[Dungeon of Latom]

  Hours before Valtrax’s Supreme Transformation…

  The air in the dungeon was thick with the stench of centuries-old dust, burnt stone, and lingering mana residue. The walls, once pristine and adorned with carvings of past rulers, now bore the scars of time—cracked, weathered, and barely holding together. Each breath tasted of history, of battles long lost and victories long forgotten.

  Valtrax’s booming laughter echoed through the cavernous ruins, shaking loose debris from the vaulted ceilings. The very ground trembled beneath his every step, the sheer weight of his existence causing the once-sacred dungeon to groan in protest. Each footfall shattered ancient tiles beneath him, sending fragmented shards skittering across the floor.

  Leon stood in the eerie aftermath, his gaze shifting to his Elite Knights—the Specters, Atrius and Selene. Despite their usually composed demeanor, they, too, looked shaken. The fact that they had managed to negotiate with a being as monstrous as Valtrax was nothing short of a miracle. It wasn’t a victory—merely a delay. The weight of what they had done pressed heavily upon their chests.

  As Valtrax’s thunderous steps faded into the distance, Magnus, who had remained silent in shock, finally released a long, unsteady breath. The tension in his shoulders sagged, his body surrendering to the realization that, for now, they had avoided annihilation.

  But relief was fleeting.

  Magnus turned his gaze away from the Specters and toward the broken white stone staircase. It was ancient—far older than the dungeon itself—and led upward, into an abyss of pitch-black darkness. The fractured quartz pillars that once restrained Valtrax’s boundless strength and mana stood like shattered sentinels, their surfaces etched with long-dead runes.

  Despite the overwhelming darkness that lay ahead, despite the unknown horrors that may still lurk in the depths of the dungeon, it was not the black void that Magnus feared most.

  It was the weight of his decision.

  The heavy realization that, in his desperation and thirst for vengeance, he had willingly unleashed a monster upon the world.

  He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. No. He hadn’t done it for no reason.

  Valtrax was merely an obstacle. A roadblock in his pursuit of something far greater.

  His true purpose lay ahead.

  Beyond that staircase, beyond the ancient seals of time, beyond the sins of his bloodline—awaited the presence of his great ancestor.

  The Human Prodigy, Prada Thee Magnus.

  As Leon stood at the base of the ancient staircase, his eyes tracing the worn, broken steps that spiraled upward into absolute darkness. The cold air that drifted from above carried a weight—not just the damp chill of the underground, but the heavy presence of something beyond mortal comprehension. A part of him hesitated, his foot hovering over the first step.

  Was this truly the right path?

  For the briefest moment, doubt gnawed at the edges of his resolve, but then he exhaled and pressed forward. The time for hesitation had long passed.

  His followers, unwavering in their loyalty, moved behind him in perfect synchronization. There was no pause, no reluctance. They followed not because they had no fear, but because their faith in Leon’s purpose was absolute.

  As Leon ascended, his mind drifted to the legendary figure awaiting him beyond the void.

  Prada Thee Magnus.

  Despite never laying eyes on him, Leon had heard the stories since childhood—from his parents, from the elders, from travelers, and even from the very lands that still bore the echoes of his deeds. The name of Prada had transcended history, embedding itself into cultures, into traditions, into the very foundation of the world itself.

  Some villages carved his name into their temples, while others wove his legacy into their myths. He was not just a hero—he was an era, a force that reshaped civilization itself.

  The Sealer of Valtrax. The one who subdued and bound the beast that he just set free.

  The Slayer of the Demon King. A conqueror of nightmares, a warrior who carved his legend in blood and steel.

  The Architect of Racial Equality. A man who challenged the hatred between species and forced the world into a new era of unity.

  His list of accomplishments bordered on mythical, the kind of history that should have been eroded by time, and yet—it hadn’t.

  Even after thousands of years, his name had not faded, his actions had not been forgotten.

  How is that even possible?

  Leon’s fingers grazed the stone walls as he climbed, feeling the ancient grooves beneath his touch. Maybe… he deserved it. Maybe the grandeur of his legend wasn’t over-exaggerated, maybe every single tale, every impossible feat, was real.

  Maybe Leon had no right to downplay the legacy of the man he was about to meet.

  Prada Thee Magnus.

  With one final breath, Leon stepped deeper into the abyss, leaving the flickering torchlight behind.

  As Leon pressed forward into the pitch-black abyss, the overwhelming darkness swallowed him whole. No light. No warmth. Just an endless void stretching infinitely before him. Each step was blind, uncertain—he couldn’t tell if the next would meet solid ground or send him plummeting into an unseen chasm.

  His pulse quickened. If there were monsters lurking in this darkness, he wouldn’t even know until they were upon him.

  A creeping unease gnawed at his thoughts. Was he even walking in the right direction?

  Behind him, his Specters followed in absolute silence, their presence felt rather than seen. Their unwavering loyalty was the only reassurance he had in this void.

  Yet, as he trudged onward, doubt slithered into his mind.

  Would Prada’s body even be here?

  No one had set foot in this place for centuries. Not a single member of his family had ever visited Prada’s resting place, not because they didn’t want to, but because Valtrax had been standing in their way.

  Had they all been wrong? Had they built their hopes on a hollow grave?

  Leon’s thoughts spiraled until—

  —A light.

  A light was released into the abyss.

  A golden radiance, faint at first, shimmered in the distance. It was like a single star flickering in an eternal night.

  Hope.

  A shuddering breath escaped Leon’s lips as his heart clenched. His weary legs moved faster, drawn to the warmth ahead.

  With renewed determination, he climbed the final steps of the staircase, each footfall carrying him closer to the impossible glow.

  And then—

  —The darkness shattered.

  Leon stepped into another world.

  Before him stretched a flourishing, breathtaking forest. Towering trees with emerald leaves swayed gently, their canopies impossibly thick, yet golden rays of sunlight pierced through, casting intricate patterns of light and shadow on the soft earth.

  It made no sense.

  The dungeon was buried deep underground, an impenetrable tomb where no sun could reach. And yet, here, the light poured down as if the very heavens had been cracked open.

  The crisp scent of earth and wildflowers filled his lungs. Birds chirped in a melodic symphony, their calls weaving through the rustling leaves. The gentle rush of a hidden river whispered from beyond the trees, its waters glimmering like liquid crystal.

  Leon stood frozen, his breath stolen by the sheer impossibility of what lay before him.

  Was this truly still the dungeon?

  Or had he crossed the boundary into something else entirely?

  Leon took a slow, deliberate step forward, his boot sinking slightly into the lush green grass beneath him. The sensation was almost surreal—after the suffocating darkness of the dungeon, the earth felt impossibly soft, alive in a way that defied reason. A gentle breeze rolled through the towering trees, rustling their emerald leaves and carrying with it the crisp scent of fresh earth, damp moss, and distant wildflowers. The shadows of the ancient canopy stretched over him, dappling his face with shifting patterns of golden light and deep green.

  Each step forward felt like walking through the remnants of a forgotten dream, the warmth of the sun filtering through the thick foliage above, casting long, swaying silhouettes across his path. The air here was different—lighter, cleaner, untouched by the decay of time or the remnants of war. It was as if he had crossed the threshold into a realm beyond mortality, beyond history itself.

  His fingers brushed against the nearest tree, the bark cool and smooth beneath his touch, yet pulsing with something deeper—something ancient. He let his hand linger for a moment, grounding himself in the sheer impossibility of it all. Behind him, the Specters remained eerily silent, their presence like ghosts within this strange paradise.

  Leon’s gaze swept across the glade before him, drinking in the unnatural beauty. Was this truly still part of the dungeon? Or had he stepped beyond the reach of reality itself?

  There was no turning back now.

  As Leon pressed deeper into the forest, the vibrant green grass beneath his feet began to shift. Blades of emerald parted on their own, bending away as if guided by an unseen force, forming a clear and deliberate path before him. The movement was eerily fluid—unnatural, yet strangely graceful, as though the land itself had acknowledged his presence.

  He halted for a moment, his sharp gaze scanning the shifting terrain. Suspicion tightened in his chest. Was this a welcome or a warning? The forest was alive, more than just trees and earth—it was aware.

  A breeze whispered through the ancient boughs above, rustling the thick canopy and sending beams of golden sunlight cascading through the foliage, illuminating the path with an ethereal glow. The scent of damp moss and distant blossoms clung to the air, rich and intoxicating, making the entire moment feel like something out of legend.

  Leon exhaled slowly. A lesser man would have hesitated, but hesitation had no place here. The path had been revealed, and whether it led to salvation or damnation, he had already made his choice.

  With a measured step, he moved forward, the parted grass shifting softly around his boots, as though guiding him toward a destiny long set in stone.

  As Leon, Atrius, and Selene strode along the path, the forest remained eerily tranquil, the only sounds being the rhythmic crunch of their boots against the soft earth and the distant whisper of rustling leaves. Shafts of golden sunlight pierced through the thick canopy, casting shifting patterns across their path, while the scent of fresh greenery and damp soil filled the air.

  Atrius, ever the opportunist, suddenly broke from his steady pace and leaped with effortless grace, his fingers snatching a ripe apple from the low-hanging branches of a nearby tree. The fruit’s crimson skin gleamed under the filtered light, pristine and untouched. With a flick of his wrist, he plucked another and extended it toward Selene without hesitation.

  Selene, ever composed, glanced at him for a brief moment before silently accepting the offering. She turned the apple over in her hand, its smooth surface cool against her fingertips. Without a word, she took a small, deliberate bite, the faint crunch echoing in the serene stillness of the forest. The subtle fragrance of the fruit mixed with the natural aroma of the woods, adding an oddly human contrast to the mystical surroundings.

  Leon, however, paid no mind to their exchange. His gaze remained fixed forward, unwavering and determined. Whatever lay at the end of this path demanded his full attention—far more than the idle indulgences of his companions. The mystery of this place, the shifting grass, the impossible sunlight… all of it weighed heavily on his thoughts.

  And so, as Atrius chewed idly and Selene savored her apple in silent contemplation, Leon walked on, undeterred by the fleeting comforts of the world around him.

  Suddenly the path ended in an awe-inspiring sight—a single sword plunged deep into the earth, standing tall like an unshaken sentinel. It was no ordinary blade. The very air around it felt charged, not with malice, but with a quiet, undeniable presence, as if history itself lingered in its wake.

