A few days had passed since Arcos had discovered the hidden cave deep within the forest.
Those days had not been kind to him.
At first, he had been little more than a starving wanderer, weakened by hunger and exhaustion. Finding food had become a daily battle. Small animals that crossed his path became his prey, and though each meal was meagre, it was enough to keep him alive for another day.
Even so, he never abandoned his training.
Every morning and every evening, he pushed his body beyond its limits, repeating the exercises John had drilled into him. The memories of those lessons were among the few things keeping him focused. Whenever his muscles burned or his stomach growled with hunger, he would hear John's voice in his mind.
"Again."
"You're stronger than you think."
"Never stop moving."
And so he endured.
On a cold morning, pale sunlight filtered through the cracks of the cave entrance. Arcos stirred from his sleep, letting out a tired groan as he slowly opened his eyes.
The moment he did, his heart nearly stopped.
Four figures stood over him.
Two young men and two young women, all clad in polished armour. Their weapons gleamed in the dim light, and every single sword was pointed directly at him.
Arcos instantly sat upright.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
For a brief moment, panic seized him.
Bandits? Soldiers? Hunters?
His body tensed, ready to fight or flee despite knowing he was outnumbered.
One of the men stepped forward. He had short dark hair and a scar running across his cheek. His expression was cold and suspicious.
"Who are you?" he demanded. "And what are you doing in this cave?"
Arcos froze.
His mind raced.
He couldn't tell them the truth.
He couldn't tell them he had no idea where he truly belonged.
Several agonizing seconds passed before he finally forced himself to speak.
"I-I'm an adventurer," he said.
The lie felt awkward on his tongue.
"I'm just using this cave as a place to rest."
The group exchanged wary glances.
For a tense moment, nobody spoke.
Then, slowly, they lowered their swords.
Arcos resisted the urge to sigh in relief.
One of the women stepped forward. She had long auburn hair tied behind her head and sharp amber eyes.
"An adventurer?" she asked.
There was curiosity in her voice, but also doubt.
"Then where are you heading?"
Arcos felt his stomach drop.
Heading?
John had spent hours teaching him about the kingdoms of this world, but most of the names had blurred together in his memory.
His thoughts scrambled desperately.
Then one name surfaced.
Elarindor.
"I... I'm heading to Elarindor."
The words left his mouth before he could think twice.
The group looked at one another again.
Arcos couldn't tell whether that had been the right answer or not.
Whispers broke out among them.
They stepped aside, speaking quietly between themselves while occasionally glancing back at him.
Arcos felt sweat trickling down his back.
Did I say something wrong?
Do they know I'm lying?
Finally, one of the men turned back toward him.
"We're heading to the Valdyros Imperium," he explained. "Since Elarindor is within Imperial territory, our routes overlap."
He offered a small smile.
"How about we travel together?"
Arcos stared at them.
Travel together?
Every instinct told him this was dangerous.
He barely knew these people.
For all he knew, they could be slavers, thieves, or worse.
"Can I refuse?" he asked cautiously as he climbed to his feet.
The adventurers blinked.
Then a woman wearing a green cloak stepped forward. A bow rested across her back, and her emerald eyes were filled with concern.
"No," she said bluntly.
Arcos frowned.
"No?"
She folded her arms.
"To put it simply, you won't survive on your own out here."
Her gaze drifted toward the forest outside.
The confidence vanished from her expression, replaced by seriousness.
"This forest is merciless. The creatures here hunt in packs. Some can smell blood from miles away. Others hunt by sound."
She looked him up and down.
"And judging by your condition..."
Her voice softened slightly.
"You've barely survived this long."
Arcos looked away.
A small part of him hated hearing it.
Because she was right.
If not for the cave, if not for the training John had given him, he might already be dead.
Another man stepped forward, narrowing his eyes.
"If you're really an adventurer..." he began.
His gaze swept over Arcos from head to toe.
"Where's your armor?"
Arcos stiffened.
