In the east, beyond the borders of Najta, an inhospitable world awaited anyone who dared to venture into it: Ayaria. A continent where the sun reigned all year, casting its warmth over vast stretches of sand. The wind-carved grooves created countless successions of dunes, waves frozen in time. Like islands in that dry sea, oases and large rock formations rose at scattered points. Their existence represented the sole source of life for the inhabitants of such an adverse environment.

One "island" stood out above the rest: a grand range of sandstone cliffs with imposing and rugged walls, a natural barrier against the abundant threats of the desert. Discreet passages opened in some of its sections, passageways that led to ascending paths constructed upon the rock. The destination of these paths was a grand open-air city. A significant portion of its magnificent structures were nothing more than strips of rock excavated and sculpted with extraordinary beauty and precision. Surrounding them, rows of merchants displayed their goods in small shops and makeshift carpets.

"Good, pretty and cheap!"

"Lerian palm dates! Divine fruits within your salary's reach!"

"Faisha! Instant cure! Better to have it and not need it than to need it and perish without remedy!"

All competed to attract the streams of potential customers passing by with flamboyant slogans.

But away from that crowd, the most impressive creation stood: a two-story palace, its entrance composed of six narrow columns preceding its arched doors. The columns were composed of two parts: a pyramid anchored to the ground and another one on the ceiling, connected at their tips like hourglasses. On the second level of the structure, walls exhibited elaborate reliefs depicting the sun. Among them, a large balcony offered a privileged view of the city. An emblem composed of intricate curved lines converging at a central point was inscribed in the stone at the peak of the palace: a graphic approximation of one of nature's most powerful forces.

Beyond the balcony portal lay a grand meeting hall, featuring an expansive table in front of a majestic throne carved in sandstone. A man sat upon it, his hands resting on the ends of its straight armrests. The authority exuded by his posture and stature made him blend seamlessly with the sculpture at first glance.

Suddenly, an individual entered the room through one of its doors and stood before the man.

"Mugnatir," he greeted him by his title with his raspy voice, kneeling in a brief bow, "Why have you summoned me?"

He was a robust man with a thick beard and black hair, with clusters of gray indicating his proximity to old age. His rugged features, among which stood out his broad aquiline nose, large ears, and amber round eyes like those of a feline, gave him a wild appearance. The orange cape cascading over his back and the reddish attire protected by pieces of greenish metal suggested a military rank. His feet were adorned with pointed leather boots.

"Before I tell you, do you bring any new report for me, Rayishar?" The man on the throne interrogated him. His words echoed in the room like those of a god: circumspection and virility embodied in his voice.

"Yes," Rayishar nodded, "The Jinnad of the Seas has docked safely in Likitia. The loot is ready to be transported."

"Good," Mugnatir muttered coldly. His closed lips stretched into a small smile. "Hehehehe."

Ugh... Here it comes, Rayishar thought, a concealed expression of annoyance and disdain appearing on his mouth. Those interrupted laughter bouts were the signal that he was about to be subjected to one of Mugnatir's arrogant monologues. His master extended and opened both hands, showing him the black, oval gems embedded in the metallic gloves he wore on them.

"Still haven't figured out the reason I summoned you, Rayishar? Do you know what I have in my hands?" he said, "The upgraded version of my Mitelos! The 'Soul Whips'!"

Rayishar grunted in confusion, not understanding the significance of that pretentious name and Mugnatir's satisfaction with it.

"'Soul Whips'? What are you talking about?... They look like the same old Mitelos to me; I don't see any difference."

Mugnatir rested his hands on the armrests once again.

"You easily let appearances deceive you! I know what they can do. I'll demonstrate it right now, to you and the other Sahirons," he assured his subordinate, "Go down to the dungeons and bring a Grianzan here! It can be anyone; I'll leave that to your discretion."

Rayishar frowned, his countenance turning into that of an irritated beast.

"Argh," he grumbled. Despite having spent years under Mugnatir's leadership, there was nothing that bothered him more than obeying his instructions, no matter how small they were. "As you command, Mugnatir."

He complied reluctantly, turned, and left through the same door he had entered. Then, Mugnatir made eye contact with a circular panel embedded in the wall to the right of his throne: a panel with the same pattern of lines as the palace emblem.

Slowly, he raised his right arm and extended his hand to press it.