  Encircling the sword in perfect symmetry were delicate blue morning glory flowers, their petals shimmering under the golden rays filtering through the dense canopy of ancient trees. These flowers had flourished for centuries, untouched by time, as if nature itself had chosen to pay homage to the weapon that once reshaped the fate of the world. Their soft fragrance drifted through the air, mixing with the faint scent of damp earth and the crispness of the mountain breeze.

  Silken fabric, the color of dawn’s first light, was wrapped around the sword’s hilt, trailing gently in the wind. It moved like a spirit caught between two worlds—soft, weightless, yet unwilling to be forgotten. Despite the countless years that had passed, the fabric bore no sign of decay, its pristine texture resisting the passage of time as if bound by an unseen force.

  The blade itself gleamed with an almost celestial radiance. It was neither rusted nor dulled; instead, its silver surface shimmered as if woven from pure starlight, reflecting an unearthly brilliance. The engraved runes along its length pulsed faintly, whispering forgotten words in a language lost to the ages.

  This was not just a sword.

  This was Prada’s sword.

  This was the Glimmer of Hope.

  The Awakening of History

  Leon stood before it, transfixed. The sight alone told a story—a tale of battle, of sacrifice, of a hero who had once wielded this very blade against an unstoppable force. His fingers twitched at his sides, an unspoken reverence washing over him. This was proof. Proof that Prada was real. Proof that history had not lied.

  Behind him, Atrius and Selene were silent, their gazes locked onto the sword with the same quiet reverence. Even they could feel it—this weapon had shaped the world itself. The sheer weight of its presence pressed against their souls, as if daring them to reach out and grasp the echoes of a time long past.

  And then, as if answering their unspoken thoughts, the wind shifted. A whisper of energy stirred the air, carrying the voices of those who had once stood where they now stood, those who had fought, bled, and died in the shadow of a legend.

  And history unfurled before them.

  [Thousands of Years Ago]

  The battlefield was a wasteland of destruction. The earth had been scorched, its once-thriving lands reduced to an ocean of ash and despair. The sky above was thick with swirling smoke, choking out the sun’s light and draping the world in an unrelenting, suffocating twilight.

  A jagged horizon stretched in all directions, where the corpses of warriors, both mortal and monstrous, lay scattered—some still gripping their weapons, others reduced to little more than shattered remnants of armor and bone. Rivers of blood carved fresh paths through the broken terrain, reflecting the dying embers of battle in their crimson streams.

  And at the center of it all stood Prada Thee Magnus.

  Before him, looming like an unholy titan, was the Demon King.

  The Demon King lifted his gaze to meet Prada’s, his voice a guttural echo of torment and malice. His face—if it could even be called that—was a twisted amalgamation of charred, lifeless corpses. The flesh of countless fallen warriors had been fused together into a grotesque mask of suffering and hatred. Slash wounds marred his body, smoke curled from his seared skin, and deep burn marks exposed the blackened sinew beneath. The hollowed-out sockets of the dead stared from his form, their mouths frozen in eternal, silent screams.

  And yet, even in his defeat, there was no fear in the Demon King’s eyes—only a grim, unwavering certainty. His charred lips cracked open, releasing a voice that no longer belonged to a single being, but to countless tormented souls speaking as one.

  "You have won, Prada... but my will does not end here."

  A thick, inky-black blood seeped from his wounds, hissing as it touched the ground, corrupting the very earth beneath him. The air itself seemed to shudder under the weight of his presence, as if the world itself recoiled at his very existence.

  The corners of his grotesque mouth twisted into something akin to a grin, the scorched flesh splitting further, revealing glimpses of skulls writhing within the shadows of his form.

  "This world will be forever stained with my blood," he rasped, his voice carrying an unshakable curse.

  "Even in death, there will be another... someone far more terrible than I."

  A sudden, violent pulse of energy erupted from his broken body, sending a wave of darkness rippling through the battlefield. The wind howled like a dying beast, carrying the whispers of the damned as his form began to unravel, the very souls that composed him wailing in agony as they were pulled back into the void.

  But in the face of it all, Prada did not waver.

  His grip tightened around the Glimmer of Hope, his expression carved from stone.

  The Demon King’s final words sought to shake him, to plant the seeds of doubt.

  But Prada was beyond doubt.

  "then he is next."

  The words left Prada’s lips with a cold finality.

  And with one swift, decisive motion, he struck the final blow.

  The Demon King’s wretched form spiraled as he starts cracking and then suddenly explodes, leaving behind nothing but a scorched, bloodied battlefield... and a prophecy that would haunt history itself but his eyes didn't notice it.

  As the survivors gathered within the ruins of what was once the radiant capital of Elysia—a city that had once stood as the pinnacle of civilization, where towering spires had reached for the heavens and streets had been paved with glimmering white stone. Now, it was a graveyard of shattered dreams. Marble palaces lay in ruin, their once-majestic columns broken and half-buried beneath the rubble. Statues of long-forgotten kings lay toppled, their faces worn away by fire and time. The great fountains, which had once danced with crystal-clear water, now spilled only the blood of the fallen.

  A heavy silence hung over the broken city, punctuated only by the distant, thunderous steps of Valtrax—the abyssal colossus whose mere presence poisoned the land. Every step he took sent tremors rippling through the earth, cracking the streets, toppling what few structures remained standing. The sky, once clear, was now suffocated by storm clouds so thick that even the sun could not pierce through. Only the glow of distant, raging fires illuminated the city in eerie, flickering hues of orange and red.

  The survivors—elves with their once-immaculate robes now tattered and stained, dwarves with their armor broken and shields dented, humans whose banners lay torn upon the ground, and beastkin whose primal fury had been reduced to hollow despair—all stood as one, bound by a single truth.

  They had lost.

  The strongest warriors had fallen. Their gods had abandoned them. The most powerful mages had exhausted their mana, their spells crumbling like sand before the indomitable horror that was Valtrax.

  His body was a walking catastrophe. His hide, once organic, had transformed into an impenetrable exoskeleton of obsidian-black scales that devoured the light, making it seem as though he was carved from the void itself. His claws, jagged and cruel, had sundered castles with a mere swipe, leaving nothing behind but dust and echoes. His eyes, molten like the heart of a dying star, burned with an intelligence that surpassed mortal understanding—he was no mere beast of destruction. He was the end of an era.

  No swordsman could cut him. No mage could wound him. No kingdom could resist him.

  And then—he arrived.

  The storm clouds split.

  A golden light tore through the oppressive darkness, parting the sky as if the heavens themselves had chosen to descend upon the forsaken land. For a brief, breathless moment, the world was silent. The wind stopped howling. The ground ceased its trembling. Even Valtrax, the incarnation of destruction, lifted his head—not in fear, but in recognition.

  A single figure descended from the heavens, his silhouette illuminated by the celestial radiance that followed in his wake. His armor, polished steel and gold, bore the scars of countless battles, yet it gleamed as if untouched by time. A deep crimson cape fluttered behind him, billowing like the wings of a phoenix reborn from the ashes of war. His presence alone shifted reality itself, as if his very existence was rewriting fate.

  And in his grasp, held with an unshakable grip, was the legendary blade—the Glimmer of Hope.

  Prada Thee Magnus had come.

  The survivors gasped, their broken spirits momentarily rekindled. The name of Prada had become a legend whispered through the ages, a name that even the gods themselves revered. Some among the survivors wept at the sight, their tears streaking down their soot-covered faces. Others fell to their knees, overcome by the sheer gravity of his presence.

  But none spoke.

  Because in that moment, they understood—they did not need to.

  Prada landed with a thunderous impact, his boots cracking the scorched ground beneath him. His golden eyes—**eyes that had seen countless wars, that had defied the abyss itself—**locked onto Valtrax.

  The monster, once untouched by mortal weapons, let out a guttural, earth-shaking growl. The air warped around him, the sheer force of his presence distorting reality like a heat mirage. He was an entity beyond reason, a being that should not be.

  And yet, Prada did not waver.

  His expression was carved from stone, unreadable yet unwavering. He slowly raised the Glimmer of Hope, the blade singing as it cut through the air. Its edge gleamed with a celestial light, an undying brilliance that defied time itself. It was a weapon of legend, a blade that had witnessed the fall of empires, the birth of civilizations, the triumph of heroes and the downfall of gods.

  It was the last light in the darkest night.

  "Valtrax."

  Prada’s voice, though calm, carried the weight of an inevitable truth.

  The beast roared, a deafening, apocalyptic sound that shattered the remnants of nearby buildings and sent waves of terror through the remaining survivors. The sheer force of his cry sent hurricanes ripping across the battlefield, tearing trees from their roots, turning stone into dust.

  But the moment Valtrax lunged forward, Prada moved.

  And in that instant, the world changed.

  A single step—and the wind itself bowed to him.

  A single slash—and the sky split apart.

  Valtrax’s indomitable form met the Glimmer of Hope, and for the first time since his transformation—his flesh was cut.

  As the survivors had gathered in the shattered remains of a once-thriving city.

  Elves, dwarves, humans, beastkin—all once divided, now united by fear.

  They had seen their strongest warriors cut down like wheat, their most powerful spells shattered like glass. Hope was a dying ember.

  And then—

  The ember ignited.

  A single warrior emerged from the ruins, his form silhouetted against the backdrop of destruction. His presence alone sent ripples through the air, parting the thick veil of despair.

  In his grasp, the Glimmer of Hope shone like a beacon of light, its radiance piercing the endless dark.

  Prada had arrived.

  And with him, the survivors did not just call him a hero but,

  The final stand of humanity.

  The survivors huddled within the shattered remains of what was once a grand city. Its towering spires had crumbled into dust, streets once bustling with life were now filled with corpses, and the scent of smoldering ruin clung to the air. The cries of the wounded echoed beneath the hollow silence, the remnants of a world brought to its knees by an unstoppable force.

  Elves, dwarves, humans, beastkin—races that once feuded over borders and beliefs—stood side by side, united only by fear. They had witnessed their greatest champions fall, their most formidable spells torn apart like paper. The indomitable walls of their city, thought to be eternal, now lay in ruin. Hope was a dying ember.

  And then… the ember ignited.

  A murmur spread like wildfire through the huddled masses, an exhale of disbelief and longing.

  “It’s him…”

  A frail old villager, his voice hoarse from weeks of despair, trembled as he clutched the arm of a younger man beside him. His fingers dug into the tattered fabric of his companion’s sleeve, as if he feared this moment was nothing more than another cruel dream.

  “Prada?”

  “He’s here?!”

  The disbelief in their voices was nearly painful. Hope was a dangerous thing—something they had been stripped of too many times. To hope was to risk heartbreak.

  And then, he appeared.