The man continued.
"Where are your weapons?"
His eyes narrowed further.
"And where's your pack?"
The others seemed to realize the same thing at once.
Arcos had nothing.
No sword.
No shield.
No armour.
No supplies.
Not even a proper change of clothes.
To anyone looking at him, he appeared less like an adventurer and more like a lost beggar.
Panic gripped his chest.
Think.
Think.
Think!
His mind scrambled desperately for an answer.
"I-I was robbed."
The words stumbled out before he could stop them.
Silence followed.
The man's expression didn't change.
He simply stared.
The silence stretched painfully.
Arcos felt his heart pounding harder with every second.
They don't believe me.
Of course they don't believe me.
Just as the tension became unbearable, the second woman suddenly laughed.
"Well," she said cheerfully, breaking the awkward silence.
"If you're coming with us and you've got empty hands..."
A mischievous grin spread across her face.
"Then you're carrying all the bags."
Arcos blinked.
"What?"
Before he could protest, she marched forward and dumped a heavy pack into his arms.
The force nearly knocked him backward.
Then another bag landed on top.
And another.
And another.
Within seconds, Arcos found himself buried beneath a mountain of equipment.
The group began walking toward the cave entrance.
The woman turned and flashed him a bright smile.
"Come on, adventurer."
The others chuckled.
Far from the ancient forests and in the furthest reaches of the Kingdom of Aurliath, a lone farmer staggered up the winding hill that led to the royal castle.
Every step seemed a battle against his own body.
His boots were caked with mud. Sweat poured down his dirt-streaked face, soaking the collar of his worn tunic. His chest rose and fell violently as he fought for breath. This was not the exhaustion of honest labour.
This was the exhaustion of a man running for his life.
At the towering wooden gates stood two knights clad in polished silver armour. Sunlight glinted from their breastplates as they maintained their watch.
One stepped forward and raised a gauntleted hand.
"Hold, peasant," the knight said firmly. "The king is not receiving visitors."
The farmer nearly collapsed. He bent over, hands on his knees, gasping desperately for air. His lungs burned like fire.
Finally, he looked up.
His eyes were wide with terror.
"It's the orcs," he managed to choke out. "They've returned. They're attacking again."
For a single heartbeat, neither knight moved.
Then everything changed.
The colour drained from their faces.
One knight spun around and slammed his fist against the castle door.
"Open the gates!"
The massive doors groaned apart.
"Go," the knight ordered urgently.
The farmer nodded gratefully before stumbling forward into the castle's cool stone corridors.
One of the guards immediately followed.
Together they rushed through towering hallways lined with ancient banners and flickering torchlight. Their footsteps echoed against centuries-old stone as they hurried toward the throne room.
The great doors swung open.
The farmer froze.
At the far end of the chamber sat the King of Aurliath upon a magnificent throne carved from white marble and gold. His crown gleamed beneath crystal chandeliers, and his sharp eyes immediately locked onto the unexpected visitor.
The king's gaze shifted between the farmer and the knight escorting him.
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked.
His voice was calm.
Commanding.
The sort of voice that demanded answers.
The farmer immediately fell to his knees.
"My lord..." he gasped. "It's the orcs."
His voice trembled.
"They've returned. They're attacking again."
The words struck the throne room like a thunderbolt.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
The king's eyes widened.
Around him, nobles stared in shock.
One dropped his goblet.
Another nearly stumbled backwards.
Then a rotund noble dressed in gold-trimmed robes found his voice.
"That's impossible!"
His words came out louder than intended.
"We had the greatest mage in the realm banish them! Cast them into the Inferna Fires themselves! They shouldn't be able to return!"
His voice began to shake.
"Gods help us... we barely survived the last war."
Another noble stepped forward, pale as death itself.
"It must be a curse," he whispered. "A punishment from the gods for some forgotten sin..."
Fear spread through the room like poison.
Then a voice cut through the panic.
"Enough."
