[Chapter 1 - Section 1: The Vision]
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Eerie silence filled the darkness.
In a few minutes, the silence shattered.
A low humming sound emerged from the void, growing louder with each passing
second. It pulsed, deep and rhythmic, like a war drum in the distance. The air
vibrated with tension.
From the oppressive silence of the void, sound began to claw its way back –
jarring bursts, the deafening CRACK-BOOM of explosions echoing
strangely.
The consciousness adrift in the void felt a phantom trembling. Distorted
shouts ripped through the noise.
Slowly, like light bleeding onto a dark screen, a scene took shape before
him.
Acrid smoke writhed, lit by flames burning with an unnerving intensity. The
air tasted of copper and ozone and something else... the sharp stink of unknown
burning fuel.
Hulking metal beasts, crawling on strange segmented tracks without horses or
oxen, scarred and blackened like charred bone, moved relentlessly over skeletal
ruins. Buildings, impossibly tall yet shattered, clawed at the fiery sky.
Sudden, blinding flashes erupted everywhere, followed by sharp cracking
sounds faster than any whip.
Figures in rugged, unfamiliar uniforms surged forward. Some carried strange
metal tubes that spat fire and death with terrifying speed.
Others shouted into small, crackling boxes held to their ears, listening to
disembodied voices.
"Contact left! Grenade out!"
"Hold this damned street!"
A blinding explosion nearby ripped the projection, throwing shapes like
discarded dolls.
An image flickered – a soldier staring dumbly at a mangled arm,
his scream unheard in the visual noise.
"Medic! Gods, MEDIIIC!"
"They're through! Fall back! Fall BACK!"
And then, the projection seemed to sharpen onto a single figure standing
firm amidst the swirling madness.
He did not flinch.
He did not waver.
His presence was an undeniable anchor. Blood and grime stained his uniform,
yet medals on his chest caught the distorted firelight.
His voice, when it came, wasn't a shout but a command that sliced
through the cacophony, sharp and clear.
Figures near him visibly steadied, their eyes fixed on him with absolute
trust.
"Stand your ground!" the figure ordered, his
voice ringing with unshakeable resolve.
"Reinforcements are inbound! We hold here!"
The observing consciousness felt a disorienting jolt.
That face... an echo of my own... How?
The thought echoed, laced with a deeper confusion now.
How can I exist amidst such impossible machines?
Metal beasts, fire-spitting tubes, voices in boxes...
What sorcery is this?
And why does this man, commanding this chaos, look back at me with
my own eyes?
Was this a vision of demons, or a world utterly alien? A past? A future? Whose?
The projected battle swirled. The commander raised a fist. A defiant
roar erupted as enemy shapes faltered and scattered.
Then, just as abruptly as it began, the projection snapped off.
Cut.
Darkness and silence slammed back, absolute and profound.
The darkness stretched, heavy and endless.
A faint buzzing sound stirred within the void. It was different from
before—not the chaotic roar of war, but something measured, rhythmic. The sound
grew clearer. A steady, synchronized cadence. Like marching.
Then, the scene materialized.
A grand hall, vast and luminous. Rows upon rows of figures stood in perfect
formation, all clad in flowing black robes. Their heads were held high, their
gazes fixed forward with quiet reverence.
He watched as the figures remained motionless, an air of authority radiating
from the room itself. Who are they?
Then, a single voice rang out.
"Graduates of this cycle, step forward!"
A ripple of movement. From each row, individuals emerged, their steps
measured, their faces unreadable. The air felt thick with unspoken pride.
And in the middle of it all—the same man.
He watched the scene unfold. There he is again.
A hush fell over the hall as an elderly figure, robed in deep crimson, stepped
onto the central podium. His voice was strong, unwavering.
"Today, we honor those who have reached the pinnacle of
knowledge. Those who have proven themselves beyond measure. Those who
have—against all odds—achieved excellence in all disciplines."
A low murmur spread through the audience, heads turning toward the man in
the center.
"He is the first in history," one whispered.
"To master four fields at once…" another voice added in
awe.
The elder raised a golden scroll. "For unparalleled achievement
in academia, we recognize—" He paused for effect, then declared: "Summa
cum laude in four disciplines!"
The hall erupted. Applause. Shouts of amazement. A few gasps of disbelief.