  The ruined gates of the city—once a symbol of protection, now a reminder of failure—stood wide open, their iron bars twisted and shattered. Beyond them, through the swirling dust and smog, a lone figure approached, untouched by the ruin surrounding him.

  Prada Thee Magnus.

  His presence commanded the air itself.

  His sapphire-blue hair, flowing like liquid silk, swayed gently in the wind, catching the last golden rays of the sun breaking through the clouds of soot. His face, unmarred by exhaustion or hesitation, held an expression that was neither anger nor sorrow—only purpose. His piercing eyes, like sharpened steel, swept across the gathered masses, taking in the wounded, the grieving, the hopeless.

  He did not need to speak.

  The sight of him alone set something ablaze in their souls.

  His armor gleamed, impossibly pristine despite the war he had endured. The golden engravings upon his chestplate bore the mark of the Zahuv Empire—a symbol once feared, now revered. Draped over his shoulders, his royal cape, deep as the midnight sky, bore the same crest, fluttering like a banner of defiance against the forces that sought to drown this world in darkness.

  And on his back…

  Rested the Glimmer of Hope.

  Not merely a sword. Not just a weapon.

  A symbol.

  A young elf staggered forward, his hands trembling at his sides. His emerald eyes, clouded with sorrow, locked onto Prada’s face. His lips quivered as if words could not find their way past the lump in his throat.

  Then, in a voice cracking with disbelief, with relief, with something he had long forgotten… he whispered:

  “He… he did it.”

  A ragged breath tore through his chest, his knees nearly giving out as he turned to the others, his voice rising.

  “He did it!”

  The words crashed through the crowd like rolling thunder, a single spark setting the flames of hope ablaze.

  He did it. He defeated the Demon King. He survived. He came back.

  A roar erupted from the survivors, not of battle, not of fear—but of life.

  Some wept openly, clutching one another as their bodies trembled with relief. Others fell to their knees, hands pressed against their foreheads in silent prayers of gratitude. Voices rose in joyous, breathless cries, calling his name, calling his victory, calling their salvation.

  Prada, silent yet unshaken, continued walking, his gaze fixed beyond them, beyond their celebration.

  For Valtrax still lived.

  The abomination, the harbinger of ruin, the beast that had outlasted time itself, remained sealed—but not forever.

  One day, the seal would break.

  And when that day came…

  Someone would have to take up his sword.

  Leon’s breath hitched the moment his gaze locked onto the man before him.

  The world seemed to blur, the ruined city, the crying masses, the weight of despair—all of it faded, eclipsed by the sheer presence of the one standing at the shattered gates.

  Prada Thee Magnus.

  The name alone had lived in songs, in whispers, in the desperate prayers of those who clung to fading hope. But here he stood—not as myth, not as a distant story, but as flesh and blood.

  Leon’s body felt rigid, every muscle locked in sheer awe. He had seen warriors. He had seen kings. But this was something else entirely.

  Prada’s sky-blue hair billowed in the wind, each strand catching the fractured sunlight, gleaming as though woven from the heavens themselves. The motion was effortless, as if even the elements themselves dared not disturb him, but rather danced to his presence.

  And his eyes— oh god, his eyes.

  Silver, deep and resolute, with an ethereal glow that defied mere mortality. But it was the 4 triangles encircling his irises that truly sent a shiver down my spine um wait someone's spine. Arcane, deliberate, otherworldly—they were the mark of something far beyond human comprehension. A lineage forged in power, in fate, in divinity.

  Strapped to his back, as if the heavens themselves had entrusted it to him, was the Glimmer of Hope.

  Even within its masterfully crafted sheath, the blade pulsed—a quiet, radiant heartbeat, as though it was waiting, anticipating the next moment it would be drawn. The scabbard itself was no ordinary work of metal or leather. It shimmered with sapphire-blue luster, adorned with golden engravings—ancient runes that glowed in rhythm with Prada’s very being. The sword was more than a weapon. It was bound to him, an extension of his soul, a legacy carved into steel.

  The air around him felt different—lighter, charged, filled with something unexplainable.

  A presence like his did not merely exist. It commanded.

  Leon’s heart pounded against his ribs, his thoughts colliding like a storm.

  Around them, the refugees and survivors—men, women, children, the old and the broken—fell to their knees. Their expressions, once hollow and empty, now overflowed with raw emotion. Tears fell like rain.

  Cries of relief, of overwhelming gratitude, of something they had thought lost forever—hope.

  "Prada! He has come to save us!"

  "The hero of legend! He walks among us!"

  A frail woman, no older than forty but ravaged beyond her years by suffering, stepped forward on trembling legs. Every step was a struggle, her body frail, her spirit weighed down by grief and starvation. Yet, with hands quivering, she reached out—not in fear, but in reverence.

  As if to touch him was to touch salvation itself.

  Prada did not hesitate.

  His hand met hers, firm yet gentle, radiating a warmth that was real. Not just physical warmth, but something deeper, something that seeped into the cracks of her soul. His expression remained unwavering, yet kind. His presence alone carried a silent promise—so long as he stood, despair would never take root in this land again.

  The woman let out a choked sob and collapsed against him.

  Not from weakness, but from release.

  From the weight of years of suffering suddenly lifted in a single moment.

  She gripped him, clung to him, as though he was the last light in a world consumed by shadow. And Prada held her steady, allowing her to weep freely against his chest.

  Leon barely registered the sound of his own breathing.

  His mind reeled, thoughts splintering under the sheer magnitude of what he was witnessing.

  This was no ordinary warrior. This was no simple hero.

  This was history standing before him.

  This was bloodline.

  His pulse thundered in his ears. His body felt weightless, yet impossibly heavy.

  Something inside him shifted.

  Something clicked.

  His lips parted, his voice barely a whisper—yet trembling with something deeper than realization.

  "Prada…!? That’s Prada?"

  The name felt foreign in his mouth. Impossible.

  And yet—it wasn’t.

  A truth, long buried, surged up from the depths of his soul.

  His breath came in short, uneven bursts, his fists clenching as if to grasp hold of the unshakable certainty flooding through him.

  His lineage. His blood. His very existence.

  And then, before he could even process the weight of his own words—

  The truth spilled from his lips.

  "He is my ancestor!?"

  Leon took a step forward, drawn by an unseen force—a pull that he couldn't explain. It was as though the air itself beckoned him toward the figure standing amidst the ruins. His heart pounded, his breath shallow, his body moving not by logic, but by instinct.

  But before he could take another step—

  A hand shot out.

  Atrius.

  His lieutenant moved with practiced precision, stepping into Leon’s path like a stone barricade. His stance was rigid, his sharp, calculating gaze flicking between Prada and their surroundings, dissecting every possible outcome in mere seconds. His hand hovered near his waist—close enough to his weapon to draw at a moment’s notice.

  "Emperor Magnus, I strongly advise against this," Atrius said, his voice steady but edged with urgency. "We shouldn’t interact with Prada. I believe we’ve been caught in a time distortion—possibly an advanced temporal manipulation spell. If that’s the case, any direct interference could have catastrophic consequences. It would be wise to step back, my lord."

  Leon froze mid-step.

  A chill ran down his spine.

  His body had moved on its own, as though something greater than himself was pulling him forward. His thoughts scrambled to piece together the truth, but the weight of Atrius’s words pressed down on him like an iron gauntlet.

  His senses sharpened.

  The scent of smoldering ruins was thick in the air, acrid and choking. The wind carried the cries of survivors in the distance—their voices raw, broken, desperate. Sunlight poured through the shattered skyline, casting jagged shadows across the bloodstained earth.

  Everything felt too real.

  Too tangible to be a mere illusion.

  Leon’s golden eyes widened.

  "This isn’t just a vision."

  The realization sent a shock through his system.

  This was real. A fragment of the past, playing out before them.

  His breathing grew unsteady as he turned his gaze back to Prada.

  The man—his ancestor—stood unchanged, unwavering, unbroken.

  He was exactly as history had depicted him, yet so much more.

  Leon clenched his jaw, forcing his emotions into submission. This was not the time for recklessness.

  "Atrius, you’re right," he admitted at last, his voice lower now, controlled. He exhaled slowly, steadying himself against the storm raging within his mind. "Thank you for catching that. If this truly is a fragment of the past, we must tread carefully. We cannot afford to interact with anything from this era."

  His fingers twitched at his sides.

  Every fiber of his being wanted to reach out.

  To speak.

  To confirm the whispers of history.

  But he couldn’t.

  He forced himself to turn away.

  With a final glance, his eyes lingered on Prada.

  The way he moved, the way he stood, the way he comforted those around him with nothing but his presence—this was the hero history had spoken of.

  His legacy.

  Leon swallowed the ache rising in his throat.

  "One day, I will walk in his footsteps. But today… I can only watch."

  His mind was set.

  They would observe.

  But they would not interfere.

  Leon’s gaze drifted over the swelling crowd, drawn to the overwhelming presence of Prada.

  Survivors, refugees, and warriors—men, women, and children alike—pushed forward, their faces streaked with soot, blood, and tears. Their ragged breaths came in uneven sobs, their bodies trembling as the weight of suffering poured from their very souls. Some collapsed to their knees, their hands outstretched, desperate to touch the legend before them, as if his presence alone could cleanse them of their despair. Others wept openly, their cries rising in harmony—a chorus of relief, raw and unfiltered, filling the sky like the first song of dawn after a night of endless terror.

  Leon inhaled sharply.

  The sheer number of people pressing in made it harder to see Prada.

  His sapphire-blue hair—once billowing freely in the wind, a beacon of defiance against the ruin around him—was now lost behind the throng of people clinging to him. They grasped at his cloak, his arms, his hands—begging, thanking, seeking something more than just hope.

  And yet, he bore it all.

  Prada did not flinch.

  He did not recoil from their pain.

  He stood amidst the wreckage of their world, taking in every ounce of their grief, every tear, every whispered plea, every desperate hand clutching at him. And in return, he gave them something no blade, no spell, no army could ever provide.

  Reassurance.

  Leon exhaled slowly, his golden eyes narrowing.

  "This is what it means to be a legend."

  But their presence here was dangerous. He knew that.

  He turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder at Atrius and Selene.

  "It seems like our time is over," he murmured, his voice low yet firm. His cape shifted slightly with the movement, dust stirring beneath his boots. "We should get moving before we’re noticed."

  Atrius gave a curt nod, his posture never wavering. His hand remained close to his weapon—a silent declaration that he would cut down anything that threatened their mission, even history itself.

  “Agreed,” Atrius said. “We’ve lingered long enough. Any further exposure could jeopardize everything.”

