In the western expanse of the Dawnfall Region stood the most formidable Sect in the land, a sanctuary reserved solely for deities and creatures of myth.
Deep within its forbidden halls, in the most revered chamber of the entire stronghold, lay the leader's cultivation room.
Outside this chamber, Ezmelral paced anxiously before the imposing obsidian doors, her boots echoing sharply on the stone floor. For a millennium, she had served as the Sect's vanguard, fearlessly confronting legions of demons.
Yet today, her hand quivered as she reached for the door handle.
She understood the rule well: interrupting his cultivation was a death sentence.
Drawing a deep breath, she mustered her courage and knocked.
"Did I not make it abundantly clear that unless the very heavens were collapsing, I was not to be disturbed?"
Raiking's voice didn't reverberate; instead, it seemed to suffocate the air within the chamber, snuffing out the torches lining the walls. The intense pressure emanating from the cracks would normally have driven Ezmelral to her knees. However, she remained steadfast, for the situation called for a companion, not a subordinate.
She pressed a hand against the cold stone, her voice now stripped of its military edge, replaced by a quiet desperation.
"There is an emergency."
"Whatever it is can wait."
"It cannot. The soul lamp... it is cracking—"
Before she could finish her sentence, a violent gust of wind flung the doors wide open. They slammed against the corridor walls with a resounding crash, and by the time Ezmelral glanced inside, the room was empty.
She was poised to transform and pursue, but a voice halted her.
"Sister—"
"I can't talk now."
Ezmelral's transformation was instantaneous. In the blink of an eye, she became a blade racing beyond the horizon to the east, leaving her older sister, Libinea, in a state of confusion.
Emerging from the shadows, Libinea used a delicate fan to clear the dust from her face. She made no move to follow. Instead, she raised a slender hand, her fingers tracing the space where Ezmelral had just been.
"Retract," she whispered.
The swirling dust hesitated, then began to spin in reverse. A ghostly, golden outline of Ezmelral appeared, replaying the last few moments backward. Libinea followed this spectral image back to the west wing, where the Raikings' bedchamber was located.
There, she found the Soul Lamp resting on the table. Its glass was cracked, and the flame inside flickered weakly.
She wasn't surprised. She had warned him not to leave that person unattended. Now, fate was simply unfolding as anticipated.
"Dawnfall is about to face a disaster."
---
As Raiking streaked across the sky, the clouds split apart, leaving a massive trail that stretched for ten miles. In the forest below, birds fell silent and dropped from the branches in pure fright. Meanwhile, a merchant caravan located three towns away sensed the drop in atmospheric pressure and halted their horses, gazing upward at the ominous streak slicing through the horizon.
When Raiking reached his destination. He stopped above the remote hut, where Maryal lay on the front porch, kneeling with a crude blade lodged in her chest. The light in her eyes had vanished.
While most mortals would have been overwhelmed by sorrow, Raiking had abandoned such vulnerability long ago. His eyes moved from her lifeless body to the bandits, whose dirty boots were now defiling the place where she had been killed.
"There's nothing of value here," sneered the bandit wearing a hood.
"Cheap woman," his accomplice muttered.
Those would be the final words the accomplice ever uttered. The hooded bandit recoiled as blood splattered across his face, witnessing his partner's throat being slit by an unseen force.
"J-j-Joey?" he cried out, grasping his friend's collapsing body before it could hit the ground, shaking it violently. "JOEY!"
Fury consumed him.
"Who's there?" he shouted, brandishing his sword while retreating.
Every time a bush rustled, his blade swiftly aimed at it. Each time a bird flew from a tree, sweat trickled down his forehead as his eyes darted to find nothing.
"I said, who's there?!"
Silence was his only answer, making his heart race even more.
"Reveal yourself!" he shouted, his voice faltering.
The sky responded.
A silver light descended from the clouds, not in the form of a woman, but as a whirlwind of steel. Ezmelral didn't grant him the honor of a duel. Her shape shattered into countless floating swords that descended before the bandit could even react.
Blades pierced his wrist, shoulder, and thigh, anchoring him to the ground. He opened his mouth to scream, but a final blade swept across his neck, silencing him forever.
As his body grew cold, Ezmelral had already returned to her humanoid form. She didn't glance at her fallen adversary. Instead, she focused on Raiking, who stood motionless in front of Maryal's lifeless body.
He hadn't moved. He hadn't blinked.
The heavens, perhaps sensing Raiking's refusal to cry, seemed to mourn on his behalf. The sky itself wept, releasing its grief over the clearing as a gentle drizzle turned into a torrential downpour.
Rain drenched Raiking's robes, but he appeared oblivious.
Ezmelral stepped forward, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. She surrounded him with silence, offering the only solace a weapon could provide: presence.
They remained there for a long moment, until a faint, raspy cry broke through the storm.
"Waaaaah!"
"A baby?"
Raiking moved toward the sound, tearing up the floorboards to reveal a child concealed in the shadows of the crawlspace. He lifted her into his arms, and as their skin met, a curious sense of familiarity surged through him.
"Maryal's child," he said.
"Should we take her with us or.. wait for her father?"
"He doesn't exist."
Ezmelral looked at him with confusion, though she knew better than to push for an explanation. The atmosphere surrounding Raiking had thickened again, buzzing with purpose.
