Caelen stood unmoving, his right hand resting against the cold glass of the now-closed window. The warmth that once bathed his room had vanished, swallowed by a creeping darkness that bled into every corner.
From his body, something began to seep.
A strange miasma—thick, slow, and heavy—uncoiled into the air. It carried with it a dread that could not be named, only felt. A suffocating pressure, as though the world itself recoiled from its presence. It was black beyond shadow, darker than the moon's hidden face, and it wrapped around Caelen like a second skin.
And within that oppressive veil… something stirred.
A figure emerged.
It was not human. It had no fixed shape, no true flesh nor bone—only a formless spirit of writhing darkness. Its existence felt wrong, as if it had slipped through a fracture in reality itself. To gaze upon it was to invite madness; to linger was to lose oneself entirely.
"What do you want now?" Caelen spoke at last, his voice low, cold, stripped of any trace of fear. "Did I give you permission to show yourself?"
The creature did not answer.
Its ever-shifting form loomed over him, circling like a storm cloud given will. This was not its true body—only a forced, partial manifestation. From the churning darkness, grotesque hands took shape, massive and misshapen, reaching slowly toward Caelen's throat.
They closed around his neck.
Not in violence.
Not yet.
The grip was firm but restrained, a reminder rather than a threat. A warning of what it could do—what it was waiting to do.
Caelen did not flinch. His hand remained pressed to the window, his head lowered. His father's journal weighed heavily in his thoughts, every word still fresh, still bleeding into him.
What is Fate?What is Destiny?
Was he bound from birth, dragged along a path carved by unseen hands?
Or was Destiny something seized—claimed through defiance and will?
He exhaled slowly.
"I won't be chained anymore," he murmured. "Not by Fate. Not by anyone."
His right hand lifted.
The darkness around him responded.
A fragment of the miasma twisted violently, spiraling into itself like a collapsing star. Space warped, torn apart as though reality itself screamed in protest. A Gate formed—unstable, jagged, alive.
From within it, something emerged.
Shadow… and light.
Flames that burned without warmth, forged from the deepest black. Power dense enough to bend the air around it.
The Will of Adam.
The remnants of his father's existence. His final gift. His shadow.
Caelen reached out and grasped it—not with hunger, but with care. Yet beneath that gentleness, his heart churned.
Hatred.
Anger.
Resolve.
"Papa left his Will with me," he whispered. "So I could protect Mama… from whatever comes for us."
His fingers tightened.
"But that won't be enough."
The shadows flared.
"I'll forge it into a weapon," he continued, his voice steady, deliberate. "An instrument the universe has never seen."
A pause.
"And with it, I won't just protect her."
His eyes lifted—burning, sharp, predatory.
"I'll avenge him."
"Percival… Heinrich."
The names tasted like poison.
"You'll feel the weight of what you took from me," Caelen said, his gaze piercing the darkness like a beast unchained. Not a hero.
A devil answering devils.
"I won't grant you death."
"Only suffering."
As the vow settled into his soul, the creature looming above him let out a slow, distorted chuckle. The sound crawled through the room, monstrous and wrong, the kind of laughter that haunted nightmares.
Within its shifting mass, a gaping maw opened—rows upon rows of jagged teeth, like the gates of hell itself. Saliva dripped freely, eager, hungry.
Waiting.
Yet Caelen did not look at it.
Instead, his gaze fell to the ring hanging from the chain around his neck. It pulsed faintly, steeped in an ominous familiarity.
"I don't remember when this creature first appeared," he thought. "Only that I always held onto this ring… just to keep what little sanity I had."
Memories surfaced—dark places, endless captivity, years stolen before he even understood what freedom meant.
"When I was five… it emerged from the ring. I didn't know what it was. Only that it spoke to me in my lowest moments."
"And protected me."
He swallowed.
"I kept it hidden. From everyone."
A bitter thought followed.
"Especially from Percival."
His jaw tightened.
"That man is more of a devil than the demon standing over me now."
And worse…
"He probably already knows."
His hand curled around the ring once more.
It was old—stolen long ago by Adam from the depths of a forgotten treasury during his reckless youth. The same ring he had used to propose to Miria.