  Leon nodded. He hated it, but he knew Atrius was right.

  But then there was Selene.

  Unlike the others, she did not move immediately.

  She lingered.

  Her violet eyes traced the scene one last time—memorizing it, etching it into her soul. Unlike Leon, who was forcing himself to remain logical, or Atrius, who always put practicality first, Selene allowed herself to feel.

  The raw emotions hanging in the air.

  The way Prada’s presence alone held the people together.

  The weight of an entire era resting on his shoulders.

  She absorbed it all, and for just a moment, she let it overwhelm her.

  But there was no time for sentiment.

  Leon took a final glance at Prada—at the man who stood between hope and oblivion.

  He clenched his fists.

  "I wish I could stay. I wish I could reach out and tell you who I am. But I can’t."

  With an exhale, he turned away.

  And without another word, they began their quiet departure, slipping away before the past could notice their presence.

  As they walked away, their footsteps echoed softly against the empty stone roads, swallowed by the vast stillness of a forgotten past. The city—**once a beacon of civilization and grandeur, a jewel of its time—**now stood as a solemn monument to time’s unrelenting decay.

  Towering structures, once adorned with intricate carvings and banners of triumph, bore the deep scars of war. Walls stood cracked and shattered, ancient fortresses reduced to skeletal remains of what they once were. Statues of long-forgotten heroes, their features worn smooth by time and conflict, loomed over them like silent sentinels, their empty gazes watching as the trio passed.

  The scent of dust and aged stone filled the air, mingling with the faint metallic trace of old blood, long dried upon the cobblestones. Some of it had been spilled in desperation, some in defiance, and some in the name of glory that had long since turned to ash.

  Above them, light seeped through jagged gaps in collapsed rooftops and shattered windows, casting fragmented rays upon the road ahead. The golden glow of the sun filtered through drifting motes of dust, making the air itself seem alive—like whispers of the past clinging to the ruins, waiting to be heard.

  Their shadows stretched across the cracked pavement, distorted by uneven terrain. Each step sent small clouds of dust spiraling upward, as if the city itself was exhaling beneath their feet.

  Yet, for all its destruction, for all its silence, the ruins did not feel empty.

  They carried the weight of those who had come before.

  The silence between them was thick, heavy with unspoken thoughts. No words were needed. The past had a way of making itself known—not through speech, but through the oppressive presence it left behind.

  Then, after what felt like an eternity of quiet contemplation, Selene finally broke the silence.

  "Emperor Magnus…"

  Her voice was steady, respectful, yet laced with a quiet curiosity that she could no longer suppress.

  "Forgive me, but may I ask… why go through all this trouble just to reach Prada’s grave?"

  Leon exhaled sharply.

  The sound—small, nearly lost amidst the ruins—still carried weight.

  He did not stop walking.

  But his shoulders tensed—a subtle shift, yet undeniable.

  His stride, once purposeful, now carried a heaviness that had not been there before—a weight pressed into every step, invisible yet suffocating.

  Finally, he answered.

  "I intend to train near his grave," he admitted, his voice quiet yet unwavering.

  His golden eyes, usually burning with determination, darkened slightly. Their glow dimmed, like smoldering embers beneath layers of something deeper, something unresolved.

  "His mana still lingers there… his presence has not faded entirely. If there’s anywhere in this world where I can surpass my limits, where I can forge myself into something greater… it is there."

  His hand clenched at his side, fingers curling into a fist.

  The mere thought of walking the same paths Prada once walked, of standing where he once stood, of breathing the remnants of his power in the very air—it sent a shiver through him.

  This was not merely a journey for strength.

  This was a pilgrimage.

  A necessity.

  Selene studied him carefully.

  His words rang true—but she knew Leon too well.

  There was something else beneath them, something left unsaid.

  The way he spoke of Prada—it was not just admiration.

  It was something far more personal.

  She hesitated before pressing further.

  "Is that the only reason?"

  Leon’s steps faltered.

  Just for a moment.

  A slight hesitation—almost imperceptible, but undeniable.

  For a long moment, he did not answer.

  Then, with a sigh that carried the weight of kings, of warriors, of ancestors long since passed, he finally spoke.

  "No."

  His gaze lifted toward the distance, toward the unseen resting place of the man whose name still echoed through history.

  His ancestor.

  His legacy.

  His burden.

  "It’s also to pay my respects," he admitted, his voice quieter now, as if speaking to himself as much as to her.

  "To the man whose legacy shaped everything… including me."

  No more words were spoken after that.

  And so, they walked on—silent figures vanishing deeper into the ruins of history, leaving only the echoes of their footsteps behind.

  The three warriors moved along the worn dirt path, their footsteps soft yet firm against the earth. Dry leaves crunched beneath their boots, the brittle remnants of autumn breaking apart with every step. The air was cool, carrying the scent of damp soil and distant woodsmoke, a reminder that nightfall was fast approaching.

  Above them, the sun had begun its slow descent beyond the treetops, staining the sky with hues of deep orange and dusky violet. Shafts of golden light pierced through the swaying branches, casting long, flickering shadows upon the road.

  As they advanced, the rhythmic sound of their footsteps blended with the soft rustling of the wind weaving through the trees. The occasional distant hoot of an owl signaled the coming of night, and somewhere unseen, a creek murmured in the background, its gentle current providing a melody to the fading day.

  Then, a figure emerged from the distance.

  A hunched old woman trudged along the path toward them, her frail form wrapped in layers of tattered wool. A dim lantern swayed in her wrinkled hand, its flickering flame casting a warm, unsteady glow upon the path before her. Over her shoulder, she carried a heavy sack, the contents shifting slightly with every slow step she took.

  She squinted through her blurred vision, peering at the approaching travelers with a mix of caution and curiosity. Though her eyesight had long since faded, she could still sense their presence—their aura. The way they walked, their silent but commanding strides, the weight of unseen battles clinging to them like invisible armor… they were warriors.

  Her breath hitched.

  For a moment, her frail heart pounded with recognition, as if the ghosts of the past had stepped onto the road before her.

  But then, as they drew closer, her gaze sharpened. The insignias on their cloaks. The unmistakable armor. The colors.

  Her expression shifted from surprise to something far colder.

  Zahuv’s soldiers.

  She stiffened.

  Her grip tightened around the lantern handle, its warm glow reflecting in her now-sharp, knowing eyes.

  The warriors continued forward, their golden silhouettes outlined against the dying sun.

  And in the growing dusk, the old woman did not look away.

  The old woman’s lantern swayed gently in her grip, its flickering light barely holding against the growing dusk. Shadows stretched long across the dirt road, dancing like silent phantoms beneath the canopy of twilight-stained trees.

  Her aged voice, though weakened by time, carried a strange certainty as she spoke:

  “You are men from the Zahuv Empire. You must have recently undertaken a difficult mission. Please, allow me to offer you shelter for the night. It is the least I can do to repay your service.”

  Her words were warm, seemingly sincere, but beneath them lay something unspoken—something weighty.

  Leon, Atrius, and Selene halted, their gazes flickering to one another. The offer was unexpected, but hardly unusual. It was not uncommon for civilians to show gratitude to soldiers of the empire, offering food or lodging out of respect.

  Even so, Atrius remained wary.

  With a polite but firm nod, he declined.

  "No thank you," he said, his tone even but final. "We will be heading back."

  Leon had already taken a step forward, leading them away.

  And then—

  The old lady’s smile vanished, and in its place, a sharp, knowing gaze took over—she wasn’t here for games.

  "You aren’t supposed to be here."

  The woman’s voice cut through the still air, carrying an eerie weight that froze them mid-step.

  Silence.

  Slowly, all three turned their heads toward her, suspicion flashing across their faces. The wind had stilled. The distant rustling of the trees had quieted. For the first time that evening, the air felt thick—oppressive, almost suffocating.

  Atrius's sharp eyes narrowed. His fingers twitched toward his weapon, though he did not draw it.

  "We aren’t spies," he stated cautiously. "We ar—"

  "I know you aren’t."

  The old woman cut him off before he could finish, her raspy voice laced with something deeper—an understanding that none of them had expected.

  Her lantern’s glow shimmered in her eyes as she took a step closer, her expression unreadable.

  "You do not belong in this era."

  Selene’s breath caught in her throat.

  Atrius stiffened, his body tensing like a drawn bowstring.

  Leon’s golden eyes locked onto the woman, his mind racing. How did she know?

  "Come with me," she continued, her voice lower now, almost a whisper. "Visit my home. Do not fear the consequences. I have prepared for your arrival."

  A gust of wind swept through the trees, sending leaves spiraling into the air. The flickering lantern light cast long, twisting shadows across her weathered face, accentuating the deep lines of age and wisdom.

  There was no fear in her gaze. No uncertainty.

  She knew.

  And as the weight of her words settled over them, the past itself seemed to hold its breath.

  A deep, uneasy silence settled over the path. The old woman stood unwavering, the golden glow of her lantern flickering against the gathering darkness. Her expression was calm—too calm for someone who had just uncovered the impossible truth.

  She knew they didn’t belong here.

  Leon, Atrius, and Selene remained motionless. Each of them processed her words in their own way.

  Atrius’s grip on his weapon tightened. His trained instincts screamed danger—an unknown variable, a breach of secrecy. If she knew, who else did? How? His mind ran through every possibility, every reason why a simple old woman in a remote village would possess such knowledge. None of the answers sat well with him.

  Selene’s heart pounded in her chest. It wasn’t fear—it was something else. A deep, gut-wrenching feeling, as if the air itself had shifted. There was something strange about this woman, something inexplicable, yet… familiar.

  Leon studied the woman in silence, golden eyes burning with scrutiny. He had met countless people—warriors, nobles, scholars, mystics—but never had he encountered someone who could peer through the very fabric of time itself.

  He stepped forward.

  "You said you’ve prepared for our arrival," Leon spoke, his voice even, controlled. "How?"

  The old woman exhaled slowly, her aged features unreadable.

  "That is something I will explain in due time."

  She turned, beginning to walk away, her lantern swaying gently at her side.

  "Follow me."

  Leon glanced at Atrius and Selene. Atrius still looked tense, his posture rigid, ready to spring into action at the first sign of a threat. Selene, though wary, seemed drawn to the woman’s presence, as if pulled by an unseen force.

  "We should leave," Atrius muttered, his tone edged with distrust. "This is a risk."

  Leon didn’t respond immediately. He stared at the woman’s retreating figure, his thoughts colliding in a storm of curiosity and caution.

