Cray stood with a quiet smile, one that masked the fatigue of the journey and the weight of unspoken fears.
She turned to Solarin and asked in a gentle tone:
"Why don't you rest for a while? Or perhaps… join us for a fleeting moment of peace before we move on?"
He didn't answer at once.
His eyes were fixed on the horizon, as if someone out there—beyond the veil of sky—was staring back at him.
Then, in a voice steeped in reverence, he murmured:
"Perhaps… when time has scarred him,
and he rises toward what fate has carved for him—
then I will be there… to guide him."
Before Cray could respond, he vanished.
Not with thunder or fire, but in a blink, swept away on a cold wind that left the air hollow in his absence.
The soldiers around them tensed.
Some shivered.
Others gripped their weapons with instinctive dread.
And a few stood frozen, their eyes wide as if they had just witnessed a legend made flesh—one that should not have walked among them.
He was gone.
Yet something of him remained…
A presence that clung to the air like the echo of a forgotten god.
Cray could no longer hold herself together.
She collapsed into tears, clutching Isaac tightly, her body trembling as if it had finally run out of strength.
She whispered, her voice cracking:
"His words… made me feel safe, if only for a moment."
Isaac said nothing.
He simply stared at her—at those tears he could not comprehend.
Then, in the stillness of his mind, a quiet question bloomed:
Why does she cry… whenever she's given the chance?
The thought drifted into the vast chamber of his consciousness, and there, he directed it toward the Blue Sovereign.
A pause.
Then the Sovereign answered, his voice deep, calm, and vast:
"Tears… sometimes they spring from pity.
Other times, from pain.
And sometimes, from surrender.
But there are moments—
moments when they rise from safety itself.
Crying does not make them weak,
Only willpower defines strength… and weakness."
Far from tears and silence,
deep within the heart of the Blood Palace…
silence wore a colder face.
In his private chamber, Caldrias sat reclined on a luxurious chair, its armrests carved into the shapes of raven heads.
His gaze was fixed on the surface of his wine, watching the moonlight ripple across the liquid as though it held a prophecy only he could read.
He did not drink. He observed.
The stillness around him was not peace—it was calculation.
Fornica entered with quiet steps, draped in a dark gown that mirrored her nature.
She paused behind him for a moment, her presence deliberate, before speaking in a voice laced with venomous silk:
"Doesn't it trouble you… that another heir has appeared?
A child who may one day threaten our son's place?"
Caldrias didn't turn.
He lifted his glass with slow precision, studied it one last time, then set it aside.
His voice came low and sharp:
"If he surpasses him… then it is his failure.
And he must pay the price for his weakness.
We don't concern ourselves with those who cannot stay at the top."
Fornica's eyes narrowed—just for a breath.
Then her expression softened into something far more dangerous: a faint, twisted smile.
She turned without a word, leaving the room with measured grace.
A trace of that smile still lingered on her lips.
It was a smile he didn't like to see.
But it was there.
And in her mind, a silent vow echoed:
"Don't worry, my dear… I'll handle everything."
Night had fallen over the camp like a curse—
thick, suffocating,
Cray jolted awake.
There was something wrong in the silence.
The scent of blood.
A chill in the ground.
A pulse that didn't belong.
She rose instantly, hand reaching for her sword, eyes burning like twin embers in a dying world.
Then the tent flap burst open—Karmz stumbled in, gasping for breath, his face pale, voice shaking:
"My Lady… we're under attack! They're overwhelming us! The soldiers are already down… you must flee!"
Cray turned to her sleeping child, torn between instinct and duty, between protection and escape.
But Karmz shouted again:
"My Lady! Decide now!"
She spun toward him, sword still at her side—
and froze.
He was smiling.
At first… a twitch of the lips.
Then came the laughter.
Soft, cruel, growing louder with every breath.
Laughter that dripped with venom and mockery.
"Oh, my Lady… You were right. The fear on your face—it's absolutely pathetic."