The same ring she had placed around Caelen's neck at birth.
A promise.
A bond.
A reminder that not even death could sever their family.
And Caelen swore—silently—that Fate itself would break before it ever took that away from him.
The creature looming over Caelen began to shift.
Its formless mass tightened, condensed—its presence growing sharper, more aware. The miasma pulsed, as if drawing breath.
"S–say… m–my… n–name… M–master…" it rasped, its voice layered, distorted, crawling against the walls of Caelen's mind.
Caelen did not look up.
"No," he replied coldly. "I will speak your name when I decide to."
He slowly turned his head, his single visible eye carrying no fear—only control.
"I don't know if you are the Devil himself, or some fallen angel that crawled out of Heaven's shadow," he continued. "But whatever you are, you will never leave this ring."
The creature recoiled, its mass rippling.
"I know exactly what you are capable of," Caelen said, his voice low and steady. "And I have no intention of letting you destroy the quiet life my mother and I have carved out."
His gaze hardened.
"So return."
His eye flared with untamed fury.
"I won't repeat myself."
For the first time, the creature hesitated.
Then—fear.
The miasma shrank, unraveling in on itself like smoke pulled into a vacuum. A sound like a distant wail echoed as the entity was dragged back into the ring. The glow around the band dimmed, its pulse fading to a dormant whisper.
The shadow-flames hovering before Caelen followed soon after, slipping back through the spatial tear he had opened moments earlier. The gate sealed itself shut, space knitting together as if nothing had ever been disturbed.
"C–Caelen!"
A sudden familiar voice snapped him back to reality.
Miria.
Caelen straightened immediately. He smoothed his expression, forcing a gentle smile onto his face—one he had perfected over years of hiding pain. By the time he stepped out of his room, nothing of the darkness remained.
But the moment he saw his mother, the smile cracked.
Miria stood rigid, her hands clenched at her chest, eyes wide with unease. She was trying to speak—but the words wouldn't come.
"C–Caelen…" she whispered at last, her voice small. "P–people… s–strange people… a–at the d–door."
Her fear struck him harder than any blade.
His heart sank.
Percival? his mind raced. Did he find us?
Instinct took over.
If they had come to harm her… then there would be no mercy.
Caelen slipped the chain from his neck, sliding the ring onto his finger in one smooth motion. The metal felt cold. Familiar. Ready.
"I'll handle it," he said softly, placing himself between Miria and the door.
Still shaking, Miria followed him anyway—refusing to let her son face danger alone.
The door creaked open.
And the world outside shattered every expectation.
Rows upon rows of knights stood at attention, their armor immaculate, their presence disciplined and overwhelming. Elite soldiers—veterans whose auras alone spoke of countless battles.
Behind them stretched an impossible sight: lavish carriages, steam-driven vehicles, servants and maids clad in finery, banners fluttering in the morning air. Wealth and power gathered in one place, bending the street beneath its weight.
A crimson carpet had been laid from the gate to their doorstep.
And upon it walked a man.
No—something more.
A golden crown rested upon his head, bearing a sigil old as legend. His attire radiated refinement and authority, as though the world itself acknowledged his right to rule.
He stopped before them.
Then spoke.
"Greetings," the man said, his voice warm—yet carrying a gravity that demanded silence. "Great Hero of the Highest King."
Caelen froze.
"It is my honor to stand before you."
The man placed a hand over his chest.
"My name is Emperor Arthur Aurelius Pendragon," he declared, light seeming to gather around him. "Sovereign Ruler of the Imperial Empire of Great Britain."
A king.
My king.
Caelen's breath caught.
The Emperor continued, unfazed by the shock rippling through the crowd. "I wished to meet you long ago—after your existence was revealed through the prophecy of the Blind Oracle."
"But I delayed," Arthur said calmly. "To protect you. And those you cherish."
Caelen's fists clenched.
"I feared exposing you too early would place you in danger. We lacked the means to safeguard all four heroes of this world."
A pause.
"That problem has now been resolved."
Caelen felt the weight of those words settle heavily on his shoulders.
"It was Graviil Ivanovich who guided me to you," the Emperor added.
The name rang a bell.
