke rising from his skin.

Kaela rushed to check his pulse.

"He's breathing."

But when he opened his eyes—they weren't the same.

One burned red.

The other shimmered pale blue.

The entire chamber knelt in silence. Even Aurelia bowed her head slightly.

Ryon had changed. And with him, the course of the war would too.

When Ryon awoke, the world had changed.

The air no longer felt like fire. It was heavy. Thick with the bite of snow and the sting of heat. He sat up slowly, surrounded by the leadership of the Requiem. Elara, Aurelia, Neive, Kaela, Shaera—all watched him with expressions ranging from awe to concern.

"What... happened?" he asked.

Elara stepped forward. "You inherited the Hollow Monarch's essence. You are now its Heir."

Ryon's head spun. "But... it was dying."

"It gave you its last breath," Neive said. "And more than that, it marked you as the bridge between opposites."

Aurelia knelt beside him. "You are flame and frost. Heat and cold. That's why the System chose you. That's why she—" she glanced toward Elara—"couldn't wield it."

Elara stiffened, but said nothing.

The System flickered into view.

> Title Earned: Hollow Flame Inheritor

New Class: Frostbrand Pyromancer

Unique Skill: Elemental Reversal – Convert fire to frost and vice versa at will.

Passive Boost: Thermal Balance – Immune to all non-curse-based temperature attacks.

Ryon exhaled slowly. His breath came out as steam and sparks.

"I don't feel human anymore."

"You're not," Elara said. "You're more. But that means they'll fear you even more than before."

"And that's fine," Kaela muttered. "Let them fear him. Let them all burn or freeze trying."

But they had no time to recover.

Because atop Fyrhaal's highest tower—the beacon flared again.

A warning.

The North had begun to march.

That evening, Ryon walked the upper parapets alone, his cloak billowing behind him. The sky had changed. Stars no longer shone clearly. A mist crept across the heavens, dulling the moonlight. He raised his hand and conjured both fire and frost into it—a miniature sun wrapped in snow.

Behind him, Aurelia joined him.

"You feel it, don't you?" she asked.

"The shift."

"Yes," Ryon replied. "Like the world's about to snap."

Aurelia nodded. "The last time I felt that was the day I was sealed."

They stood together in silence.

The Requiem would march soon.

And neither flame nor frost would be enough on their own.

Scouts returned with grim news. Three Northern legions, led by High Frost Warlord Thauren, had crossed the Withered Vale and entered southern territory. Their banners bore the twin serpents—one coiled in flame, the other in shadowed ice.

"They've brought Void-Walkers," one scout said, barely alive. "And Bone Maidens... Things that don't bleed..."

Ryon stood before the war table in Fyrhaal's command chamber. New glyphs pulsed along his forearms—tactical enhancements granted by the Monarch's final pulse.

"We need to split our forces," he said. "Elara and I will take the Crescent Vanguard and hold the Bone Pass. Aurelia, you lead the flame-runners north through the ash tunnels. Cut off their rear."

Aurelia frowned. "You're trusting me... with that?"

"You remember the North," Ryon replied. "I need someone who understands their cruelty."

The room quieted. Shaera tapped her daggers against the edge of the table.

"If this fails, there won't be enough left of Fyrhaal to burn."

Ryon met her eyes. "Then we make sure it doesn't."

Preparations began immediately. Runes were drawn. Wards etched into walls. Fire-fused steel was sharpened. The tribes who had once been rivals now drank war-ink and pledged blood.

Beneath the table, Ryon's hand tightened.

He remembered the Frost Warlord's name.

Thauren.

The one who had ordered the massacre of his village in his past life—the man he had once died fighting.

This wasn't just strategy anymore.

It was vengeance.

Bone Pass was a jagged canyon etched between two mountain ridges. For centuries, it served as a natural barrier against northern invasion. But now, it would become a crucible.

Elara's war banners flew high as the Crescent Vanguard prepared defenses. Magma traps, flame-slicked barriers, and ice-infused bolt throwers lined the canyon.

Ryon stood at the edge of the precipice, his eyes locked on the northern horizon. Snow swirled unnaturally across the cracked terrain.

He could feel them coming.

The first wave hit like a thunderclap. Ice golems led the charge, followed by Void-Walkers cloaked in shadows. Southern warriors met them with shields and roaring flames.

Ryon and Elara fought at the center.

He switched between frost and flame, redirecting enemy attacks and tearing through war beasts. Elara's warfire carved trails of ash through the battlefield.

A Void-Walker lunged at Kaela, but Shaera intercepted it mid-air, her blades slicing in two directions before it could touch the ground.

Neive's chants from the rear amplified every fire strike tenfold, her voidflame runes blazing through the air.

But the enemy adapted. They sent Bone Maidens—undead priestesses draped in cursed silks. Their wails shattered flame wards and turned soldiers mad.

One nearly reached Ryon.

Until Aurelia, arriving through a hidden tunnel, launched a dual-element spear through its chest.

The pass began to shift.

The tide of battle changed.

Fire and frost surged together in harmony.

By dawn, the first wave was broken.

But the worst was still to come.

From the mist beyond the mountains, Thauren himself emerged.

Thauren stood nine feet tall, his armor fused from glacial stone and black iron. His eyes burned with ancient cruelty.

He raised a hand—and the ground around him died. Trees withered. Flame dimmed.

"You," he said, pointing at Ryon across the canyon. "You should've stayed dead."

Ryon stepped forward.

"Third time's the charm."

They met in the center, armies parting around them.

Ryon's fire blade clashed against Thauren's ice axe, sparks and frost exploding with every strike. Blow after blow shook the pass. Their battle warped the environment—lava turned to steam, snow to shards.

Thauren's strength was monstrous.

But Ryon's resolve burned hotter.

He remembered the screams of his past. His village. His sister.

With one final surge, Ryon used Elemental Reversal, flipping fire into frost and freezing Thauren's armor.

Then he ignited it from within.

Thauren screamed.

And shattered.

The Frost Warlord was dead.

But as the dust settled, the ground beneath them cracked.

A pit opened.

And something ancient began to rise.

Not frost.

Not fire.

But shadow.

> System Alert: Ancient Entity Awakening...

In the aftermath of Thauren's death, the silence was fractured only by the wheezing breaths of survivors and the hiss of molten snow. But beneath the pass, far below the battlefield, something stirred.

Ryon stood at the precipice of the sinkhole that had opened behind Thauren's shattered body. Purple mist rose from within, thick and unnatural. It was the kind of cold that whispered lies. The kind of shadow that remembered names.

"Seal it," Elara ordered.

"No," Ryon said, eyes narrowing. "I need to go down."

"You're not going alone."

Ryon didn't argue. He descended first, followed by Aurelia, Shaera, and Neive. They entered a sunken vault carved from obsidian and ancient frostbone. On the walls were murals of fire queens kneeling before something unseen—something vast and crowned in black antlers.

The Monarch's voice echoed in Ryon's mind, faint and distant.

You must awaken me. Or they will.

In the center of the vault, a cocoon of hollow flame flickered weakly. Inside floated an incomplete entity—a remnant of the Hollow Monarch not yet reborn.

A figure cloaked in ancient robes knelt beside it. Not Northern. Not Southern.

Neutral.

She turned to them.

"You're too late. The world has already begun to remember."

Then her body burst into petals of flame and ash.

The cocoon cracked.

And a scream tore through the vault.

Not of rage.

Not of grief.

But of warning.