He narrowed his eyes. Four? What fields?
A deep voice answered from the podium. "B.S. Medicine. B.S.
Computer Engineering. B.S. Business Management. B.S. Psychology."
He stared at the man. Medicine? Engineering? Business? Psychology? What
are those?
The scene shifted abruptly.
The grand hall faded, replaced by an open space, crowded with reporters and
scholars. Microphones were thrust forward, voices overlapping in excitement.
"You graduated top of your class in four disciplines! How did
you do it?"
"And the rumors about the Philippine Bar Exam – Top 1 with a
98.9 average, is it true?" another reporter pressed eagerly.
"Are you even human?"
The man smiled, composed and unreadable. He gave a slight, confirming nod
regarding the Bar Exam question, then addressed the first query: "With
hard work and sacrifice, dreams can become reality."
The crowd erupted again, seemingly inspired.
He frowned. Is that all? Such effort... such sacrifice... merely to make
dreams 'reality'? It seems... insufficient an explanation.
Then, the scene shifted once more.
A single parchment, ornate and official-looking, was held up before the
crowd. The golden seals gleamed under the bright lights.
"What?! Doctorate degrees in four fields?"
The announcer's voice boomed. "Doctor of Medicine. Doctor of
Philosophy in Computer Engineering. Doctor of Business Administration. Doctor
of Psychology!"
The weight of the words lingered in the air.
The voices blurred, the figures dissolving into nothingness.
Then—darkness.
A minute of silence passed after the previous vision faded.
Then, a distant hum returned. Faint at first, but growing stronger. A low
thrumming sound, rhythmic and deliberate. Slowly, the scene materialized before
him.
A city, filled with towering buildings unlike any castle or keep he could
imagine. Wide, smooth roads stretched endlessly, filled with strange,
fast-moving metal carriages. Gleaming glass structures soared into a sky
illuminated by unnatural, bright lights, casting the city in an ethereal glow
of pulsing neon blues and crimsons. Strange symbols flickered on massive panels
floating high in the air.
Then, his eyes locked onto the largest sign atop the tallest tower.
"Tokyo, Japan."
He frowned. Tokyo… Japan? What kind of kingdom bears such a name?
A sharp whistle cut through the air.
"Hey! Out of the way!"
A sleek, enclosed metal carriage—gliding across the road without wheels or
horses—zipped past him with incredible speed. He instinctively flinched as
another followed.
Impossible… wagons that move without beasts?
Then, another strange noise – a rhythmic Ching! Ching! Ching!
He turned. A panel above a massive building displayed glowing red numbers,
ticking down rapidly. Beneath it, a cluster of people stood impatiently, their
eyes locked onto the changing lights above.
What manner of public display or strange magic is this?
Then, a voice nearby.
"Boss, your car has arrived."
The cluster of people parted respectfully. From the sleekest, longest metal
carriage he'd yet seen, a man stepped out.
His presence was immediately commanding. He wore perfectly tailored dark
clothing – not robes or armor, but something sharp and formal. A gleaming
timepiece encircled his wrist. A group followed deferentially behind him,
radiating status but keeping a careful distance, like vassals attending their
lord.
He frowned, a jolt of recognition hitting him again.
Him… again? The sharp eyes, the commanding aura – they matched the
figure from the war vision. Yet... the bearing was different. Colder, perhaps.
More controlled.
Is this truly the same man? In such a different guise?
The figure strode toward a massive tower whose glass walls reflected the
entire strange city. The grand entrance slid open automatically as he
approached, untouched. Inside, rows upon rows of individuals in identical, neat
uniforms lined up. As one, they bowed low – a precise, almost mechanical
gesture.
"Chief Operations Executive." The words flashed
clearly on a glowing panel near the entrance.
He narrowed his eyes. Chief… Operations… Executive? A title of command?
Over what?
A voice echoed from within the tower's vast lobby.
"Sir, the board is waiting in the main hall. The deal has been
finalized."
Another figure stepped forward quickly, holding out a sleek, flat metallic
rectangle.
"Here are the reports, sir. The billion-dollar contract has been
secured."
He registered the number instantly. A billion... an immense sum, yet
quantifiable for large-scale operations.