The single word struck harder than a sword.
Every head turned.
Standing near the king was a tall woman clad in steel-blue armour.
Beatrice.
The highest member of the king's council.
Respected.
Feared.
Unshakable.
Her silver hair rested upon her shoulders like molten moonlight.
"The gods do not curse cowards," she said coldly.
Her gaze swept across the nobles.
"And we are not cowards."
Several men immediately lowered their eyes.
"If the orcs want war," she continued, "then we shall give them war."
Her eyes settled on the trembling noble.
"Surely you're not suggesting our king would hide while his people bleed?"
The noble immediately looked away.
No answer came.
Only silence.
The king slowly rose from his throne.
The room grew still.
His gaze burned with determination.
"If it's a battle they want..."
His voice echoed through the hall.
"Then we'll give them one."
A murmur of approval spread through the room.
"We will not cower behind walls."
The king's eyes swept across his advisors.
"This is our time to show the world why Aurliath is the greatest kingdom beneath the heavens."
The nobles straightened.
Fear slowly gave way to resolve.
The king lowered himself back onto his throne.
The wood creaked softly beneath his weight.
He leaned forward.
"Send word to every knight."
His voice sharpened.
"Every mage."
"Every archer."
"Tell them to take their positions."
A dangerous fire entered his eyes.
"We will not lose this war."
The throne room exploded into motion.
Nobles rushed from the hall.
Messengers sprinted toward waiting horses.
Servants scattered.
Within moments, preparations for war had begun.
Yet the king remained seated.
Watching.
Thinking.
Calculating.
The room eventually fell quiet.
Then he spoke once more.
"Beatrice."
The silver-haired woman stepped forward immediately.
"Yes, my lord."
The king's eyes narrowed.
"Bring me the Five Royal Knights."
Beatrice bowed.
"At once."
Without another word, she turned and departed.
In the village beyond the castle walls, reality suddenly trembled.
A low hum filled the air.
Villagers stopped what they were doing.
The air twisted.
Then tore open.
A swirling portal burst into existence, crackling with arcane energy.
From its depths stepped a single figure.
A man clad in magnificent armour of gold and titanium.
Valebane.
The portal collapsed behind him with a sharp implosion.
Gone as though it had never existed.
Valebane stood motionless.
Watching.
Observing.
The kingdom prepared for war around him.
Knights sharpened swords.
Mages etched runes into staves.
Archers checked bowstrings.
The scent of steel and oil filled the air.
Valebane's lips curled slightly.
"Is this the kingdom hailed in song and tale?"
His voice carried quiet amusement.
"This paltry heap of stone and pride?"
He continued forward.
"We shall now see if greatness dwells within... or if the crown be naught but gilded air."
As he walked, people began to stare.
Whispers followed him.
His armour gleamed unnaturally beneath the sunlight.
Ancient symbols shimmered across its surface.
The sword upon his back radiated a faint hum.
To many he looked less like a man and more like a legend made flesh.
Some even wondered if he was one of the knight-gods from forgotten stories.
Yet none dared speak the thought aloud.
When he reached the castle gates, a guard stepped forward.
"Halt. Who are you, and what business brings you here?"
Valebane stopped.
His eyes met the guard's.
The man immediately felt smaller.
"I am Valebane."
His voice was calm.
Measured.
"Sent forth by sovereign will—by decree of the High King of the Valdyros Imperium."
The guard swallowed.
"By his command I ride, to lend my sword and counsel to this realm, that it may stand unbroken in the war to come."
Recognition struck instantly.
The guard's eyes widened.
"You're... Valebane?"
The name alone carried weight.
Fear.
Respect.
Legend.
The guard immediately bowed.
"Forgive me, sir. Please, follow me."
As they walked through the castle halls, Valebane silently observed everything around him.
Servants hurried through corridors.
Maids polished silver.
The marble floors gleamed beneath crystal chandeliers.
Valebane's eyebrow twitched.