Before they left, Raiking didn't merely cast a spell; he altered the local laws of physics. His fingers etched ancient, fiery runes into the air, and with a gesture that seemed to brand the very atmosphere, he pressed his palm against the glowing symbols to anchor them into reality.
"No one will ever disturb you again," he proclaimed.
The response was both immediate and disastrous. The ground didn't just tremble; it emitted a deep, tectonic groan that sent forest animals fleeing within a twenty-mile radius and caused rivers in the neighboring province to flood their banks. The earth around Maryal didn't open to consume her but to embrace her.
From the soil burst forth a light, blinding and pure, encasing her body against the world's corruption. Then, the land gave rise to a monument. A massive, ancient root, as thick as a castle tower and stronger than divine steel, erupted from the depths. It wound around the shrine in a protective spiral, ascending higher and higher until it pierced the clouds, forever altering the skyline of the Eastern Forest.
It was no longer merely a grave; it was a declaration. A tomb unlike any other, towering so high that both mortals and gods would be compelled to acknowledge its presence for all eternity.
---
Twenty-four hours later.
The majestic capital sat nestled at the heart of the Dawnfall region, a sprawling monument of stone and gold.
Within its fortified walls, the King and his noblemen were engrossed in the minutiae of court affairs, yet their debate was cut short as the grand doors of the hall flew open. A guardsman stumbled inside. His boots clattered frantically against the golden marble floor, for his haste was great enough to rattle the very swords and ancestral shields hanging upon the walls.
"Who dares interrupt the council session?" Sir Lerikmen demanded.
"My King, I apologize for the intrusion," the guardsman panted, collapsing to his knees before the assembly. "There has been a serious incident."
Sir Borrosvel stepped forward. He seized the trembling parchment the guard held out.
"My King," the guard continued, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "The Princess commanded the secret division to investigate a disturbance in the eastern forest late last night. The report... it is unnatural."
As Borrosvel read the contents aloud, the expressions of the kingdom's most powerful men crumbled.
Confusion washed over them as they absorbed the frantic details. Merchants and commoners alike whispered that the underworld was no longer beneath them but was violently breaking through the sky. Yet these exaggerated tales were not what truly instilled terror in the nobles' hearts.
The fear did not arise from the anomaly itself. It arose from the direction.
Everyone in the room knew precisely what lay to the west.
That man's Sect.
The fear escalated into panic as the final piece of news was read. A towering root had pierced through the heavens.
"What could this mean?" a noble whispered.
"He has never left that mountain before," another replied.
"Is he preparing for war?"
"The troops are not ready."
"Should we not investigate first?"
As panic and suggestions flooded the hall, Sir Lerikmen voiced the words others dared not utter.
"Why do we not simply... speak to him?"
The room went deadly silent.
"Engage in conversation with those heathens?" Sir Borrosvel retorted, his voice laced with anger to conceal his underlying fear. "Have you gone mad, Lerikmen?"
"I have not lost my mind; rather, I have discovered my conscience!" Lerikmen replied, motioning towards the window that overlooked the city. "See for yourself—is the solution truly to produce more orphans to appease the pride of a single man? How many more sons must we lay to rest?"
Creak.
The sound was faint, yet it gripped the room in silence.
The King had shifted in his seat. His hand, adorned with gold rings, clasped the armrest of the throne so tightly that the wood began to splinter. His eyes, once filled with a haunted look, were now fixed on Lerikmenwith a murderous, unwavering stare. He began to stand.
SLAM.
The Prince didn't just hit the table; he smashed a wine goblet against it.
He immediately stood, positioning himself between his father's gaze and the elderly advisor.
"Insolence!"
The Prince's shout was so fierce that the King hesitated, his hand hovering near the royal scepter—a weapon that had shattered skulls for lesser offenses.
"You speak of orphans? What about the widows, Lerikmen?" The Prince's voice trembled with emotion. "Is my father to tell them he cannot answer their prayers? Should he say their husbands died in vain because we were too frightened to finish the war?"
"My Prince, I implore you—"
"And what of the deceased?" The Prince stepped over the bench, looming over the aging advisor, forcing Lerikmen to retreat—away from the King. "When my father ultimately enters the Heavens, how can he face his fallen comrades? How can he meet their gaze and confess their deaths were futile because we submitted to a barbarian?"
The King gradually sank back into his throne, releasing his hold on the armrest. The Prince's words had soothed his wounded pride.
Indeed, it is for the fallen. It is for honor, the King pondered.
"Sir Lerikmen," Borrosvel sneered as he stepped forward to deliver the final insult. "Have you forgotten whose palace—"
"Spare your words for a traitor," the Prince interrupted sharply. He promptly signaled the guards. "Escort him out. Immediately."
The Royal Guard moved swiftly to seize Lerikmen.
"My King!" Lerikmen cried as they dragged him towards the doors. "My King, reconsider this!"
The Prince watched them exit, his shoulders tense until the heavy doors slammed shut. Only then did he release his breath. Lerikmen was imprisoned, but his life was spared.
The hall fell silent. The Prince smoothed his cuffs, disguising the tremor in his hand as he turned towards the throne.
"With the fool now out of the picture," the Prince remarked, his tone steady and obedient, "what are your instructions, Father?"
The King, his fury now transformed into a stern, fervent determination, focused intently on the map of the North.
"Reach out to the Northern Alliance," the King commanded, his voice hoarse. "Present them with the Royal Token. Inform them.the debt they owe needs to be settled with blood."