A Dream of Blood and Fire
Pain burned through Lance's body. Fever, exhaustion, and the relentless sting of his wounds clawed at his mind. In the darkness of his unconsciousness, his past resurfaced—memories buried beneath years of hardship.
The battlefield stretched before him.
Eighteen years ago, Noswell Volia, the Titan of Avalon, stood atop a hill, overlooking a field drenched in blood. His silver armor, once pristine, was now cracked and painted red. Opposing him was King Edward Nerz, the Hero King, his golden armor gleaming beneath the setting sun.
This was the war's final battle.
The Duel of Legends
Noswell and Edward—both Transcenders—clashed, their blades ringing like thunder across the field. Soldiers halted their own battles, watching in awe as two legends fought beyond mortal limits.
Edward's swordplay was perfect, refined through countless wars. His precision and instinct made him nearly untouchable.
Noswell, however, was a force of nature. Each of his swings shattered the ground, his strength overwhelming.
The battle raged. Every strike could have been the last, but the Hero King did not falter. And then, with a single calculated thrust—
Edward's sword pierced Noswell's heart.
The Titan of Avalon staggered. His vision blurred, his strength fading. Blood dripped from his lips, but instead of fear, he smiled.
"Lance… my son… live free."
And with that, Noswell Volia fell.
Avalon's forces collapsed. Nerz, however, would not see victory for long—Edward Nerz died weeks later from his wounds, and with no heir, his kingdom was torn apart.
The once-mighty Nerz Kingdom became the Nerz Republic, ruled not by a king, but by a council of commoners.
Noswell Volia was gone. Edward Nerz was gone. But their legacy remained—and for Avalon's rulers, that legacy was a threat.
Fleeing Avalon : The Birth of a Fugitive
Lance awoke to the sound of shouting.
He was just a boy—barely ten years old—when his father died. And even at that age, he learned quickly what it meant to bear the Volia name.
His father was called a traitor, a warmonger who had nearly conquered Nerz. The nobles of Avalon feared him, and they feared his bloodline even more.
One night, soldiers stormed his home.
"Find the boy! The Titan's son cannot be allowed to live!"
Lance barely escaped, thrown onto the back of a merchant's cart. He hid beneath sacks of grain, feeling the cold night air whip against his skin as the cart sped away from Avalon.
That night, Lance Volia ceased to exist.
The Thief of Narita
Years passed.
Lance, now a teenager, found himself in Narita Kingdom, a land of trade and wealth. He had no home, no family—only his instincts.
And so, he became a thief.
The streets of Narita were filled with bustling merchants, nobles, and commoners alike. It was a place of opportunity, but also a place where the weak were crushed.
Lance learned to survive in the shadows. He was fast, smart, and ruthless when needed.
But Narita was not kind to thieves.
One night, as hunger twisted his insides, he slipped into Narita's royal palace.
The palace kitchen was dimly lit, the scent of roasted meat hanging in the air.
Lance moved swiftly, his fingers grabbing whatever food he could—bread, dried meat, a half-eaten apple.
Are you seriously stealing the expensive cuts?"
Lance froze.
The voice was calm, unimpressed.
His eyes darted to the side—someone stood near the spice rack, arms crossed.
A boy, around his age, dressed in casual royal attire—a white tunic with silver embroidery, slightly unbuttoned at the collar. His dark hair was short but slightly unkempt, as if he didn't care much for noble grooming. His deep brown eyes studied Lance with mild curiosity, not fear.
He looked calm. Too calm.
Lance narrowed his eyes. Why wasn't this guy alarmed?
"You're not a guard," Lance said, keeping his stance loose, ready to bolt.
"No. But I'm also not deaf. You're really bad at sneaking."
Lance scowled. "If you're gonna call the guards, just do it already."
The boy sighed, reaching up to grab a jar of dried herbs from the shelf. His movements were slow, deliberate—almost lazy.
"I'm not going to call anyone," he said, twisting the jar open. "I came here for these."
Lance hesitated. "What, spices?"
"No. Herbs for medicine."
Lance finally got a good look at him.