  If she truly knew where they came from—**if she knew what they were—**then leaving her behind posed just as much of a risk as following her.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  With a deep breath, Leon made his decision.

  "We follow."

  Atrius shot him a sharp look, but Leon’s resolve was already set.

  Selene hesitated for only a moment before nodding.

  And so, they followed.

  The path was long and winding, cutting through a thicket of trees whose twisted branches reached toward the sky like skeletal fingers. The wind whispered through the leaves, carrying with it the distant scent of damp earth and woodsmoke.

  The deeper they walked, the more unsettling the air became. It was as if reality itself was bending around them, warping ever so slightly at the edges.

  Leon felt it. So did Atrius and Selene.

  Something about this place wasn’t normal.

  Finally, they arrived.

  The woman’s home was small and worn with time, its wooden walls darkened by age and its thatched roof sagging slightly in places. A faint, inviting glow emanated from within, casting golden light through the cracks in the shutters.

  She pushed open the door without a word, stepping inside. The interior was cluttered yet deliberate, every surface covered with strange artifacts, old books, and bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. The scent of incense and something else—something ancient—hung thick in the air.

  Leon stepped in first, his gaze scanning the space with careful precision. He noticed symbols etched into the wooden beams, faint but unmistakable. Time-worn inscriptions, reminiscent of old magic.

  Atrius entered next, his every movement precise, calculated, prepared for an ambush that never came.

  Selene followed, feeling something tug at the edges of her mind. A whisper of familiarity.

  The woman set her lantern on the table and turned to them.

  "You have many questions," she said. "And I have waited a long time to answer them."

  Her voice held a weight to it now—as if she had been expecting this moment for far longer than they could imagine.

  Leon stepped forward, his golden eyes sharp, unreadable.

  "Who are you?"

  The old woman smiled faintly, the firelight reflecting in her aged eyes.

  "Someone who remembers what history has forgotten."

  A gust of wind howled outside, rattling the wooden walls.

  And in that moment, the past and present seemed to converge.

  The world beyond the lantern’s glow was devoured by darkness. Not just the ordinary gloom of night, but something deeper—thicker. It stretched endlessly, swallowing the sky, the trees, the very earth beneath them. No moonlight guided their way, no stars pierced the heavy void overhead. Only the frail, flickering light of the old woman’s lantern stood defiant against the abyss.

  The fog curled at their feet like living tendrils, cold and damp, seeping into their boots and coiling around their legs with unnatural persistence. It was unlike any mist they had encountered before—denser, heavier, almost clinging to them, as though it sought to pull them into the unseen depths beyond their path.

  Leon’s sharp golden eyes flickered with wariness, his instincts alert to the eerie stillness that surrounded them. No crickets. No owls. No distant rustle of nocturnal creatures. The silence was unnatural, suffocating, pressing down on them like an unseen force.

  Atrius walked a step behind him, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, eyes scanning the darkness. Every muscle in his body was tense, his warrior’s intuition screaming at him. Something was watching them. He couldn’t see it, couldn’t hear it, but he could feel it—a presence lurking just beyond their sight, waiting in the unseen.

  Selene, walking beside them, felt a chill creep down her spine. It wasn’t just the cold. The air here was wrong—stale, heavy, ancient. With every step, it felt as though they were walking through something unseen, something that had not been disturbed for centuries.

  The old woman walked ahead, undeterred by the suffocating darkness. She did not hesitate, did not slow. She knew this path well.

  "Keep moving," she said without turning, her voice cutting through the oppressive silence like the tolling of a distant bell.

  Leon narrowed his eyes but said nothing. He did not trust her. But he also knew they had no choice but to follow.

  The fog thickened, swirling higher now, reaching their knees, then their waists. The path beneath them became uncertain, shifting, as though the ground itself was being swallowed. For a moment, it felt like they were walking through nothingness.

  Then—just as unease clawed at the edges of their minds—the dim outline of a structure materialized ahead.

  A small, wooden house, its frame worn with age, its thatched roof sagging under the weight of time. Light flickered through the cracks in its shutters—warm, inviting, yet somehow unsettling.

  The old woman stepped onto the porch and pushed open the wooden door, the rusted hinges groaning in protest.

  "Come inside," she said, stepping into the dimly lit space. "Before the things beyond this path notice you."

  Leon, Atrius, and Selene exchanged wary glances.

  But as the fog behind them **began to stir—began to move—**they did not hesitate.

  They stepped inside.

  And the door shut behind them.

  The moment they stepped inside, the air shifted. The weight of the outside world—the suffocating darkness, the eerie silence, the unseen eyes lurking within the mist—vanished like a fleeting nightmare. Instead, the interior of the house carried an atmosphere entirely its own. Ancient. Unnatural. Yet… safe.

  A warm glow flickered from oil lamps mounted on the walls, casting shadows that danced across strange symbols etched into the wooden beams. The markings—intricate, deliberate, old—hummed faintly with latent energy, as though whispering secrets in a language beyond comprehension.

  Leon’s gaze flicked across the room, analyzing every detail with sharp precision. The house was small, humble in size, but filled to the brim with relics of forgotten ages. Shelves lined with aged tomes, brittle parchment rolled tightly into scrolls, glass jars containing unidentifiable herbs and preserved creatures. A set of ornate masks hung upon one wall, their hollow eyes peering into the room like silent sentinels.

  In the far corner, a staff stood upright on its own, resting against nothing, yet perfectly balanced.

  Selene ran her fingers lightly over the air near one of the markings on the wooden beams—a slight warmth radiated from it, like the last embers of a dying fire. The entire structure pulsed with a protective energy, one that had undoubtedly kept this place untouched by the horrors lurking outside.

  That’s why nothing had attacked this house.

  The monsters knew better.

  Atrius, ever the cautious warrior, remained standing near the entrance, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. His eyes swept over the artifacts and trinkets, cataloging each item with growing suspicion.

  The old woman moved with ease, unfazed by the wary glances of her guests. She settled herself into a creaking wooden chair, placing the sack she carried beside her with careful hands. It landed with a soft thud—not the hollow sound of empty grain or cloth, but the solid weight of something more substantial.

  For a long moment, she simply watched them.

  Studying. Weighing. Judging.

  Then, with a slow exhale, she spoke.

  "You may lower your guard." Her voice was neither demanding nor pleading—it was a simple statement, firm in its certainty. "This place is beyond their reach. No harm will come to you here."

  Leon, still standing, did not immediately relax. His golden eyes remained sharp, filled with suspicion as they flickered toward the sack beside her. He did not trust easily, and this woman knew too much.

  "You speak as if you were expecting us," he finally said, his voice even. "Why?"

  The old woman’s lips curled into a knowing smile, the flickering lamplight casting deep lines across her aged face.

  "Because, my dear travelers…" Her gaze turned toward the ceiling, as though looking beyond the limits of this reality. "I have seen you before."

  The house creaked.

  Something unseen shifted in the air.

  Leon felt the weight of time itself pressing upon them.

  As Atruis voice carried a sharp edge, his dark green eyes narrowing as he studied the old woman’s every movement. His posture remained rigid, guarded, as if at any moment he expected the illusion of safety to shatter around them.

  "Is that so?" He folded his arms, his cape shifting with the motion. "We are from the future. If you have seen us before, then you would have been dead long before our arrival."

  Leon's stiffened slightly beside him, his grip tight. The very notion that someone from this era could have prior knowledge of their existence was impossible. They had traveled through a veil of time itself, unseen and unrecorded—ghosts of history, meant to pass unnoticed. And yet, here sat this old woman, speaking of them as if they had always been a part of this world's past and future.

  Selene watched carefully, her sharp gaze flickering between the woman and the strange artifacts that filled the room. Magic. Ancient, unfamiliar magic. There was no other explanation for it.

  The old woman did not seem offended by Leon’s accusation. If anything, she smiled—a small, knowing expression, as though she had been waiting for this very response.

  "You speak of time as if it is a straight path," she said, her voice carrying the weight of someone who had long since abandoned such a notion. "But time is a river, my dear boy. And rivers do not flow in one direction alone."

  A gust of wind passed through the room, despite the windows being shut. The candles flickered, shadows shifting strangely against the wooden walls, as if the very space around them had briefly warped.

  Leon clenched his jaw, his mind racing. This was no ordinary woman.

  "Explain," Atrius commanded, his deep voice carrying an unspoken threat.

  The old woman chuckled softly, the sound like brittle leaves crumbling in autumn. Slowly, she reached for the sack she had placed beside her, fingers brushing over the worn fabric before carefully untying the knotted string at its opening.

  The moment the sack opened, an unseen pressure filled the room.

  It was subtle, but undeniable—like the heavy silence before a storm.

  Leon’s body tensed. Selene instinctively took a step back, fingers hovering near her weapon. Even Atrius, ever the composed warrior, shifted his stance, prepared for whatever lay within that sack.

  With slow, deliberate movements, the old woman reached inside—and withdrew an object wrapped in silk.

  The silk was deep crimson, embroidered with symbols that pulsed with faint, golden light. Despite the fabric obscuring whatever lay within, the sheer presence of it was suffocating.

  The old woman placed it carefully on the wooden table before them, her wrinkled hands hovering over it as though it were something sacred.

  "This," she murmured, "is proof that I have seen you before."

  Leon stared at the wrapped object, his instincts screaming at him. Whatever was inside that silk was not just ancient. It was something impossibly significant.

  And as the candlelight flickered once more, he realized—

  It was something tied to them.

  The old woman’s voice carried an eerie weight, a quiet certainty that sent a ripple of unease through the room. "This is one of the pieces of the Demon King."

  Leon’s golden eyes darkened, flickering from the silk-wrapped object to the woman’s lined face. He could hear the subtle tremor in her voice—not from fear, but from the sheer gravity of what she was revealing.

  The room, once merely strange, now felt oppressive. The flickering candlelight cast distorted shadows, the walls seeming to close in as if drawn by the object’s presence. A piece of the Demon King. Even the name alone carried the weight of forgotten wars, untold bloodshed, and a past that should have remained buried.

  Atrius was the first to speak, his tone edged with restrained suspicion. "You expect us to believe that?" His grip on his sword had not eased. "That you, an old woman living in a forgotten corner of history, possess something so dangerous?"

  The woman let out a dry chuckle, shaking her head. "You young ones always think power is held only by the ones still swinging swords."

  She reached out, her gnarled fingers gently pressing against the silk-wrapped relic. For a moment, nothing happened.

  Then—the very air in the room shifted.

