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It’s dark.
Where am I?
I can’t remember anything.
Am I dead?
‘…elp me…’
Who’s there? I can’t see anything.
My body feels sluggish. Do I even have a body?
‘Help me!’
That voice again. It anchors me, makes me real. Does that even make sense?
‘Mommy!’
I see light, flickering. Is that a way out? Are you over there, whoever you are? I need to know. I need answers.
Where are you? Let me see you. Let me help you. You’ve gone dim, little light. I can’t see you. Reach out to me. Say my name. Call for me.
‘Mommy, help me!’
There you are.
♢♦♢♦♢
It all unfolded in mere fractions of a millisecond.
Within the raging tempest of rapid lightning strikes channeled through the magic crystals, blisteringly hot air molecules surged upward inside the hermetically sealed sphere. Meanwhile, the surrounding cold air had no chance to fill the gap, leaving a vast vacuum just a meter above the floor.
The temperature from a single lightning bolt could peak at around 30,000 degrees Celsius—five to six times hotter than the surface of the Sun—all in the blink of an eye. The girl had been subjected to this Turbulence Lightning for twenty-five minutes straight, with each bolt adding to an unimaginable buildup of energy. It was no surprise, then, that a tiny black hole had formed undetected, collapsing almost as quickly as it appeared.
Yet, the brief existence of the mini black hole had fulfilled its purpose, allowing a paradoxical entity to slip into this world. Formless and invisible, it instinctively concealed itself in the nearest vessel before the Gods of this world could detect and destroy it. That vessel, as fate would have it, was the body of the young girl.
The girl’s soul, however, was already shattered. If her soul were an egg, its shell would be broken to pieces, the insides hollowed out and charred. The entity, shapeless and undefined, filled the broken spaces with fragments of itself. As it did, it glimpsed the girl’s deepest emotions.
Fear. Pain. And worst of all, an agonizing loneliness.
Through the girl’s eyes, the entity saw two masked figures approaching. In her mind, they were agents of ‘Pain.’ The entity lashed out instinctively, and the men fell, lifeless.
More of the entity seeped into the girl’s body, merging with what little remained of her spirit. A voice echoed around them, asking, “Who are you?” The entity tried to respond, but all that emerged were raw, fragmented emotions—desperation, sorrow, and dread. It had no words, only feelings it could not name.
And then, in an instant, it was over.
♢♦♢♦♢
Hustle and bustle were commonplace for a port city, but today it was more frenzied. Flags and balloons adorned the freshly cleaned streets, with vibrant colors hanging from every shopfront and balcony. Laughter and music filled the air as street performers played cheerful tunes on fiddles and drums.
A young boy, perched on his father’s shoulders, clutched a wooden toy sword, eyes fixed on the sea. “Are they here yet, Daddy?”
“Any moment now, sweetheart,” his father replied. Just as the words left his lips, a deep horn sounded, and three ships began to emerge from the misty line where the sea met the sky. The crowd murmured with excitement, leaning forward as one, all eyes drawn to the approaching vessels.
Soldiers in grand purple uniforms filed off the first boat, boots striking the cobblestones in unison as they cleared the street. Next came a marching band from the second ship, dressed in bright costumes with gold trim. With a raised baton, the conductor led them in a lively tune, the music lifting the crowd’s spirits. Children clapped along, and elders tapped their feet, as the band paved the way for the final ship docking at the pier.
A hush fell over the crowd as the ship’s gangplank lowered. The town crier stepped forward, his voice booming, “The Hero’s Party has safely returned!”
Five figures emerged, greeted by a wave of cheers.
At the front was Sir Lancelot du Ardwain, towering and broad-shouldered in gleaming armor. Behind him, Lady Hildara Eriz, the rogue, moved with practiced ease, her short red hair flickering in the breeze.
Next came the sage, Albaf Mer’Gandore Ambrosius, clutching a rune-engraved staff, his long white beard and wise eyes stirring awe among the townsfolk. Beside him, Lady Yamato, the black-haired priestess and ambassador from the Holy Land of the Rising Sun, stood with calm grace in her silver-embroidered kimono, nodding to the crowd with quiet dignity.
And finally, the star of the festival appeared. His golden hair shimmered in the sunlight as he rode a majestic silver draconic steed, its scales glistening with an otherworldly glow. When its powerful wings unfurled briefly, a shadow cast over the crowd, and awe washed over them. Everywhere he looked, the crowd roared with excitement. His presence alone exuded security for his allies and dread for his foes. He was their beacon of hope, the hero they cherished. His name—
“Sir Adalhard Rhyfel!”
