Supreme Bloodline Evolution System

Chapter 186: The Land Where the Moon Never Rises

Max turned his head and saw Freya standing behind a broken wall.

Her fingers were pressed weakly against the cracked stone, as if even standing had become something her body could barely manage. Her face was pale, her hair slightly messy around her cheeks, and her eyes looked empty, drained of anger, pride, and even grief, as if she had cried so much that nothing inside her was left strong enough to come out.

"Are you sure?" Max asked.

There was concern in his voice.

It was not much. Max was not the kind of man who softened easily, and even now his voice remained rough, tired, and restrained. But it was enough for Freya to hear the difference.

And when she looked at him, she did not see only the arrogant young king who had taken her away, nor the dangerous man who wanted to conquer everything he laid his eyes on. For a brief moment, she saw a man with broad shoulders, steady arms, and a presence strong enough that someone like her could lean against it without feeling as if she was falling deeper into a cage.

Freya took one step toward him.

Then another.

But before she could reach him properly, her legs finally gave out beneath her.

Max moved at once and caught her before she could fall, his arms wrapping around her shoulders and back to support her weight. He pulled her up carefully, holding her against him without any teasing words this time.

Freya’s forehead rested lightly against his chest.

"I’m sure," she muttered, just loudly enough for him to hear.

Max noticed how quickly her breathing began to calm.

One moment, Freya was still trembling against him, her body heavy from grief and exhaustion, and the next, her eyes slowly closed as sleep finally dragged her away.

Max looked down at her in silence. He did not know how to feel about this whole situation.

A part of him wondered if she was only clinging to him because grief had broken her down so badly that she needed any strong shoulder nearby to keep herself from falling apart.

Another part of him wondered if this had begun before Thor’s death, if the way she looked at him, argued with him, and reacted to his words had already started to change without either of them fully admitting it.

But Max had no time or energy to bother with that now.

He would not become another man’s replacement.

If Freya only saw him as something to fill the empty space Thor had left behind, then Max was ready to toss those feelings aside without hesitation. He wanted many things. He desired her, wanted her, and had already decided that Thor would never have her again even if he still lived, but he would not become a shadow standing in the place of another man.

Still, he did not push her away.

For now, Freya still had her uses. She was still connected to the Thunder Dragon Empire, still valuable, still someone whose presence could help him control what remained of this broken land. And beyond all that, she was a grieving woman who had just buried the life she had known, no matter how suffocating that life had been.

So Max only held her more securely.

His body quickly transformed into his dragon-hybrid form, scales spreading across his skin while his wings stretched far and wide beneath the constant storm. Thunder rolled above him, lighting the ruined citadel in pale flashes, but Max no longer looked back at Thor’s grave.

With a few powerful flaps of his wings, he rose into the air as he turned toward Voidstar, toward the empty plains, the unfinished capital, and the future he had no choice but to build with his own hands.

His new home.

His new beginning.

-----

It was a sunny and scorching hot day in the land where the moon never rose at night.

It was a land where those who decided the fate of mortal lives claimed to live in purity. In this city, there were no beggars, no filth, no poverty, and no suffering that could be seen by the naked eye. For some, it was known as eternal paradise. For others, it was known as the Land of Gods.

Houses stretched far and wide across this place, so many that the borders of the city seemed endless. Every single house was clean, free of dust, and perfectly arranged, with food always placed upon the table as if every family inside was ready to sit down for a peaceful meal at any moment. Yet there was something strange about it as well, something too perfect, too still, too untouched by the chaos of real life.

It felt like a dollhouse built for gods.

In the middle of this endless white city stood twelve castles, each one facing a different direction, surrounding a single citadel that rose so high it seemed to pierce beyond the blue sky itself. Every building was pure white, and golden light was etched into the stone like living veins, pulsing softly with a brilliance that gave no warmth despite how holy it looked. Green trees had been planted neatly on every corner, flowers bloomed everywhere without a single wilted petal, and the canals running through the city carried water so pure that anyone could see the bottom without even leaning close.

To the rest of the world, there was no place more beautiful than this.

There was no place more divine.

And perhaps that was why it felt so distant from anything human.

Inside one of the twelve castles, more precisely the castle standing at the farthest southern point, a young man sat upon a white throne decorated with golden lines. His skin was as pale as a sheet of paper, almost sickly beneath the sunlight pouring through the tall windows, while his eyes carried a strange mix of crimson and gold. His body looked frail, as if a strong wind could break him, yet the imperial robes covering him gave off an authority that made his weakness feel like something untouchable rather than pitiful.

Had Max seen him at that moment, he would have thought the man looked like a Roman emperor from his old world, because his attire carried that same ancient majesty, flowing across his thin frame in heavy white cloth, golden ornaments, and sharp folds that made him seem both holy and cruel.

"Dear Arbiter of Lust," the man spoke slowly, every word leaving his lips with a clarity as clean as the sky above the city. "Your father has perished in lands far away, consumed by a magic unknown to us."

A young woman stood before him.

She wore a white battle dress that was both elegant and sharp, fitted for war despite its purity, with golden lines running along the fabric like sacred marks of authority. Her head was lowered, one hand placed over her chest, while her long brown hair fell over her shoulders in smooth waves. Her eyes were soft, chestnut in color, but when they rose slightly, they still did not dare meet the man’s gaze.

For a moment, the hall remained silent.

Then her lips parted.

"Whom shall I punish, Your Highness?"