This is a perfect occasion to activate the multiple zeldan. To call all the masters of Ayaria and bring them here: to the Rock of Savar.

The panel sank slightly. As soon as Mugnatir withdrew his hand from it, it retracted again, and its lines glowed in an intense light blue.

I, Mugnatir, command you to heed my call, my Sahirons!

Outside, in the city, many turned their attention to the grand building as they noticed its emblem shining in the same manner; beams of its light spread above its streets and beyond. It was the unmistakable signal that the legendary mystical warriors of those lands, the Sahirons, also known as the "Masters of Ayaria," had just been summoned to the interior of that palace: the Rock of Savar. In the meeting hall, a faint mist materialized next to one of the chairs at the table, dissipating to take the form of a person: the first Sahiron to respond to the "zeldan" — the subtle but powerful nefeshic link sent to them — and be transported by it to that place.

Baharen Ibad, Ayarian master of water. Carrier of the will of Protereus, the ruthless god of the seas. Creator of surges that destroy ports and ships.

Mugnatir recognized him instantly: he was one of his most loyal and young warriors; a warrior he had rescued from certain capture the day before thanks to the power of his "zeldans." He looked fully recovered from the battle, dressed in his characteristic corsair attire; his golden cutlass was wielded in his right hand.

Another mist appeared to his right, at the central seat of the table, revealing a feminine silhouette.

Ramilah Makrar, Ayarian mistress of the sand. Creator of illusions that deceive the senses. Stirrer of tempests that devour everything in their path like voracious locusts.

She was a mature woman, but with a well-preserved natural beauty: voluptuous figure and warm bronzed skin. Plates of jade metal joined with strips of black and scarlet silk covered her body in a protective outfit that looked both like that of an exotic dancer. Her face was partially concealed by a veil, beneath which lay her handsome features: sharp chin, full lips, lively eyes, and a well-defined nose. Her left hand held an elongated golden staff, its upper end terminating in a solid sphere.

In succession, the other Sahirons made their appearance until they occupied the remaining seats at the table.

Ruk Samaron, Ayarian master of the air. With his wings, he soars through the skies like a desert hawk. His 'feathers' and claws cut through even the hardest of steels.

He was a young man, wearing armor equipped with a pair of wings hanging from his arms, their 'feathers' actually sharp scales resembling knives. His helmet had the shape of a hawk's head, ending in a prolonged beak at its top; the features around these pieces displayed regal traits befitting the animal they represented. Golden gauntlets with crystalline gems embedded on their backs and grooves at their ends covered his hands.

Babol Afarit, Ayarian master of fire. The sole successor of the legendary Surul Kaduwa style, the invincible undulating blade. Everything touched by his whips and whirlwinds of fire turns into ashes.

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The new and final Sahiron to present himself was contemporaneous with his counterpart of the air, appearing to be around 25 to 30 years old; yet, his more expressionless and sophisticated aura stood out, created by his circumspect eyes and completely shaved beard. The plates of his armor had wavy patterns and edges, resembling static green flames. His head was covered, except for his face, by a helmet bearing features reminiscent of a fox's jaws. His right hand held the golden hilt of a peculiar whip with a long and flat metal blade, coiled in a spiral.

Mugnatir glanced at each of his warriors. He was pleased; they all responded promptly, none ignoring his call.

"Excellent," he said. "You may be seated."

The four sheathed their weapons and took their respective seats after his instruction.

"Mugnatir," Ramilah called him on behalf of her companions, taking advantage of her central position at the table. Her voice denoted power and character, an essence of feminine authority that rivaled his masculine one. "Why have you summoned us again today?" She asked. They had had another meeting the day before, and it was not common for them to gather again with so little time apart.

"We finally have the ultimate weapon to conquer Netzach," Mugnatir announced, "and to crush the wretched Holy House of Lis once and for all."

Some arms crossed.

"This isn't the first time you've told us that..." Babol, the master of fire, questioned, revealing his pessimism. "Every time we've laid siege to Netzach the other Holy Houses have forced us to retreat."

"But not this time."

Mugnatir stepped away from his throne, standing tall before his warriors. His height, reaching six feet three inches, contributed to his imposing image. A black tunic with triangular yellow stripes and linear patterns like his emblem covered him from head to toe. Beneath his hood, a distinctive face peeked out. His physique was remarkable, different from the rest of the Ayarians, with even darker skin, toasted like coffee beans, thick lips, and a broad nose. Some of his short, black, tightly coiled hair could be seen. Despite his rough exterior appearance, his presence exuded great class and elegance.

