Damon and the Iron fleet began their journey toward Constellation Realm—Necropolis, but to get into a Constellation Realm, they should cross an Astral Realm which is guarding it. The Necropolis is guarded by the God of River realm.To enter the Astral Realm, the iron fleet should reach the horizon of earth at the Pacific ocean. At the horizon, a sudden shift of change at a specific temporal point with ancient chants leads to the obsidian waters of Astral Realm. The journey to the Astral Realm is long lasting, and two days passed like a calm warm gust in the summer season. ****Near Astral Realm..The boundary of the Astral Realm was not marked by a gate or a wall, but by the sudden, terrifying death of sound. One moment, the Kashima Maru was battling the churning, salt-heavy waves of the Pacific, and suddenly in the next moment, the ocean became a mirror. The navy blue water vanished, replaced by a substance that looked like polished obsidian. It was perfectly flat, stretching infini

Damon Silverstar stood on the observation deck, motionless. He had not moved for six hours. He did not blink, and his chest did not rise or fall with the rhythm of human breath. To the sailors who hurried past him, he looked like a statue carved from starlight and obsidian.[Synchronization: 55.7%][Condition: Biological Rejection / Celestial Transition][Mana Reserve: 150 / 150]Inside his mind, Goddess of Fate was the architect. The silk had begun to rewrite his internal anatomy. His stomach, once a hollow organ for the digestion of human food, had shrivelled into a hard, glowing knot of mana. His veins were no longer conduits for blood, but channels for a liquid, crimson starlight that hummed with a low-frequency vibration.He felt a profound, aching thirst. It wasn't a thirst for water. The very thought of water felt heavy, crude, and foul. It was a thirst for the essence of the realm, the raw mana that leaked from the cracks of the Astral Threshold. He could see it drifting in th

Damon stood before the massive bone-gates. He felt the Goddess of Fate's presence flare behind him, her starlight arms wrapping around his waist, her chin resting on his shoulder.[Goddess of Fate]: LOOK AT THIS TOY BOX, MY KING. THE GOD OF DEATH THINKS HE CAN HIDE BEHIND CALCIUM AND SHADOW. SHOW HIM THE POWER OF THE LOOM. USE THE SILK.Damon raised his right hand. He didn't reach for the wooden sword. He didn't reach for the hilt of the Kusanagi. He tucked his left hand, the hand that still had a few human scars, the hand that had held Isolde’s, into the pocket of his tattered coat."I will not use the Iron," Damon whispered. "I will use the Silk."He snapped his fingers.SH-RIP.The bone-gates didn't break; they unraveled. The leviathan bone was turned into millions of red threads that Damon instantly wove into a massive, jagged needle. He flicked his wrist, and the needle punched through the first dozen Sentinels, sewing their armor to the palace floor. They didn't even have time t

Damon drifted toward the bridge. He moved through the glass window as if it were smoke. Tanaka and Kaito scrambled back, their hands on their weapons, their faces pale with a primal terror. They didn't see the man who had shared soup with them. They saw a predator from the highest heavens. "Damon-sama... stay back," Tanaka rasped, his blade shaking. Damon didn't look at him. He walked toward Isolde. She stood her ground, her sapphire core glowing with a desperate, defensive intensity. "Niisan," she whispered, her voice a small, human spark in the cold radiance of the room. "You... you saved us from the beast. But you didn't even try to stop the breath. You just watched them turn to salt." Damon stopped. He looked at

Damon Silverstar stood at the edge of the prow. He was no longer a man standing on a ship; he was a beacon of cold, celestial fire anchoring the fleet to reality. [Synchronization: 59.7%][Sovereignty Boundary Detected][Aura Detected: The Goddess of Fate’s Mandate]The amber cracks on his skin had deepened into shimmering grooves of liquid starlight. His porcelain skin was so translucent that the rhythmic pulse of his mana veins was visible beneath the surface, a web of crimson lightning that defied the utter stillness of the realm. His hair, now a flowing river of silver silk, drifted upward in defiance of gravity, trailing a fine mist of red sparks.He looked ahead. Emerging from the violet gloom, there were the ‘Gates of the Silent Queen’. They were two thousand feet of fossilized souls, bone-white pillars that curved together to form a jagged, gothic archway. The gates were guarded by the Cenotaph Sentinels — statues of weeping skeletons the size of skyscrapers, their stone han