  A deep, unnatural chill swept over them, as if something ancient and malevolent had stirred. The candle flames dimmed, flickering erratically as a soft, almost imperceptible whisper coiled through the space—a voiceless murmur, pressing against their minds like unseen hands clawing at their thoughts.

  Selene inhaled sharply, instinctively stepping closer to Leon, her body tense. "That’s… not normal magic," she murmured, barely above a whisper.

  The old woman nodded slowly, as if she had expected such a reaction. "No, it is not."

  With deliberate care, she withdrew her hand, and the pressure in the room lessened. The whispering ceased. The chill faded, though the unease remained.

  She leaned back in her chair, her weary gaze drifting toward the flickering candlelight. "Long before I retired, I was once a powerful mage. Not the kind that sat in towers reading dusty tomes—I was an adventurer."

  Leon’s expression remained unreadable, but there was something sharper in his gaze now. He had spent years reading about the past, about those who once challenged fate itself. If she spoke the truth, then she was one of those nameless legends—the kind who never sought recognition, only survival.

  The woman continued, her voice softened by the weight of memory. "I delved into dungeons with my party, facing things that no man or woman should have survived. Ancient horrors, lost civilizations, curses that would make your very blood rebel against you."

  She glanced at them then, a faint, knowing smile curling her lips. "Many believe the Demon King was slain, that his body was destroyed." She shook her head. "That is a lie."

  The candlelight cast deep shadows across her face as she spoke her next words.

  "The Demon King was not defeated. He was merely... broken."

  Silence. Heavy and suffocating.

  "And I," she said, "was one of the fools who tried to dive into the same place where he is slain by Prada."

  A long breath escaped Leon’s lips. He looked back at the relic, his fingers itching But he resisted.

  Selene crossed her arms, her expression unreadable. "If you truly are what you claim to be, then tell me—what is it you see?"

  The old woman’s gaze met hers, and for the first time, the flickering light reflected something unnatural in her aged eyes.

  "I see the past. I see the future. And I see you—standing at a crossroads where no road leads forward without consequence."

  She exhaled deeply.

  "You should not be here."

  Leon clenched his jaw. "And yet, here we are." as he sigh's

  The old woman’s smile did not fade. Instead, she simply gestured toward the relic.

  "Then the only question left is this—what will you do with the knowledge I have given you?"

  A silence settled over the dimly lit room, thick and unyielding. The weight of the old woman’s words coiled around them, heavy with implications that could not be ignored.

  Leon’s golden eyes flickered between the woman and the silk-wrapped relic, his mind racing. A piece of the Demon King. A remnant of a being so powerful that history itself had tried to erase him. If she was telling the truth, then the wars of the past were not truly over—they were merely delayed.

  Selene's arms remained crossed, her piercing gaze locked onto the old woman. "You speak in riddles, but you haven’t answered my question. If you can see the future, what do you see in ours?"

  The old woman studied them for a long moment before closing her eyes, as if reaching into some unseen realm. The air around her seemed to grow thicker, laced with an unseen force that prickled against their skin.

  Then, she spoke.

  "I see fire."

  Leon’s breath hitched.

  "I see an empire drowning in its own ambition. I see warriors, kings, and gods alike, all marching toward an ending none of them can stop. And at the heart of it all…" Her voice grew quieter, her gaze settling on him. "I see you, standing upon the edge of ruin, your hands stained in the blood of both your enemies and your own kin."

  Leon felt a coldness seep into his bones. Was it the weight of prophecy, or merely the weight of his own destiny?

  Atrius, ever the pragmatist, narrowed his eyes. "And what of this relic? Why show it to us?"

  The old woman smiled faintly. "Because history does not move forward without its chosen hands. And whether you accept it or not, you have been chosen."

  She slowly reached for the silk-wrapped object, her frail hands trembling slightly. With careful precision, she began to unravel the fabric, revealing what lay beneath.

  The first thing Leon saw was black.

  Not just any black—but a depthless void, a swirling mass of obsidian locked within jagged stone. Veins of crimson pulsed faintly across its surface, beating like a still-living heart. The moment the relic was fully revealed, the room shuddered. The wooden walls creaked, the candlelight dimmed further, and for a brief second—Leon swore he could hear something breathing.

  Selene took an instinctive step back. "That… thing is alive."

  The old woman nodded. "A fragment of his essence, preserved even after his body was destroyed. A mere sliver of the Demon King’s power, yet it is enough to awaken what has long been forgotten."

  Leon felt the relic’s presence—a whisper against his mind, a clawed hand brushing against his thoughts, testing, prodding, waiting. He clenched his fist, suppressing the urge to flinch.

  "You want us to take this, don’t you?" he said, his voice low.

  The woman’s smile widened, though there was no joy in it.

  "No, boy. I want you to decide what must be done with it."

  The relic pulsed. The whisper became a murmur.

  And in that moment, Leon knew—whatever choice they made tonight would shape the course of history itself.

  Atrius narrowed his sharp, calculating eyes, his hand still hovering near the hilt of his weapon as if ready to strike at a moment’s notice. His instincts screamed at him—this was no ordinary relic. The way the air itself seemed to bend around it, the way the candlelight flickered unnaturally in its presence… this was something that should not exist.

  "I'm sorry, lady," he said, his voice steady but edged with unyielding resolve. "But this is a dangerous task, and you’re risking the life of Emperor Magnus. I won’t allow it."

  Leon remained silent, his golden eyes locked onto the pulsating fragment of the Demon King. The relic seemed to throb in response to his presence, its deep crimson veins pulsing like a heartbeat—a heartbeat that did not belong in this world. It was calling to him.

  The old woman, unfazed by Atrius’s warning, simply chuckled—a quiet, knowing sound. "Risking his life?" she echoed, shaking her head. "You speak as if his fate has not already been decided, as if his path is one that can be altered so easily."

  She turned her gaze back to Leon, her eyes clouded with something between sorrow and certainty. "The truth is, young emperor… your fate was sealed the moment you stepped into this era."

  Selene frowned, her hands tightening into fists. "You speak as though he has no choice in the matter."

  "Because he doesn’t," the old woman said simply. "Not anymore."

  A tense silence followed.

  Leon exhaled slowly, his mind racing. Every fiber of his being told him that this relic was dangerous, an artifact of destruction that had no place in the hands of the living. And yet… something deep within him—something primal, something instinctual—urged him to take it.

  Atrius, however, was not so easily swayed. He stepped forward, his stance firm, placing himself slightly between Leon and the relic. "You expect us to believe that fate is absolute? That we are nothing more than pieces in a game already played?" He scoffed, his sharp gaze darkening. "I don’t buy into prophecy. And I certainly don’t buy into dooming my emperor based on cryptic riddles."

  The old woman gave him a measured look before sighing. "You misunderstand, warrior. I do not claim fate is unchangeable. But fate… is persistent. The more one struggles against it, the more it twists and turns, finding new ways to ensure its end."

  Leon finally spoke, his voice calm but laced with something dangerous.

  "Then tell me this—if fate is so persistent, then what happens if I take this relic?"

  The old woman was silent for a long moment. Then, she leaned forward, her wrinkled fingers gently brushing the relic’s surface. The moment her skin touched it, the room dimmed further, the very air tightening around them like unseen chains.

  And then she whispered:

  "Then the world will finally bear witness to its greatest monster."

  The words sent a chill through them all.

  Leon’s breath slowed. Selene stiffened. Even Atrius—who had faced countless horrors in his lifetime—felt something in the depths of his soul stir.

  The old woman sat back, folding her frail hands in her lap. "But that is merely one path, Emperor Magnus. It is not the only one. That is why I brought you here—not to command you, not to bind you, but to offer you a choice."

  She gestured toward the relic, its pulsating glow casting eerie shadows along the wooden walls.

  "You can leave it here, buried beneath dust and time, and history will continue its slow decay."

  Her gaze sharpened.

  "Or you can take it. Wield it. And shape history with your own hands."

  Leon exhaled through his nose, his golden eyes never leaving the cursed fragment. His thoughts stormed within him—a battle between reason and instinct, between caution and desire.

  He was an emperor. A warrior. A descendant of legends. And now… now he stood before a relic that held the remnants of a king who had nearly ended the world.

  Could he truly afford to walk away?

  Selene, noticing his hesitation, stepped closer. Her voice was quieter now, softer—but firm. "Leon… whatever you decide, we stand with you. But know this—power always comes with a cost. Choose wisely."

  Leon closed his eyes for a moment, then reopened them, his resolve solidifying.

  The time for hesitation had passed.

  With steady fingers, he reached toward the relic.

  Leon’s fingers hovered inches away from the relic, the pulsating glow casting long, flickering shadows across his face. The closer he got, the heavier the air became, as if an unseen force was pressing down on his very soul.

  But before he could make contact, the old woman pulled the relic back, her aged fingers tightening around it.

  "Not yet." Her voice was quiet, yet it carried the weight of centuries. She looked at him with eyes that had seen too much, that had known too many truths. "Do not be so quick to reach for power you do not yet understand, Emperor Magnus."

  Leon’s golden eyes flickered with frustration, but he did not move. He wasn’t one to act recklessly—not when the stakes were this high.

  The old woman studied him carefully before continuing. "There is a risk, a great one. The moment you touch this relic, you are opening yourself to its will. There is a chance—no matter how strong you are—that you will not remain yourself. You may not just wield its power…"

  She leaned in slightly, her voice lowering to a near whisper.

  "You may become its vessel."

  The words sent an involuntary chill through Selene and Atrius.

  Selene’s grip on her weapon tightened, her heartbeat quickening. "A vessel?" she echoed. "Are you saying that if Leon touches it, the Demon King could possess him?"

  The old woman exhaled, a slow, deliberate breath. "I am saying that if his will is not strong enough—if his soul is not unshakable—then yes. The Demon King will take him, and the world will bear witness to his return."

  The room was deathly silent.

  Atrius, ever the pragmatist, scoffed. "Then why even present this to him? Why risk the possibility of bringing back a force that nearly destroyed the world?"

  The woman turned her head slightly, locking eyes with Atrius. "Because power cannot simply be ignored, warrior. Power does not disappear just because we refuse to acknowledge it. Power lingers, waiting… watching… until someone foolish or desperate enough claims it."

  She tapped the surface of the relic, the sound reverberating unnaturally through the room.

  "I would rather this choice be made by a man of strength and conviction… than leave it to fate to decide who next stumbles upon it."

  Leon listened intently, his gaze locked onto the relic. He could feel its presence now, a whisper at the edge of his mind, a distant voice calling to him. It did not speak in words, but in something deeper—a pull, an invitation.

  His hand twitched.

