The Age of the Absolutes
Long before crowns were forged and kingdoms divided by borders, the world was ruled by beings known as the Absolutes.
They were not gods—yet neither were they mortal.
Chosen by the Seraphs, arbiters of divine order, each Absolute was granted a distinct power and dominion over a vast land. Their purpose was sacred and unchanging:
To protect the people beneath them.
To provide for their needs.
To enforce order without cruelty.
For an age, the world prospered.
The people loved the Absolutes.
And the Absolutes—bound by divine mandate—loved the people.
---
Among them were rulers of legend:
Tsusho, Guardian of the Eastern Isles
Verlrilk, Lord of the Northern Highlands
El Huancho, Sun-King of the Golden Plains
Elios, Sovereign of the Sacred City
Donne Von, Emperor of the Iron Dominion
Cleo, Queen of the River Throne
Plato, Keeper of Knowledge Beyond the Stars
Each Absolute ruled differently, yet all were bound by the same Seraphic Law.
---
Until one broke it.
From the depths of the Abyssal Realm, a formless entity emerged—a Phantom, born of hunger and negation. It approached Verlrilk and revealed a forbidden truth known as the System of Repercussion:
> "Slay another, and their power shall become yours."
This power was not divine.
It carried no balance.
No inheritance.
No restraint.
Where Seraphic power demanded duty, the Abyss offered reward without consequence.
Verlrilk listened.
---
The First Betrayal
Driven by ambition, Verlrilk turned upon his own kind.
In secret, he hunted the Absolutes.
He assassinated sixty of them—among them El Huancho, Elios, Donne Von, and Cleo. With each death, the System of Repercussion devoured their power and fed it to him.
But the power was corruption itself.
The more Verlrilk gained, the less human he became.
He abandoned his sacred mandate.
He imposed unbearable taxes upon the people.
Enforced mass labor.
Forcefully married over twenty thousand women.
Ruled through fear instead of protection.
Defiled bloodlines and traditions, spreading terror across his domain.
What began as ambition became tyranny.
And then—disaster.
---
The existence of the System of Repercussion leaked into the world of men.
Once the people learned that power could be stolen through murder, order collapsed.
Fathers slew sons.
Brothers hunted brothers.
Entire cities burned as power-hungry masses slaughtered one another in pursuit of strength.
The world descended into absolute anarchy.
---
Witnessing the ruin, a Seraph descended upon the world.
She cast the Abyssal Phantom back into the void and sealed the System of Repercussion, erasing it from the world—but not from reality.
Yet power was not the true poison.
Knowledge was.
To prevent its return, she issued a terrible command to Polymos, the Angel of Finality:
> "Let none who fully comprehend this system remain alive."
Verlrilk was slain.
So were all mortals who truly understood the forbidden law.
The price of order was blood.
---
The Birth of Inherited Power
The Seraph did not erase everything.
Though the Absolutes were dead, their offspring still lived.
Rather than destroy these remnants, she bound the remaining divine authority into their bloodlines—transforming raw power into something controlled, limited, and inheritable.
Thus, a new law was established:
Power would no longer be stolen.
It would be passed through blood.
Authority would be inherited, not taken.
And chaos would never again be equal.
From these bloodlines arose the first kings and queens.
Thus began the Age of Kings.
---
The Truth of the World
To this day, the descendants of the Absolutes still rule.
Their power is weaker than their ancestors', diluted by generations—yet it remains feared and revered.
Commoners possess no such inheritance, apart from a few remnants tied to Verlrilk's legacy.
Knights serve those who do.
And blood determines destiny.
Few remember the truth.
But it is written in history, sealed in lineage, and whispered among the highest thrones:
> Kings do not rule because they were chosen.
They rule because they descend from beings who once ruled the world itself.
But was that truly the end of bad rulers?.
The Smell of the Dead
The battlefield did not smell like glory.
There were no songs in the air, no echoes of triumph or honor—only the stench of iron, rot, damp earth, and something far older. Something that crept into the lungs and refused to leave, no matter how carefully one breathed.
Smoke drifted low across the land, thin and sickly, like the final breath of a dying man. It curled around broken spears, shattered shields, and bodies half-swallowed by the mud. At the edges of the field, crows gathered in patient silence. They did not fight over the corpses. They did not rush.
They understood.
Everything here already belonged to them.
I stood among the dead with a bucket in one hand and a rusted knife in the other.
Men lay twisted in ways the living were never meant to bend. Limbs bent backward. Necks turned at impossible angles. Some stared upward, eyes clouded and hollow, as though the sky itself had betrayed them. Others had their faces buried in the dirt, mouths frozen open—as if still calling out to gods that had long since stopped listening.
Armor lay split open like cracked shells.
Banners—once symbols of pride—were trampled into the mud.
Blood had soaked so deeply into the ground that even rain would never wash it away.