He must be rich indeed, to gild such rot and call it rule.
His gaze drifted toward magnificent paintings framed in gold.
Then toward the guard's armour.
Even common guards wore equipment superior to many knights across the world.
Even the guards wear better steel than most kingdoms can afford.
Then he noticed something else.
Embedded within the walls.
Crystals.
Beautiful.
Radiant.
Powerful.
Aether Crystals...
His eyes narrowed.
Drawn from the veins of heaven itself.
A slow breath escaped him.
No wonder this kingdom is called the richest in all the land.
Eventually they reached the throne room.
The doors opened.
Valebane stepped inside.
The hall was magnificent.
Red and gold banners hung from towering pillars.
A crystal chandelier bathed everything in warm light.
At the far end sat the king.
Watching.
Waiting.
The guard bowed deeply.
"My lord. Forgive the interruption, but there is a visitor from the Valdyros Imperium. He claims he has come to offer aid."
The king's eyes shifted toward the newcomer.
The room grew silent.
Every noble.
Every knight.
Every servant.
All stared at Valebane.
The crest of Valdyros upon his cloak drew immediate suspicion.
The king spoke first.
"So... the Valdyros have sent someone again. Just like last time."
Disdain coloured every word.
"Typical."
He leaned forward.
"That kingdom has always believed itself above the rest."
His eyes narrowed.
"The strongest."
"The most righteous."
"It's no surprise they would send someone out of pity to deal with the problems of lesser kingdoms."
The hall remained silent.
Then came the command.
"Speak your name."
Valebane's gaze shifted briefly toward the Five Royal Knights standing before the throne.
Each radiated strength.
Each watched him carefully.
Waiting.
Judging.
Ready.
Then he looked back at the king.
"My name is Valebane."
His voice never wavered.
"Fourth-born of the Royal House of Misaki am I."
Several nobles exchanged surprised looks.
"And seat-holder in the Inner Council that guides the heart of Valdyros."
The king leaned forward.
Then smiled.
A cruel smile.
"So..."
His voice dripped with amusement.
"The Misaki Kingdom."
A few nobles chuckled.
The king's smile widened.
"Then you're the failure who couldn't even protect his own kingdom from the Gestahl Empire."
Laughter filled the hall.
Cruel.
Mocking.
Even some of the knights smirked.
"Why should we accept aid from someone who couldn't save his own people?" one noble sneered.
Valebane stood perfectly still.
The insults washed over him.
He had heard them all before.
The fall of Misaki was a wound that would never fully heal.
The king continued.
"Your father stood at our gates not long before his death, hoping to secure a treaty."
His grin widened.
"And now here you stand."
The room laughed again.
"How poetic."
For the first time, anger stirred within Valebane.
The memory of his father surfaced.
His final mission.
His final hope.
His final failure.
But Valebane mastered the emotion.
When he spoke, his voice was ice.
"Thou speak'st as if thy realm were clean of stain."
The laughter died instantly.
"But filth wears many crowns."
The room fell silent.
Valebane took a step forward.
"The last war against the orcs left thy kingdom broken."
His gaze swept across the nobles.
"Cities burned."
"Walls shattered."
"Streets drowned in ash and blood."
Several nobles lowered their heads.
"One siege more, and Aurliath would have fallen."
His eyes locked onto the king.
"Had Valdyros not lent its steel and blood, thou wouldst have no throne from which to spit thy scorn."
Silence.
Heavy.
Painful.
The king's smile vanished.
The nobles looked away.
Even the Royal Knights stood motionless.
Valebane's voice echoed through the chamber.
"So let us not pretend we are different."
His eyes burned.
"For in truth..."
He looked directly at the king.
"Our crowns are forged from the same cloth."
Then he turned away.
A cold smile appeared on his face.
"Come."
He walked toward the doors.
"Show us how thy walls shall stand against the orcs' assault."
His smile widened slightly.
"Bereft of aid."
"And all alone."
Then—
He vanished.