The silver-haired man… the man he had seen with Aunt Victoria before, a while back. Did Victoria tell that man about their whereabouts? As she would be the only one to know of it.
Why would Aunt Victoria tell that man where they would be?
Before Caelen could process the thought—
The Emperor knelt.
Gasps rippled through the gathered crowd.
A king—bowing before a boy.
Before a broken family in a forgotten home.
Arthur Aurelius Pendragon lowered himself without hesitation, without pride.
And in that moment, the dread lingering in the air cracked—replaced by something far rarer.
Hope.
Behind the Emperor, the knights tightened formation, holding the stunned onlookers at bay.
The world had come knocking.
And it had brought a crown with it.
"Your Majesty…?" Caelen questioned quietly, his voice laced with disbelief as he stared at the kneeling Emperor.
Arthur did not allow the words to settle.
"My title as king," the Emperor said calmly, lifting his gaze, "does not even begin to compare to the gravity of your existence, O Great Hero."
He rose just enough to meet Caelen's eyes.
"For you are the Fated Hero of the Highest King. The one destined to stand against the chaos and darkness gnawing at the edges of this universe."
Before Caelen could react, Arthur gently took the boy's right hand.
And kissed it.
The gesture was neither theatrical nor exaggerated—it was reverent. Submissive.
"I, Arthur Aurelius Pendragon," he declared, his voice carrying unmistakable authority, "Emperor of Great Britain, swear unto you my utmost loyalty and protection."
The surrounding knights stiffened.
"I hereby bestow upon you the highest noble title my empire may grant."
A pause.
"Grand Duke."
The word echoed.
"From this day forward," Arthur continued, "you shall be known as Grand Duke Caelen Durandal—one of my few and most trusted dukes."
He gestured broadly.
"You and your mother will depart this place and reside within the Grand Palace of Great Britain, under my direct protection, for as long as you draw breath."
Caelen stood frozen.
Grand Duke.
The words felt unreal. Absurd. Like a poorly constructed illusion.
A dream, his mind insisted. This has to be a dream.
Yet the air was solid. The Emperor's grip was warm. The weight pressing against his chest was undeniable.
Reality.
Arthur then turned to Miria.
He took her trembling hand gently and pressed a respectful kiss against her knuckles.
"It is an honor to meet you," he said softly. "Mother of the Fated One."
"Grand Duchess."
Miria froze.
Her thoughts tangled, emotions colliding faster than she could shape them into words. Her cheeks flushed crimson, her breath catching as she stared at the man before her.
For just a moment—
She saw Adam.
The way Arthur knelt. The way he looked up at her. The quiet respect in his eyes.
Memories surged.
Her eyes shimmered with a fragile, radiant light—the gaze of a love that had never truly faded.
Arthur turned back to Caelen.
"Will you accept my offer," he asked, his tone earnest, "from the deepest part of my being, Great Fated Hero?"
Caelen's expression emptied.
The mask he had worn shattered.
Fated Hero…
Again with that word.
Who decided that?
Who decided that I should carry this burden?
Because of this so-called fate, he had been taken.
Because of it, his arm was gone.
Because of it—
Adam, his dear father, was dead.
And now they dared dress that suffering up as honor.
I don't care about this world, he thought coldly. I don't care about salvation, or innocence, or prophecy.
His gaze flickered to Miria.
All that matters… is her.
If rejecting this fate meant endangering her—then rejection was not an option.
If embracing it gave him power, status, protection—then so be it.
Fine.
He would carry their "heroism."
But not as Fate decreed.
As he chose.
Destiny—by will.
"I accept," Caelen said at last, his voice steady. "I will take your offer, Your Majesty."
Arthur's face lit with restrained relief.
At once, he issued orders to his attendants—every possession within the house was to be transported immediately. No preparation. No delay.
They would leave today.
As Caelen held his mother's hand tightly, following the Emperor toward one of the grand steam-driven carriages, his thoughts settled into grim clarity.
This was not heroism.
This was leverage.
Status. Power. Protection.
If Fate insisted on chaining him—
Then he would turn those chains into weapons.
Just as Adam had written.
Not to be governed by any force.
Only will and self-desire.