"This time, we have something foolproof. An advantage that not even the combined Holy Houses can surpass," he asserted. He opened his hands and displayed the black gems in his palms, just as he did with Rayishar. "The Soul Whips!"

Once again, his audience showed no signs of being impressed, despite his sensational enthusiasm.

"Aren't those the same 'Mitelos' you've always had?" Ruk challenged, disoriented by not seeing anything new. "What's so special about these so-called 'Soul Whips'?"

Mugnatir furrowed his brow. "You'll see, their appearance is deceiving," he affirmed, not losing his confidence despite the poor reception. "Do I have a volunteer?"

Ruk and Babol responded with silent glances expressing their annoyance and total disapproval. Ramilah, on the other hand, smiled nervously. As strong as she was herself, she knew how formidable her leader's exceptional talent in sorcery could be. The last thing she wanted was to find out what new ability he had mastered.

"Oooh..." Mugnatir muttered. At this point, he didn't need to hear an oral response to know the general consensus. "Nobody dares. A very wise, but cowardly choice."

Someone stood up.

"I volunteer!"

What?!

His companions turned wide-eyed. It was none other than Baharen.

"I can help you to test those Soul Whips if necessary, Master!" the corsair reaffirmed, armed with a courage that took his fellow companions by surprise.

"Admirable, very well, Ibad. That's the spirit a Sahiron should have," Mugnatir was pleased with his attitude. He scolded the other warriors with a stern gaze. "You should be ashamed! He, who has just joined our ranks, has made you all look like a joke!... SPINELESS BUNCH!"

They all fell silent after his reprimand. It had been a strange and uncomfortable moment, one of the many that the eccentric and volatile character of Mugnatir was accustomed to.

"Mugnatir..." Ramilah called out, ignoring his outburst as she noticed something that seemed more important to her. "Where is Rayishar? Shouldn't he be...?"

Just as she was about to finish her second question, the robust man silenced her as he entered the room.

Rayishar, Ayarian master of strength and physical prowess. Arms that lift and break blocks of granite, legs that leap walls inaccessible even to giants of myths. The greatest beast tamer of all Sulfnats.

Using a chain attached to a collar around his neck, he dragged a prisoner into the room, his hands cuffed. With his fair skin, beard, and chestnut hair, it was evident that he was a foreigner. Tattered rags were his pitiful attire.

"Mugnatir, here's a Grianzan, just as you requested." Rayishar said, standing before him.

"Good, good," Mugnatir replied. He turned to Baharen. "You can sit, Ibad. I was just teasing all of you. I'm not foolish enough to punish my warriors with my abilities," he clarified, pointing to the prisoner. "This filthy Grianzan will be the chosen one."

The prisoner shuddered as the eyes of the hooded man landed on him. More than his ordinary left eye, with its droopy form and almost-black iris like the night, it was his right eye that terrified him: a metallic patch with a small reflector. In its center, a oval-shaped crystalline gem fixed with a bright, mobile red dot acting as its pupil. The pronounced scar from a deep cut extended below that artificial eye to the limits of his right cheek, a bitter and indelible reminder of a humiliating defeat suffered in his youth.

For the prisoner, it was like looking at the face of a true monster. All the rumors he had heard about him turned out to be true.

"Rayishar, remove the chains."

Amidst stifled grunts, Rayishar followed the instruction. Now, the handcuffs were the only thing restricting the prisoner's movement. Mugnatir extended his right hand toward them, aiming his black gem — the Mitelo — in their direction.

Wha-?!

In an instant, the handcuffs loosened and fell to the ground on their own, leaving the prisoner astounded.

"Step back," Mugnatir instructed Rayishar, noticing that he was still close to his target.

Understanding what Mugnatir might be about to do, Rayishar obeyed and moved to one end of the table. Mugnatir turned his gaze back to the others.

"Watch what happens to any human being who is lashed by the Soul Whips," he said with a sepulchral seriousness before returning his attention to the test subject, still paralyzed by fear. "Come, come and try to kill me, you damned sheep." Mugnatir provoked him, and the red dot in his artificial eye flickered with intermittent but controlled hatred. "Isn't that the order of 'His Majesty Renardin'? Aren't you going to do anything to the greatest traitor of the Kingdom of Lebias? The most wanted criminal, the vile assassin of the last princess of the Dragar dynasty: Mugnatir!"