His voice turned sharper, louder, like a blade being drawn across raw flesh.
"I've been lying to you all along! I was placed here by Lady Fornica, watching, pretending…
But you?
You were never a threat.
Just a little insect pretending to be dangerous."
Cray didn't move.
Her body was still, but her soul convulsed.
She bit down on her lip so hard it bled, her mind screaming with the sound of betrayal.
She pulled Isaac into her arms, as if he were all that was left of her.
And then—
without a word, without a sound,
the child reached out…
and placed his tiny hand on her chest.
The moment Isaac's tiny hand touched his mother's chest,
something unseen swept across the camp.
The air shifted—
screams burst from every direction.
The earth trembled,.
And in mere moments,
everything was gone.
The enemy soldiers…
nothing remained of them but blood, ash, and limbs too torn to name.
Outside the tent, Karmz stood frozen.
His knees trembled,
his face pale—
like a corpse freshly dragged from its grave.
He whispered, barely audible:
"Spare me… please…"
Then—Solarin appeared before him.
There was no sound.
No blade.
No movement.
Only a feeling.
The earth… felt closer.
A sudden lightness.
A moment of weightlessness.
Then—his head struck the ground.
His consciousness didn't vanish immediately.
It clung to him for one last, cruel moment.
And in that moment,
his eyes opened wide… and saw:
His body.
Still standing.
Swaying like a puppet that didn't yet know its strings had been cut.
He saw his feet.
Only his feet.
A single tear slid from his eye.
Not from pain…
but from pure, unfiltered fear.
And in his final breath, he whispered—like a ghost thanking its executioner:
"Why… is death so terrifying?
But still… thank you.
For not letting me feel the pain."
Solarin did not vanish.
He remained.
Silent. Still. Eternal.
Then he turned to Cray,
and with calm, deliberate steps, approached her.
He opened his arms and embraced her, briefly—
a gesture quiet, complete.
And whispered:
"Do not worry…
I am here."
Days passed—
not measured by time,
but by silence.
She did not cry.
She moved through the camp like a shadow—
neither searching nor fleeing.
Simply… present.
Her eyes lingered on Isaac without question, without warmth.
Not with anger.
But with a cold, distant focus.
As if she were re-evaluating everything—
within herself.
Then, one moonless night,
she stood.
She called no one.
Made no sound.
She simply drew her sword…
and began.
Training.
Brutal.
Wordless.
Relentless.
It was not discipline she sought.
Not refinement.
But punishment.
She struck.
She twisted.
She fell.
She rose.
And struck again.
Over and over—
without mercy, without pause—
as if each blow might silence the echo of her own hesitation.
She wasn't trying to grow stronger.
She was trying to kill something inside her.
That moment of stillness.
That breath of fear.
That look in the mirror she couldn't forget.
She was trying to reclaim something…
or bury it forever.
Far from the clash of steel,
and the sound of flesh hitting the earth,
Isaac rested quietly in Lara's arms, watching from a distance.
Though his eyes were closed,
he was listening.
And through that rhythm—
the gasps,
the falls,
the silence between strikes—
he felt her.
He wasn't witnessing training.
He was watching a soul fight to survive a world that had no mercy.
And inside him,
an idea began to grow.
Or perhaps… a seed.
Yes… this is the answer.
Seek strength.
Tear your weakness apart.
This is what she needs.
Or maybe… what I need.
But the thought did not finish.
The Blue Sovereign cut through it with his steady voice:
"But, my King…
she is not like you.
Her strength is not meant to destroy,
but to protect.
She doesn't seek power to rule,
but to shelter those she loves.
So tell me…
When you gain strength…
what will you do with it?"
Silence fell.
Isaac did not respond.
Not because he didn't want to—
but because, for the first time…
he looked as though he didn't know the answer.
Three years passed.