The boy's physique was frail, shoulders slightly slouched, his fingers thin and delicate, the hands of someone who had never held a sword. But his eyes—they were sharp. Watchful. As if he was reading every movement Lance made.
"Who the hell are you?" Lance asked.
The boy smirked.
"Leonard."
Lance tightened his grip on the stolen food. "You're a noble, aren't you?"
"Technically. But my body's too weak for combat, and I spend most of my time in the study hall." Leonard examined a sprig of mint before tossing it into his pouch. "You, on the other hand… you're a thief."
Lance bristled.
Leonard tilted his head, as if analyzing him like a puzzle. "You're not a common street rat, though. Your posture is too straight, and your movements are trained. A noble runaway, perhaps?"
Lance's jaw tightened. This guy was sharp. Too sharp.
"What does it matter to you?"
Leonard shrugged. "It doesn't. But if you're going to steal, don't take the expensive stuff. The palace cooks don't count the bread, but they notice when the good meat disappears."
Lance stared at him. "Why are you helping me?"
"Helping? No. I just dislike unnecessary arrests." Leonard tied his herb pouch shut and turned away. "Do whatever you want. Just don't be stupid about it."
Lance watched as he casually strolled toward the door, not even looking back.
No fear. No hesitation.
Who the hell is this guy?
"Hey."
Leonard stopped, glancing over his shoulder.
Lance smirked. "Lance."
Leonard raised an eyebrow. "Pleasure to meet you, Lance the thief."
And then, he was gone.
Lance clutched the stolen bread in his hands.
For the first time in a long while, he felt something strange.
Curiosity.
Lance's eyes fluttered open.
His breath came slow and shallow, his body still aching but no longer burning with fever.
He was alone.
The air around him was thick with the scent of herbs, metal, and something faintly acidic—a mix of medicine and machinery. The ceiling above was made of rough-hewn stone, damp with condensation. A single dim mechanical light bulb, encased in a wire cage, flickered from the ceiling. Its weak glow cast jagged shadows across the room, revealing an array of alchemical tools and industrial machinery.
He was in a basement.
The space around him was cluttered with glass vials, metal tubing, and strange apparatuses. Wooden shelves lined the stone walls, stocked with dried herbs, alchemical powders, and sealed jars of murky liquids. An iron distillation coil sat in one corner, dripping a thick, viscous green substance into a reinforced glass container. A set of brass scales rested atop a nearby table, next to neatly labeled pouches of crushed minerals and medicinal extracts.
It was an alchemist's laboratory.
His wrist shifted, and he noticed a bandage wrapped tightly around his arm—fresh, clean. His chest was also wrapped, the pain dulled by whatever medicine had been used on him. Someone had treated him.
Leonard.
But where was he?
Lance sat up slowly, his limbs heavy but responsive. His eyes landed on a small wooden table beside the cot.
There, on the table, was a folded letter.
The handwriting on the parchment was sharp, precise, and painfully familiar.
His stomach tightened.
With slightly trembling fingers, he reached for it and unfolded the page.
Lance,
You're stable now. But don't be reckless.
There are three vials on the table. Take the blue one first; it will help with muscle fatigue. The green one is for lingering fever, but only take half if you still feel warm. The red one is an emergency stimulant—don't touch it unless necessary.
Rations are in the metal chest near the workbench. Take only the dried bread and salted meat. Don't touch the fruit. (It's for experiments, and I don't want to deal with poison treatment again.)
Wait for my return. Don't go out.
If I don't come back in three days… do not search for me.
L.
Lance exhaled through his nose, gripping the letter tightly.
This handwriting. He hadn't seen it in years, yet he recognized it instantly.
Leonard.
So he was alive.
But something was off.
Where did he go? And why the hell was he leaving instructions like he might not return?
His gaze shifted back to the underground lab.
On the far wall, a large iron door was bolted shut, thick metal gears embedded into the frame—some kind of mechanical locking mechanism. A faint humming sound came from the pipes overhead, leading to a ventilation system that ran deep into the stone.
Who had built this place?
And more importantly—what kind of things was Leonard working on down here?
Lance pushed himself up, ignoring the slight dizziness.
He needed answers.
But for now… he had no choice but to wait.