  Then the old woman spoke again, her voice unwavering.

  "If you doubt yourself—if you hesitate even for a moment—then step away. Walk out that door and never return."

  Leon’s jaw clenched. He could feel Selene’s worried gaze on him, could sense Atrius’s tension beside him. They were waiting for his decision, trusting him to make the right one.

  But what was the right choice?

  If he turned away now, this power would remain untouched… for now. But what if someone else found it? What if, one day, the world faced a threat even greater than the Demon King himself? Would he not regret walking away from a strength that could change the course of history?

  And yet, the cost was steep. If he took this power, he risked losing himself. Risked becoming something… else.

  A heavy silence filled the space between them.

  Then the old woman spoke again, her words cutting through the stillness like a blade.

  "But if you believe—truly believe—that your will is stronger than his…"

  She slowly, carefully, extended the relic toward him.

  "Then take it."

  The glow intensified, illuminating the deep lines of her face, the strange symbols lining the walls, the sheer weight of the decision before him.

  Leon stared at the relic for a long, agonizing moment. His fingers twitched, the pull becoming almost unbearable.

  And then…

  He reached out.

  Leon exhaled slowly, his fingers just inches from the relic. The sheer force of its presence gnawed at his senses, its weight pressing against his soul like an invisible storm. He could feel it—the hunger, the sheer vastness of its power waiting to be claimed.

  But he hesitated.

  His hand, steady as a warrior’s should be, did not tremble. And yet, the conflict within him was undeniable.

  With a deep breath, he reached instead for a length of fine silk, smooth and pristine despite its age. With practiced precision, he carefully wrapped the relic, encasing its pulsating glow beneath layers of enchanted fabric. The silk’s woven threads shimmered faintly as they absorbed the excess mana, dulling the ominous energy that radiated from within.

  He tightened the knots carefully, expertly—ensuring not a single drop of its essence would escape.

  Then, his voice broke the silence.

  "I'm sorry," he murmured, the words carrying more weight than simple refusal. His golden eyes flickered, shadowed with deep thought. "But I don't think I'm strong enough for this. Not yet."

  He wasn't ashamed to admit it. Power alone wasn't what made a ruler—it was knowing when to wield it and when to step back.

  But even as he spoke, something stirred within his mind.

  A flash—no, a vision.

  For a brief moment, the present dissolved. The room, the old woman, even his companions—they all faded into nothingness.

  And in their place, he saw fire.

  The battlefield stretched before him, a place unfamiliar yet strangely known. Smoke coiled into the heavens, painting the sky in shades of war. The ground trembled beneath the clash of titanic forces—steel against steel, will against will.

  And at the heart of it all…

  A warrior.

  Red hair, wild as the inferno around him.

  The man’s blade clashed against a colossal entity—Valtrax, a name carved into the annals of history. Sparks showered the air like dying stars as their weapons met, each strike threatening to shatter the world itself. This warrior fought not just with skill, but with purpose, with defiance.

  And somehow, Leon knew.

  This was the one. The one who could bear this burden.

  As swiftly as it had come, the vision vanished, leaving Leon standing once more in the dimly lit room.

  He blinked, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

  Slowly, deliberately, he took the wrapped relic and placed it inside his bag. His hands lingered for a moment over the secured pouch, feeling the weight—not just of the object, but of the decision he had made.

  Across from him, the old woman watched in silence.

  Then, a knowing smile touched her lips.

  "I see…" she murmured, her voice gentle yet laced with quiet amusement. "You have been given a vision. A glimpse of the path ahead."

  Leon met her gaze, his expression unreadable.

  "Very well," she continued, inclining her head in acknowledgment. "Fate has spoken. And you, Emperor Magnus, have listened."

  The air in the room seemed lighter, though the weight of the journey ahead remained heavier than ever.

  Before any of them could react, a blur of motion sliced through the air.

  Leon’s instincts flared—danger. His muscles tensed, but it was already too late.

  A spear appeared from nowhere, descending with terrifying speed.

  Even Atruis and Selene, seasoned warriors in their own right, barely registered its movement. Their eyes widened in shock, their bodies moving on instinct, hands darting toward their weapons—but it was futile.

  The weapon was too fast. Too precise.

  And yet—

  Thud.

  The spear’s end touched the ground softly, deliberately.

  The old woman’s fingers curled around its shaft, her grip firm yet effortless, as if she had simply plucked it from the very fabric of existence. Not a single ounce of aggression. No hostility. Just absolute control.

  Leon exhaled, his heartbeat steadying. He had seen enough battles to know when someone wielded power beyond recklessness—this woman, whatever her true identity, was far beyond ordinary.

  She extended the weapon toward him.

  "Here. Take this."

  Her voice carried a quiet authority, not a request, but an expectation.

  Leon’s gaze flickered down to the weapon in her hands, and for the first time, he truly saw it.

  The Spear of Pragmatism

  Its shaft was crafted from a deep, darkened steel, smooth yet unyielding beneath the fingers. Intricate golden inscriptions spiraled across its length, telling the story of countless battles, of victories won not by idealism but by necessity.

  At its end, the blade gleamed with an unnatural sharpness, its surface imbued with a faint, shifting energy—not elemental, not holy nor cursed, but something else entirely. A weapon of truth. A weapon of inevitability.

  A weapon that did not serve glory… but results.

  "This is the Spear of Pragmatism," the old woman continued, her eyes watching him intently. "A relic of my past… and a legacy of one I once fought beside."

  Leon’s fingers brushed against the shaft, and the moment he touched it, something pulsed.

  A whisper—faint, almost imperceptible—brushed against the edges of his mind.

  Not a voice, not a memory… but a presence.

  One that demanded not righteousness, nor vengeance, nor even ambition.

  But clarity.

  A warrior’s weapon. A realist’s weapon. A weapon that held no delusions.

  Leon tightened his grip, feeling the weight—not just of the spear, but of the responsibility that came with it.

  He lifted his gaze to meet the old woman’s.

  "This belonged to someone you held in high regard."

  She gave a small, knowing smile.

  "Indeed."

  A pause.

  Then, she spoke again, her tone softer this time.

  "He was… someone I had great interest in."

  A flicker of something unreadable passed through her aged eyes—a moment of nostalgia, of loss, of understanding.

  Leon looked down at the spear once more, running his thumb along the engraved patterns.

  A weapon of pragmatism.

  A weapon that did what needed to be done.

  Slowly, he nodded.

  "Then I will wield it well."

  The old woman’s eyes lingered on the spear for a moment longer before she finally spoke, her voice softer now, carrying the weight of years long past.

  “Take care of it for me… when you go.”

  It was not merely a request. It was a farewell.

  Leon glanced at her, noting the way her fingers had briefly tightened around the shaft of the spear before finally releasing it into his grasp. There was something profound in that simple action, something unspoken yet undeniably present—a final act of letting go.

  The dim light of the lantern flickered, casting long shadows across the ancient relics that lined the walls of her humble home. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment, dried herbs, and faint traces of old magic—a sanctuary untouched by time, much like the woman herself.

  Leon studied the spear in his hands. Its weight was perfectly balanced, its craftsmanship beyond anything mass-produced. It was a warrior’s weapon, forged not for ceremony but for survival, honed through experience rather than legend.

  He turned back to the old woman, his golden eyes steady. "I will."

  She let out a quiet breath, as if those words alone had relieved her of some invisible burden.

  “Good.”

  Selene and Atrius exchanged glances, sensing the depth of the exchange yet choosing to remain silent. Even the ever-watchful Atrius, who had been skeptical of the woman from the start, stood still, his gaze betraying a hint of newfound respect.

  Then, as if breaking free from a moment of reverie, the old woman straightened in her chair, brushing her palms together.

  “Now then… there is one last thing you must know before you leave.”

  Her eyes darkened slightly, the weight of knowledge settling into her features.

  “The spear may be pragmatic, but it is not without its own will. Be certain, Magnus… that you are ready to wield what it represents.”

  Leon frowned slightly but nodded. He did not know exactly what she meant yet, but something in the depths of his soul told him… he would soon find out.

  Leon’s grip on the spear tightened as a sudden shift in energy coursed through him. It wasn’t an overwhelming force, nor did it try to consume him. Instead, it felt… watchful.

  Like a presence—ancient, discerning, and patient.

  A subtle pulse of mana traveled through his fingertips, weaving its way through his veins, spreading across his body like invisible threads. There was no warmth, no cold—only a neutral, analytical presence, as if the spear was silently judging him, peeling apart every layer of his being to determine whether he was worthy of wielding it.

  His muscles tensed instinctively, though he forced himself to remain still. The sensation was strange—not intrusive, but unsettling in its precision. His instincts screamed danger, yet the spear did nothing more than observe.

  Then, just as suddenly as it began, the sensation faded. The flow of mana withdrew, receding into the weapon like the tide pulling back into the ocean.

  “It seems the spear has tolerated you… for now.”

  The old woman’s words cut through the silence, her tone neither approving nor disapproving—merely stating a fact.

  Leon exhaled slowly. Tolerated. Not accepted, not chosen—only tolerated.

  His golden eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the weapon once more. Now that he was attuned to it, he could feel a faint trace of something buried deep within—an intent. A will of its own. The spear was no ordinary tool; it carried the remnants of its previous wielder’s experiences, their decisions, their triumphs and failures.

  It was not something that could simply be owned.

  It had to be earned.

  Selene, who had been watching the exchange closely, finally spoke. “That reaction… that means it’s sentient, doesn’t it?”

  The old woman gave a slow nod. “To a degree.” Her gaze returned to Leon, sharp yet unreadable. “It will not guide you. It will not aid you. It will not yield to you—unless you prove yourself worthy of its purpose.”

  Leon lifted the weapon slightly, rolling it in his hands, feeling the weight, the balance. Purpose.

  And what exactly was that?

  Atrius, ever the pragmatist, remained quiet, though his sharp eyes had not once left the spear. His hand rested loosely on the hilt of his own weapon—a silent habit whenever something unknown presented itself.

  Leon let out a slow breath before gripping the spear properly, resting its base lightly against the floor. “Then I’ll prove myself.”

  The old woman’s lips curved into something that was neither a smile nor a frown—a knowing expression.

  “We shall see.”

  For now, the weapon had chosen to watch. But Leon had no intention of remaining merely tolerated.

  He would make it accept him.

  Leon leaned forward slightly, his piercing gaze locked onto the old lady before him. His voice was calm, yet carried a distinct weight behind it.

  "And may I ask," Leon said, his tone measured but laced with curiosity, "do you perhaps know anything about Prada?"