Not as years counted by days,
but as silent lines etched into the memory of the Northern Palace—
a place where everything changed…
except the silence that clung to the boy they called "the King."
A child—barely past the age of three—
yet he shattered every expectation.
He spoke fluently, read with speed,
and analyzed with the weight of centuries behind his .Silence
A mind so sharp, so vast,
it defied the notion of human origin.
For in his former life,
he had not ascended to the throne by strength of body alone,
but by sheer brilliance,
unyielding discipline,
and a devotion to mastery that bordered on the divine.
This new world posed no burden to him.
It was an opportunity—
to reshape, to redefine, to surpass.
During those years, Cray never ceased to flood him with affection.
She treated him not as a child—
but as something sacred.
She worshiped him with her eyes,
feared even the wind might harm him,
and poured over him a love so fierce it felt like reverence.
But to him…
those feelings were misplaced.
The King could not accept them.
He could not understand them.
All he saw… was weakness.
A flaw in the armor. A crack in the wall.
His mind, forged by the idea of endurance,
could not reconcile with emotions that felt like an embrace in the middle of a battlefield.
He tried to distance himself.
To pull away.
But she surrounded him—
with warmth he didn't want,
with gentleness he didn't ask for,
with touches that made him feel… exposed.
And day by day,
something unfamiliar began to grow inside him.
Something that didn't belong.
He often wondered, silently:
Why does she do this?
Why try to give me something I never asked for?
Is she trying to break me?
…Or save me?
Questions without answers.
Questions that hung in his mind like shadows… always watching.
The King had reached his eighth year on this world.
He had completed his academic education three years ahead of his peers,
and his grasp of knowledge surged forward faster than any human metric could measure.
He was no longer the child who watched in silence—
but a mind honed like a blade,
a young intellect that rejected shallow answers and prepackaged truths.
His intelligence was terrifying,
a gift that erased any notion of human origin.
In his past life, the King had not risen to power through brute force alone,
but through formidable brilliance,
and a relentless devotion that showed no mercy to himself.
This world's complexity wasn't a burden to him—
it was an invitation.
A map waiting to be redrawn.
News of his genius spread through the halls of the royal family,
reaching the ears of the Grand Patriarch,
and stirring nothing but hatred in the hearts of his brothers.
Yet none dared to touch him.
Or even think of it.
Not yet.
Not while he remained within the walls of the Northern Palace.
One evening, Cray entered his room as usual.
She found him sitting on the edge of his bed,
reading a thick book beneath a dim light.
She smiled and said,
"Noxvair… tomorrow, we'll begin sword training."
He closed the book slowly and looked up at her.
There was no refusal in his gaze—
only a question that seemed older than his years.
In a calm voice, he replied:
"Alright… but first,
tell me about the Extended Void.
There's so little information available…
and I want to understand."
Cray stepped forward,
then quietly sat on the floor before him—
as if acknowledging his place…
as if the throne, somehow, was already his.
She spoke in a low voice,
"The Extended Void…
is the region that surrounds the Seven Continents on all sides.
A place no mind can comprehend,
no map can contain.
It is home to tyrant beasts, fugitives beyond any law,
and wandering souls still searching for bodies to reclaim.
The deeper you venture, the stranger the entities become—
and the stronger.
They say the Void holds the ruins of ancient kingdoms,
the remnants of civilizations long lost,
and the legacies of the first sovereigns.
It is a place overflowing with opportunity…
and it devours those who forget caution."
Isaac was silent for a moment,
then turned his thoughts inward—
addressing the Blue Sovereign:
"Does this place… have anything to do with you?"
The answer came from deep within,
a quiet voice that shared his soul:
"We have merged, my friend…
I no longer have the freedom to access my memories.
All that I am… is bound to your strength.
And as you grow…
my past will open."
The King asked one more question,
his voice low, as if he already knew the answer:
"And what if…
you were once human?"
Silence stretched.
Then came a single word,
dripping with eternity:
"Time."