But the term that followed was alien. Dollar?What
foreign currency is that, measured in such quantities?
The scene abruptly shifted again.
Now, the figure stood in a vast, dim room, surrounded by walls covered in
glowing, shifting numbers and symbols. They danced, rose, fell – complex
patterns suggesting control over vast, unseen forces.
A disembodied voice announced,
"Stock market index is up by five percent. Global expansion is moving
as projected."
The observing consciousness felt a phantom clenching in his fists.
Stock market? Global expansion? What kind of power does this man wield?
Not through armies or magic, but through... numbers? Contracts? This foreign
'Dollar'?
The voices and images overlapped, blurring into an incomprehensible storm of
data.
The projection vanished.
Everything slammed back to darkness once more.
The silence following the previous vision was broken not by a murmur, but by
a steady, rhythmic cadence emerging from the void – the crisp, unified sound of
marching boots. It grew louder, more distinct, echoing with disciplined
precision.
Slowly, the scene materialized.
An open space under a bright sky, dominated by a large, formal podium. Rows
of soldiers marched in choreographed precision across the grounds before the
podium, their movements sharp, their uniforms immaculate.
A sizable, yet orderly, crowd filled the designated areas, held back by
disciplined police lines. Towering banners bearing unfamiliar state symbols
snapped cleanly in the breeze.
His eyes locked onto the largest banner above the podium.
"Republic of the Philippines."
He frowned. Republic? Not a Kingdom?
Reporters and officials were positioned near the front. An honor guard stood
motionless at the base of the podium steps.
Then, the marching soldiers halted, forming perfect ranks as a figure
appeared on the podium.
It was the man—the face like his own, seen now in multiple guises. This
time, he wore a clean white long-sleeved shirt, the fine material appearing
almost translucent in the bright light, tucked neatly into dark trousers. He
raised one hand, acknowledging the respectful applause that rippled through the
crowd.
He watched him. Him again… The same presence, yet presented so
differently each time. Soldier, scholar, executive… and now this? What role
does he play here?
The crowd noise settled as the ceremony began.
"President! President!"
The chant rose, powerful yet contained within the formal atmosphere.
President... a leader chosen, not born?
A row of solemn officials stood behind the man. One held an open book with
an unfamiliar insignia.
A deep voice echoed across the space:
"Place your hand on the Bible and repeat after me."
The man did as commanded, his gaze steady as he placed his hand upon the
book.
"I... do solemnly swear that I will faithfully and
conscientiously fulfill my duties as President of the Philippines, preserve and
defend its Constitution, execute its laws, do justice to every man, and
consecrate myself to the service of the Nation. So help me God."
A moment of silence hung in the air after the final word, then thunderous,
formal applause erupted. At the same instant, sharp volleys cracked through the
air – a formal gun salute echoing across the grounds, honoring the new
President.
He clenched his fists mentally. Chosen. Bound by oath. Acknowledged by
soldiers with fire-salutes, not just shouts. The structure was baffling.
Power granted, yet constrained by paper laws and promises? How does such a
system endure?
The sounds – applause, the lingering echo of the salute, the indistinct
murmur of the crowd – began to overlap and blur.
The projection vanished.
Everything slammed back to darkness once more.
The darkness returned, but this time it felt less absolute, less final. A
faint, distant murmur began… Slowly, the sound grew clearer—not triumphant
cheers, but murmurs of gratitude mixed with the rustling of bags and the low
hum of struggling generators somewhere nearby.
The scene solidified before him: a forgotten corner of a sprawling city, a
warren of dark alleys and narrow, crowded streets choked with refuse. Aimless
figures shuffled past crumbling walls marked with faded gang symbols. Signs of
desperation and open criminality were plain to the naked eye – vacant stares,
furtive exchanges in shadowed corners, the faint, sickly-sweet chemical smell
mingling with decay hanging heavy in the air. Children, their clothes mere
rags, sat listlessly in doorways, their faces stained with grime.
He watched, his mind struggling. This… squalor. This palpable despair. Is
this a place forgotten by rulers, by gods?
He scanned for a landmark, a sign, but found none – only the oppressive
weight of poverty pressing in from all sides.