  The man across from him furrowed his brows, his expression shifting into one of contemplation. He exhaled, as if grasping for fragments of a distant memory. "I'm not entirely sure myself," he admitted, shaking his head slightly. "I was briefly acquainted with him during my time with my party, but beyond that..." He hesitated, his voice dropping to a more hushed tone, "he remains a mystery to me."

  A flicker of intrigue danced in Leon’s eyes as he processed the response. The air between them grew heavier, charged with the unspoken implications of Prada’s enigmatic nature.

  Leon’s grip on the Spear of Pragmatism tightened slightly as he listened intently, his golden eyes locked onto the old woman. The weight of the name "Prada Thee Magnus" carried an almost sacred reverence in his bloodline, but the way she spoke of him—with uncertainty, with hesitation—was unexpected.

  “You say he was your party’s acquaintance,” Leon said carefully. “But you’re unsure of his existence?”

  The old woman exhaled, a slow and tired breath, as if the memories she was about to recall weighed on her very soul. Her lantern flickered, casting elongated shadows along the walls of the room, where arcane symbols and artifacts lay untouched by time.

  “Not ‘unsure’ in the way you may think,” she admitted. “I have no doubt that Prada lived. His legend—his deeds—are written in the annals of history, and his blood runs through your veins, does it not?”

  Leon gave a slight nod.

  “But… the man himself?” Her voice grew quieter, as though she were sharing a secret with the very air around them. “There are few who can claim they truly knew him. Even my mentor, one of the greatest mages of his time, spoke of Prada not as a man, but as a force of nature—something beyond human comprehension.”

  Atrius shifted slightly, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Selene, though silent, observed the woman with a gaze that hinted at both skepticism and intrigue.

  “And your mentor,” Leon pressed, “who was he?”

  She smiled faintly, a glimmer of nostalgia flickering in her aged eyes. “He was known by many names, but to me, he was Master Celix.”

  Leon’s brow furrowed. That name… he had come across it before, buried in historical records. Celix was no ordinary wizard—he was said to have been the last Grand Archmage of the Old Era. A man whose power rivaled even the gods.

  And he spoke of Prada as something beyond human?

  Leon’s fingers curled slightly around the shaft of the spear.

  “Master Celix told me something,” the old woman continued, her voice distant as though recalling a vision from long ago. “He said that Prada was born the moment the Third Moon rose into the sky. That he was not merely blessed by fate—he was fate itself taking form.”

  At that, Atrius and Selene exchanged brief, unreadable glances. The Third Moon.

  “You mean the Red Moon?” Atrius asked, finally breaking his silence.

  She shook her head. “No. Not the Red Moon, nor the Lunar Eclipse. The Third Moon is something… else.” Her voice dipped into something almost reverent.

  Leon felt a strange pull in his chest—a sensation he couldn’t quite name.

  “What exactly does that mean?” he asked.

  The woman leaned forward slightly, her frail fingers tracing an unseen pattern on the wooden table before her. The firelight reflected off her eyes, making them seem almost otherworldly.

  “The Third Moon does not exist in the way the others do,” she said slowly. “It is not bound to the sky. It is not something you can point to and observe in the night.”

  Leon felt his heartbeat quicken slightly.

  “Then what is it?”

  The woman let out a slow, tired breath.

  The old woman’s voice carried an eerie certainty as she spoke, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the patterns on the wooden table, as though pulling the past from the grain itself. The flickering lantern beside her cast restless shadows, their movements erratic, almost alive.

  “The Third Moon is unlike the Silver Moon, which governs the balance of mana, or the Blood Moon, which dictates the very tides of life and death on our world,” she continued, her voice steady but laced with something unspoken—something akin to reverence. “The Third Moon… it is said to be something beyond celestial. A divine entity. A god.”

  Leon remained silent, his golden eyes locked onto the old woman, absorbing every word with the intensity of a scholar uncovering a forbidden text.

  “A god?” Selene finally spoke, her voice calm, measured. Yet beneath it, there was an unmistakable note of unease.

  The woman gave a slow nod. “A god that only appears when the world nears its end. It does not merely illuminate the sky—it casts its shadow upon the creation it has chosen. And that creation…” She leaned in slightly, her weathered hands clasping together. “Was Prada.”

  The room fell into a deep, contemplative silence. Outside, the distant rustling of trees and the faint howl of wind through the cracks in the old wooden walls gave the illusion of something unseen listening. Watching.

  Atrius, ever the skeptic, crossed his arms. His black cloak shifted slightly as he shifted his weight onto his back foot, his sharp gaze never leaving the woman’s face.

  “That would explain his abilities,” he admitted, though his tone held a rare hesitance. “But if he was truly human, then why is there no trace of his birth? No records of where he came from. No record of his death.”

  Leon’s grip on the Spear of Pragmatism tightened slightly.

  Atrius continued, his voice firm, but edged with something uncharacteristically uncertain. “When we visited his supposed grave, the only thing we found was his sword. Not a single sign of a body. No remains. No proof that he ever truly died. Hell, even his own wife is nothing more than a mystery.” He glanced at Leon. “And his so-called son? He doesn’t even know who his real mother and father were.”

  The words lingered in the air, heavy, suffocating.

  Leon remained still, his expression unreadable, but within his mind, the pieces of a long-buried puzzle began to shift—pieces that had never quite fit together, yet had been accepted as historical truth. But now… now they formed something far more unsettling.

  A man who left no traces of his beginning or end. A celestial force choosing him as its illumination. A legacy shrouded in more questions than answers.

  Had Prada Thee Magnus ever truly been mortal at all?

  The old woman watched them carefully, her aged eyes gleaming with a knowing light.

  “I cannot say what Prada truly was,” she murmured, “but I can say this—whatever the Third Moon is, whatever power chose him… it has never chosen another.”

  Her gaze flickered toward Leon, her expression unreadable.

  “At least, not yet.”

  Leon gave a slow nod, his grip on the Spear of Pragmatism tightening as the weight of the conversation settled in his mind. He met the old woman’s gaze, his golden eyes sharp yet contemplative.

  “I see… Thank you for answering,” he said, his voice calm yet laced with underlying thoughts. “You’ve helped us more than you know.”

  The woman simply shrugged, a faint smile ghosting across her lips, as if she had long since grown weary of gratitude. The lantern beside her flickered, casting wavering light across the ancient runes and magical artifacts that decorated the room.

  “There’s no need to thank me,” she said dismissively. “But you should leave now. The longer you linger, the more history threatens to take notice.”

  Leon, Atrius, and Selene exchanged quick glances before nodding in unison. They were no fools—they understood the dangers of meddling in time, even if they had little say in how they had arrived here in the first place.

  The old woman continued, her tone carrying a newfound urgency.

  “And when you step outside…” her voice dipped into something quieter, something warning, “be sure to keep your distance from Prada’s wrath.”

  Leon’s brow furrowed slightly.

  “Prada’s wrath?”

  She exhaled slowly, her aged fingers tracing unseen patterns on the table, as though feeling the echoes of history itself. The lantern light caught the deep lines on her face, highlighting the weight of years spent deciphering knowledge that few dared to seek.

  “The glimmer of hope,” she murmured, “has brought you back to a time before Prada sealed Valtrax… before the Twelve-Pieced Devil, ‘Bethlehem,’ began its descent into legend. You stand on the edge of a moment in history that shaped the very world you know. If you are reckless, you may find yourselves swept away in the chaos of a time not meant for you.”

  Leon swallowed, his mind racing.

  “But,” the woman continued, her gaze sharpening, “if you tread cautiously, if you watch with the eyes of a hunter and not the hands of a meddler… you may witness something no one alive has ever seen.”

  She leaned forward, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “You may witness your ancestor, Magnus.”

  The fire crackled softly in the silence that followed.

  Leon felt something stir deep within him—an excitement that was almost primal, almost forbidden. To see Magnus Thee Prada in his prime, to witness the very mastery that had made him a legend…

  “And with your own eyes,” the woman continued, “you will witness his Silent Mana.”

  The words hung in the air, thick with an almost supernatural weight.

  Atrius frowned slightly. “Silent Mana…?”

  The woman nodded, the flickering lantern catching the knowing gleam in her eyes.

  “A perfect control of mana,” she explained. “A mastery so absolute that his spells were invisible—insensible by all means.”

  Leon’s breath caught for a moment. A magic so refined, so utterly beyond normal comprehension, that it left no trace of its presence until it had already struck. No incantation. No glow of mana. No hint of an attack.

  Just devastation.

  “That,” the woman murmured, her voice barely above a breath, “is the power of a man chosen by the Third Moon.”

  The weight of her words settled like a heavy fog in the room. The reality of what lay beyond that door—the history they were about to witness—was now undeniable.

  And for the first time in his life, Leon felt as though he stood on the precipice of something far greater than himself.

  Leon’s golden eyes locked onto the wooden door before him. The once-familiar sounds of the night—rustling leaves, distant howls of unseen beasts—had disappeared, replaced by an eerie stillness. The windows, once allowing glimpses of the dense and ominous forest beyond, were now completely fogged over, as if an unseen force had deliberately veiled whatever lay beyond. It was no longer just the dark, treacherous woods that surrounded them.

  Something had changed.

  Something was waiting.

  Leon’s heart pounded in his chest. He could feel it—the pull of history, the weight of a moment that could redefine everything he thought he knew. This was his chance. A rare, impossible moment to witness the legend of Prada with his own eyes—without consequence, without interference. A fleeting opportunity gifted by fate itself.

  His fingers tightened around the Spear of Pragmatism, the cool metal grounding him. He swallowed hard, then turned to face the old woman again, his usual cautious demeanor momentarily replaced by something raw, something genuine.

  “Thank you again,” he said, his voice steady but brimming with something deeper—gratitude, excitement, reverence. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”

  For a moment, the old woman simply watched him, her aged eyes reflecting something unreadable. But then—just for a fleeting instant—she saw something that made her breath hitch.

  A vision.

  A memory long buried beneath the weight of years.

  Standing where Leon was now, she saw him—her late party member. The man who had once held the Spear of Pragmatism with unwavering resolve. He stood tall, his expression filled with youthful determination, just as Leon’s was now. That same fire in his eyes, that same hunger for the truth, for understanding.

  Her heart clenched.

  She had admired him deeply—his strength, his unwavering belief in the path he walked. And now, through the fog of time, she saw that same spirit standing before her once more.

  The vision faded as quickly as it had come, leaving only the flickering lantern light and the weight of unspoken words between them.

  “…Go,”