As the name echoed, Adalhard smiled and waved at the lady who’d called out to him, and she fainted with joy.
The crowd’s cheers grew louder, chanting, “Long live the Empire! Long live Sir Adalhard!” At the town crier’s call, the people joined in, their voices filling the air. Flower petals rained down, and flags waved high, as Adalhard and his companions marched down the street towards the palace atop the hill.
♢♦♢♦♢
“So, when do we overthrow the emperor and take the throne?” Adalhard asked, breaking the silence in the room with a grin. His four companions stared at him, then sighed in perfect unison.
“For God’s sake, Adalhard,” Lancelot said, rubbing his temples. “At least let me close the door first.” The others nodded while Adalhard simply shrugged, lips pursed.
With the door firmly locked, Lancelot made his way to his usual spot—a cushion in the sunken center of the room, where he could stretch his legs and lean back against the wall. Adalhard, meanwhile, was perched on the steps leading down, his draconic steed, Pendragon, napping peacefully behind him. Albaf, the sage, had claimed a corner in the back, muttering to himself as usual, while Hildara balanced precariously on a chair, her feet propped up on the table. Across from her, Yamato sipped her green tea, seemingly unbothered by Hildara’s boots nearly brushing against her cup.
This was the Hero Party’s leisure room, though it was formally known as the Hero’s Wing. Adalhard had secured the nicest room in the palace for himself and his friends, using his overwhelming charm and just a little bit of pressure (some might call it blackmail) to convince the emperor to grant it to them.
“We-, well, I already casted the Silence spell like always, so no one should hear us…” Albaf offered from his corner, voice betraying nervousness that contrasted with his usual wise appearance.
“It’s a matter of principle,” Hildara countered, eyeing the sage. “And drop that illusion already. You look like a senile old man mumbling to himself, it’s creeping me out.”
“Uuu… sorry…” Albaf murmured, and in an instant, the elderly form shimmered away, revealing a young woman with long, tousled hair and bangs that completely obscured her face. From beneath the deep purple strands, pointed ears jutted out. She slouched, restlessly fidgeting with her fingers, looking nothing like the stoic and prudent Albaf the Sage that she played in public. “I just can’t get used to all those stares… It makes me nervous just thinking about it…”
“Next you’re going to say ‘I just want to return to my tower.’”
“I just want to return… E-, eeh?! How did you know?!”
Hildara shrugged. “You’ve been saying that practically everyday in the last eight years. It doesn’t take an empath like me to read your mind.”
“I understand how you feel, Meru.” Hearing her true name, Albaf—no, Meruru Grande Ambrosia—turned to Adalhard. “We’re all tired of fighting the same pointless battles. Even if we win this war, the emperor will just start another somewhere else. If we let it continue, there will never be an end to the bloodshed. War is the only way this country sustains itself.”
“That’s what happens when weapon manufacturers and private companies own everything,” Hildara added. “We invade a country, sell them weapons, launder the money through merchants, and then use it to fund our own army to invade again. This has been the cycle for hundreds of years. The best part? We’re never the bad guys.”
“H-, how?” Meruru stammered.
“Media,” Lancelot answered. “The news outlets are part of the council. They spin whatever narrative suits them. A terrorist attack here, racial tensions there—it doesn’t matter. They could fabricate a story about a cult of dark magicians threatening a peaceful nation, and that’s all the justification they need to invade in the name of ‘intervention.’”
“B-, but I thought we were fighting a Holy War. We even have Miss Tomato, the ambassador from the Land of the Sun.”
“My name is Yamato, Miss Elf, and we’ve been over this for more than five years.” Yamato set down her tea with a sigh. “Honestly, long lifespan races are so slow to catch on. And to answer your question, The Nation of Hinomoto only cares about the profit this empire brings. Lady Amaterasu, our Deity and Queen, has no interest in mortal affairs.”
“The point is, this empire is rotten to the core, and the only way to stop the endless wars is to tear it down.” Adalhard’s voice was firm, resolute. “We’ve spent five years preparing to dethrone the emperor, but when we move, a war greater than any this world has ever known will follow. Meru, I know I promised to return you to your tower, but… will you lend me your strength one last time?”
Adalhard extended his hand. Meruru hesitated, her gaze flicking to his outstretched palm before swallowing nervously.
{ ♥ }