Yet, amidst this bleakness, there was a focal point of orderly activity. Men
in plain, practical uniforms stood behind sturdy tables, distributing durable
bags packed with essential groceries – measures of rice, dried fish, basic
cooking supplies. People formed quiet, orderly lines, their movements weary but
their eyes fixed on the provisions. An elderly woman clutched her received bag
tightly, tears tracing paths through the dirt on her cheeks. "Blessings…
blessings…" she whispered hoarsely.
The murmurs of the crowd nearby held a tone of hushed reverence, directed
towards a figure stepping into the small clearing near the distribution tables.
"He promised our children schooling, a chance!"
"The clinic near the old market… no payment demanded because of him!"
"He helps families… gives us a way to try…"
Then, movement. The small crowd parted respectfully as the man stepped
forward.
It was the same face. Again. But the presence was vastly different. Unlike
the war hero, the scholar, the CEO, or the president—this man did not radiate
sharp command or calculated power. Instead, he radiated a quiet, persistent
kindness, a warmth that felt almost fragile in this harsh environment.
A young, grimy boy darted forward, wrapping small arms around his waist.
"Thank you, sir! We ate because of the supplies!"
The man knelt, his expression softening as he ruffled the boy's matted hair,
his smile gentle but tinged with sorrow for the surroundings. "You never have
to thank me for what is right. Just promise me you'll grow strong, learn well,
and help others when you can."
The nearby crowd watched, a flicker of something other than despair in their
eyes.
He took a slow mental breath. Why? Why pour resources here? In Tenria,
wealth buys soldiers, secures loyalty, crushes opposition. Giving it away
freely, especially in a pit like this… it invites predation. What strategic
gain offsets the obvious risk?
The man stood and turned, addressing the small gathering near the tables,
his voice calm but carrying a surprising weight. "This is not charity meant to
create dependence. This is about striving for justice."
A different kind of silence fell, heavy with the weight of that word in this
unjust place.
He tensed in the void. Justice? How can handing out supplies equate to
justice in a place ruled by apparent lawlessness? Justice requires enforcement.
The scene flickered, showing not grand restored buildings, but glimpses: a
simple, functional clinic, crowded but operational, people receiving care
without coin changing hands; a basic schoolhouse, perhaps worn but filled with
the focused energy of children learning inside, a safe space carved out amidst
the chaos.
His non-existent hands clenched. Free healing? Free education? Just… funded?
How can mere funding hold back this level of decay and danger? What protects
these 'systems'? What enforces this 'justice' when even police fear to tread?
The murmurs in the vision seemed to provide a partial answer.
"He doesn't just give supplies. He builds systems – access, opportunity,
ways for people to help each other…"
"Even if he leaves, the school fund remains, the clinic access protocols…"
His breath hitched. Legacy… Systems… not of stone, but of access and
structure? The scholar built knowledge. The CEO built corporate power. The
president built a nation under law. But this man… this philanthropist… he built
pathways within the ruin, designed to function despite the darkness, focused
entirely on others. Is this resilience the final form of power? Or is it doomed
vulnerability?
The whispers blurred, the vision wavering.
The projection vanished.
Everything turned to darkness once more, leaving him adrift with profoundly
unsettling questions about the nature of power, justice, and legacy in the face
of overwhelming darkness.
The Forest of Einhala stretched endlessly beneath the eerie glow of seven
moons, each casting their own spectral light upon the land.
Green, blue, red, gold, orange, gray, and dark—their unnatural radiance bled
into the sky, warping the night into something unreal.
The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decay. The underbrush
trembled with the unseen movements of prowling beasts.
Somewhere in the distance, a predator shrieked, a sound that should have sent
shivers down her spine.
But Elena von Einhala did not flinch.
She sat before a small bonfire, its flames flickering weakly, struggling
against the weight of the night.
Its warmth never reached her.
Her lapis lazuli eyes were hollow, staring into the embers, yet she
saw nothing—only the past, swallowing her whole.
The Kingdom of Grasia was gone.
Its streets had run red, a river of blood painting the stones.
The air had reeked of burning flesh as the bodies of her people were thrown
into the flames.
Their screams had twisted together, forming a grotesque symphony of suffering
and slaughter.
She had watched it all from the castle tower, frozen, helpless.
And then—the castle gates.
The cheers of the enemy soldiers had shattered the silence, their roars of
triumph ringing through the ruined city.