I exhaled slowly, carefully.
This was my work.
"Messy," a voice said behind me.
I turned just enough to look.
One of the warriors was still alive—barely. His helmet was gone, dark hair plastered to his skull with blood. A deep gash split his forehead, crimson still seeping through his fingers as he pressed a shaking hand against it. He leaned heavily against his horse, more corpse than man, but still breathing.
"Sheesh," he muttered, forcing a crooked grin. "This place looks like a slaughterhouse."
He coughed, then laughed weakly.
"But hey—victory's still victory, right?"
I didn't respond.
His eyes drifted downward, lingering on what I carried. The bucket. The knife. The shovel Then the wooden carriage behind me—stained dark from past days just like this one.
"You're up, kid," he said, reaching out and patting my shoulder. His hand was heavier than it should have been. Not with strength—
with finality.
"Clean it up."
He pulled himself onto his horse and rode away, hooves leaving shallow impressions among the dead. I watched him until he disappeared into the haze, until even the sound of him was swallowed by silence.
Then I sighed.
There was no ceremony to this part.
No prayers whispered.
No songs sung.
Only work.
I rolled the wooden carriage forward and began loading the bodies—one by one.
Armor slick with blood slipped beneath my grip. Skin was already cooling, stiffening under my hands. Some bodies were light, almost fragile. Others were unbearably heavy, dragging at my arms as if unwilling to leave the place where they had fallen.
A few were missing pieces they should have had.
I did not stop.
I worked in silence, the only sounds my own breathing and the dull thud of bodies being stacked. My arms burned. My back screamed. Blood soaked through my clothes—blood that was not mine.
By the time the sun dipped low and cast long shadows over the ruined field, it was empty. Only scars remained—dark stains in the earth, carved deep by death.
I wiped my hands on my trousers and turned away.
Dinner waited.
---
The bar was dim, as always.
The ceiling hung low overhead, beams stained black by years of smoke. Tables were carved and scarred—knife marks, old bloodstains, and the remnants of countless fights etched into the wood. The smell of cheap booze clung to the walls like something permanent, something that would never leave.
I sat at my usual spot.
Bread.
Cheap booze.
That was all I ever ordered.
Laughter broke out behind me.
"Look at him," someone said, voice dripping with amusement. "All he does is clean dead bodies."
Another snorted. "Lives on bread and piss-water booze. Probably smells like a grave."The royals children of the king of karnyx vale felt like they own everything that breathes on earth.
"And those hands," a third added. "Wrapped like a corpse. Underground grub."
I looked back at the royals with a dead stare. They flinched and got angry.
I kept my head down, staring at the worn tabletop, pretending not to hear. Pretending it didn't matter.
The bartender arrived without a word, placing a small plate of bread in front of me.
"Don't listen to them," he muttered quietly. "Royals. That's how they talk."
He leaned closer, voice lowering.
"On the house today."
I looked up at him and managed a small smile. It felt strange on my face. "Thanks."
I took the bread and left.
---
The street outside was quiet.
Too quiet.
Most people had already returned to their homes, shutters closed, doors locked. I headed toward my shelter near the morgue, my footsteps echoing too loudly against the stone.
Then the feeling returned.
That crawling sensation at the back of my neck.
The certainty that I was no longer alone.
I walked faster.
Then faster.
I ran.
Pain exploded at the back of my head.
The world tilted, and I hit the ground hard. Boots followed—kicks slamming into my ribs. A bat crashed into my side, tearing the breath from my lungs as I curled inward, gasping.
"So you think you can just look at us like were some slops ?" someone snarled.
"Yeah, who are you?" another snarled.
A foot pressed down on my head, grinding my face into the dirt. The taste of earth filled my mouth.
"Let me take out those eyes so you never look at us like that ever again." the first royal said as he brought out a dagger pointing it at my eye about to strike.
Fear swallowed everything.
Then—
BOOM.
A gunshot split the night.
The bartender stood at the mouth of the alley, a shotgun raised, hands steady.
"Get away from him," he said.
One of the royals laughed and leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the barrel. "My father is the king."
Another voice spat as the foot pushed harder.
"You lower-region freaks should be grateful the king even gave you jobs to feed your useless lives."
The bartender hesitated.
Then slowly—he lowered the gun.
"That's a good commoner," the royal sneered.
They kicked me once more before running off, their laughter fading into the darkness.
The bartender helped me up without a word and walked me home. People watched from behind windows and cracked doors, whispering.
No one dares stand up to a royal.
Does he have a death wish?
At the edge of my shelter, I stopped him.
"I thought I was going to die," I whispered.
He rested a hand on my shoulder.
"Don't mind them," he said quietly. "I got you."
Then he left.
I stood alone as silence reclaimed the road, the wind whispering through empty streets.
End of Chapter 1