The provocation had its effect. The prisoner's hands clenched into fists, and a grimace of anger spread across his wrinkled face.

"AAARGH!"

Then, he lunged towards Mugnatir to strike him. He forgot his terror for that moment and transformed it into wrath, directing it towards the infamous figure. After all, he had nothing left to lose.

Mugnatir remained completely unfazed. He lifted his right hand and placed it in front of him as a signal to halt.

Soul Whips: torment of the soul.

"Uh?"

To their astonishment, the witnesses saw how the prisoner seemed to obey the gesture like a trained dog, abruptly stopping just as he was about to punch him. The prisoner stood there, completely petrified, transfixed, and gaping. Cold sweat ran down his trembling muscles.

"You are witnessing the mild phase of the Soul Whips: torment of the soul," Mugnatir explained to his warriors. "At this moment, this wretched sheep is daydreaming, not just any dream, but a nightmare as terrifying as hell itself. He has lost control of his consciousness, of his soul."

A nightmare…

More terrifying than hell itself?

He has lost...?

His soul...?

The Sahirons repeated to themselves in their thoughts as they continued to watch the subdued prisoner, hypnotized by the sight. The prisoner brought his hands to his head.

"AAAAAH!" he cried out, frightening everyone. Unlike the battle cry he had previously let out, this was a cry of deep horror and despair.

Other similar screams followed. The unfortunate man could not stop shaking his head, a victim of indescribable suffering beyond physical pain.

Having seen enough, Mugnatir opened and extended his right hand again.

"Soul Whips: annihilation of the 'self'."

The screams suddenly ceased, and the prisoner's head jerked sharply and briefly. He dropped his arms, and his suffering vanished, along with any other sensation. His eyes slowly rolled back, revealing an empty white. With nothing holding him up, he collapsed, falling backward like a tree struck by lightning.

Ruk and Baharen exclaimed:

"Is he dead?!"

"But how?!"

They couldn't take their eyes off the lifeless body. The other Sahirons kept their equally great perplexity in silence. While they were already familiar with similar techniques, they had never witnessed ones as irrefutable and devastating as the ones their leader had just demonstrated.

"Yes! His soul is annihilated! I attacked his mind with highly concentrated mitelic currents to destroy his consciousness. His body is nothing more than an inert shell, a withered plant," asserted Mugnatir, clenched his fists, and raised his arms, waving them angrily. "The same fate awaits Renardin and all the Holy Warriors who stand in my way!"

"And what about the Abiyr, Master? Aren't we going to do anything if he opposes us again?" Baharen inquired. Despite his experience with the wandering knight and the group's deliberations from the day before, he couldn't help but feel uneasy about his existence, which translated into a potential threat.

"You said it yourself, only if he challenges us again," Mugnatir responded, regaining his composure without a hint of doubt. "For now, we'll wait while continuing to gather information." He smiled maliciously. "I'm sure we can manipulate him. We can gain a lot from his presence in Najta."

The captain nodded and turned to his neighbor.

"Sayih Ramilah, have you received any news about Amir?" He referred to the man from his crew who had been left behind during the battle at the port of Cirencre.

The woman shook her head.

"No," she said, regretting not having anything good to report.

His fate was practically a certainty for her and everyone else. Baharen was also aware of it, but he clung to small shreds of hope.

"I'm sorry, Ibad... I'm afraid there's nothing we can do anymore," Mugnatir added, understanding his feelings. "But I promise you... I guarantee you that with my conquest plan, he and many other Faricums before him will be avenged."

"We will avenge them," Baharen murmured, gazing meditatively at the surface of the table before returning a determined look. "I will fight with all my strength to make it happen. May Senshan bear witness."

Once again, his words momentarily silenced the room with the power of his firmness.

"What is this 'conquest plan' exactly?" Ramilah inquired, crossing her legs and intertwining her fingers in a sign of evident interest.

Mugnatir proceeded to walk around the table.

"That's what I was getting to; it's the second and most important reason I've gathered you, my Sahirons," he said to them. "The details are plentiful, and each of you has roles to play, so listen very carefully because you must understand it perfectly."