And there—standing high upon the battlements, like a god among men—stood Arthur
Orsted.
His bloodied spear was raised toward the heavens, and upon it—
Her husband.
The severed head of King Tristan Einheart, still wearing
the remnants of his shattered crown, was pinned through the forehead, the
spearhead protruding from his skull.
His lifeless eyes, once filled with wisdom, stared into the abyss.
And beside him—
Her son.
The Crown Prince, her only child, her pride, her light—his
severed head impaled beside his father's, the spear's tip having pierced
through his skull like paper.
They were trophies now.
Decorations of war.
The banners of FimmDrekk unfurled behind them, drenched in
Grasian blood.
And then—the final insult.
The heads were ripped from the spear and nailed onto the castle doors, their
faces twisted into frozen agony, displayed like grotesque warnings to any who
dared defy their new king.
Her fingernails dug into her palms, the firelight catching the faint glint
of dried blood beneath them.
She had fled.
She had abandoned her people.
She had run, because she knew the truth of war.
Death was the easy way out.
For the survivors, there was only slavery.
Her body remained still.
The fire crackled weakly beside her, but she barely heard it.
The cold pressed against her skin, but she didn't shiver.
She should have felt something.
Fear. Anger. Anything.
But there was only a hollow, sinking emptiness.
The memories never left her.
They played over and over in her mind like an old wound that refused to close.
Chains rattling.
The scent of burning flesh.
The laughter of men who had taken everything from her.
She closed her eyes, but that only made it worse.
She had thought, in those moments, that she had felt terror.
But fear was for those who still had something left to lose.
Her kingdom was gone.
Her people had been slaughtered.
Her husband and son…
Her breath hitched, but she forced it down.
She could not think about them. Not now.
Her fingers curled against the damp earth, pressing into the dirt as if
grounding herself would stop her mind from unraveling.
She was a First Queen.
In Tenria, a royal of a fallen kingdom was never executed.
That would be too merciful.
She would be dragged before Arthur Orsted, her head forced to bow, her name
erased from history, and her body branded with the mark of a slave.
She would be paraded like a trophy before being discarded into the
dungeons—left to rot alongside the ghosts of other fallen rulers.
That was the fate that awaited her.
And yet, she could not bring herself to care.
Her breath was shallow, her fingers trembling slightly, but she barely noticed.
Her tears had not stopped since that night.
Her kingdom. Her king. Her son.
She had nothing left.
And the worst part was…
She wasn't even sure if she wanted it back.
Elena's tired blue eyes drifted toward the small, makeshift stone dome a few
feet away.
The structure was barely large enough for two people, its curved walls made of
hardened clay and stone, held together by her magic.
It had no windows—just a single opening wide enough for someone to crawl
through.
A simple bed of straw lay inside, offering the only comfort in this desolate
forest.
For three days, the dome had remained intact, maintained by her dwindling mana.
And for three days, the man inside—Kaito von Einheart, the 8th
Prince of Grasia—had not stirred.
Her chest tightened.
She had saved him.
Or at least, she had dragged his body away from the blood-soaked battlefield
before the FimmDrekk soldiers could take him.
But was it truly a rescue?
The moment she had found him, she knew.
His right arm and left leg were gone, severed in battle.
Deep gashes, arrow wounds, burns—his body was ruined.
He should have been dead.
And yet, here he was.
Breathing.
Elena swallowed, her throat dry.
Her arms wrapped around herself, but she did not shiver from the cold.
The war had taken everything.
Her kingdom. Her husband. Her son.
And now, the last remnant of Grasia lay dying in a stone shell, trapped between
life and death.
Her gaze lingered on him longer than she intended.
Kaito had been her son's closest brother.
The two had been inseparable—bound by blood, duty, and the shared dream of a
kingdom that no longer existed.
Did he know? Did he know that Grasia was gone? That his family was
either dead or enslaved?
Her hands curled into fists, fingernails pressing against her palms.
She exhaled, her breath uneven.
There was no time for despair. Not yet.
She had to stay strong. For him.
The fire crackled, its flames casting shadows against the forest trees.
The night felt heavier than before, pressing down on her shoulders like unseen
hands.
She stared at the dome once more and whispered,
"What will tomorrow bring?"