The hall had grown quiet, the final footsteps of his officers fading into the night. Alaric remained seated for a long moment, his fingers idly tracing the edge of the ancient book resting beside him on the table.
The faintest pulse of silver light still lingered along its bindings—subtle, like a slumbering heartbeat.
"…Why now…" he whispered under his breath, fingers curling slightly over the leather cover. "Why… me."
Since childhood, the book had been little more than a relic—a legend, a symbol of the Empire's ancient power. Passed down through generations, it remained silent, untouched by magic or prophecy. Scholars had studied it, even his father, the Emperor, had attempted to awaken it—none had succeeded.
Since the founding emperor passed away … it had slumbered.
Until tonight.
His throat tightened, eyes narrowing at the quiet swirl of runes that seemed to respond to his presence.
"No one… not since the Founding Emperor passed away… no one could stir you," he murmured, "…yet now you awaken … through me."
A cold knot formed in his chest.
The demon hordes, the endless wars, the reason for Selvaris' centuries of bloodshed—they all traced back to this single book. The ancient texts spoke of it as a keystone of power, a prize sought since the dawn of recorded time.
"They hunt us… because of you…" Alaric muttered, his voice heavier with every word. " thousands years of war… all for this… for what you carry… for what you hide."
His knuckles whitened against the leather as silent questions twisted in his mind.
"…Why awaken now? Why… in exile… far from home… would you call for me?"
Lifting his head, Alaric's gaze drifted toward the window, where the foreign moon hung low and pale, its silver glow washing over the mountains beyond.
A quiet ache pressed against his heart, his thoughts drifting to the faces he'd left behind—the strong, proud countenance of his father, Emperor Thorian, the fierce wisdom in his mother's eyes.
Are they still holding the walls?
Are they… still alive?
His breath hitched faintly, his jaw tightening.
"…Mother… Father…" His hands clenched "I will not fail you… or our people… not now."
His eyes remained fixed on the distant moon, his heart weighed down by duty, mystery, and quiet sorrow.
The book remained silent.
But its quiet glow pulsed, steady… waiting.
That night, after the dining hall had emptied and silence reclaimed the hotel, Alaric lay restless beneath unfamiliar blankets, the ancient book resting within reach. Though his body begged for rest, his spirit twisted beneath the weight of unspoken questions and the silent hum of the book's lingering power.
Sleep stole over him like a slow, consuming tide… and with it, something older than memory took hold.
At first, there was a void.
Then… a silver light, cold and vast, stretched endlessly across a sky where stars seemed to have vanished.
He stood not within the room of the hotel, but upon the shattered ramparts of Lunareth—the capital of Selvaris, now fractured and crumbling. Once-proud towers lay split, ancient banners fell in tatters, the sky above howled with hollow winds, carrying no song but sorrow.
The moon loomed immense, casting a cold, sterile glow upon the broken stones.
Before him, the ancient book hovered, its pages turning of their own volition, runes spinning like ancient storm currents, swirling faster as the air grew heavy.
Then came the voice, vast and ageless, woven from the echoes of long-forgotten emperors and ancient, neither man nor woman, but something far older.
"Child of Thorian… last heir of Selvaris… the seal of slumber fractures… the cycle stirs anew…"
Alaric's breath trembled as visions split through the void:
Hordes of demon legions, their fanged maws dripping blood, claws soaked in blood, eyes burning with ceaseless hunger, rushing through broken gates… dragons of ash devouring skies… great silver banners collapsing into dust… and beyond it all, a road beneath a pale moon… split into two fates—unknown… yet inevitable.
The voice gathered, rising into a resounding chant, echoing with each word like thunder rolling across eternity:
"The world you knew… crumbles into dust…
The towers fall, the banners wither, the old songs fade…
Yet beyond the veil, a new dawn stirs…
A realm unwritten, a fate unclaimed…
Two roads shall rise from the ash—one to ruin, one to renewal…
Choose, child of fallen crowns…
For in your hands lies the echo of empires…
To shatter… or to shape… the world's next awakening."
The book flared with light, and Alaric saw fragments of himself:
—standing amidst foreign banners, raising a new fortress from stone and memory,
—facing dark legions with a spear in his hand,
—standing tall as either savior… or destroyer.
His hand reached toward the book—but it snapped shut, runes swirling, and the voice roared with earth-shaking finality:
"Forge your legacy… or be consumed by it… as countless heirs were before you."
Alaric jolted awake, breath ragged, heart thundering. His chamber remained cloaked in shadow, but the book pulsed faintly upon the table, its runes shimmering like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant.
His jaw tightened.
In the hush of early dawn, only one certainty remained: The world had not ended… it had simply begun again… and the first stroke would be his to carve.
The morning breeze swept softly across the balcony, carrying with it the scent of dew-drenched earth and distant village life. Alaric sat in quiet thought, eyes fixed on the pale curve of the morning moon, the steady hum of the ancient book resting silent at his side.
The visions of the night remained his own.
A burden for a ruler—unspoken, unshared… until the time was right.
A firm knock sounded at the chamber door. Moments later, Tharrok's boots echoed lightly across the floorboards.
Without turning, Alaric said, "Enter."
Tharrok approached with his usual discipline, stopping at a respectful distance away.
"Your Highness… did you rest well?" the captain asked.
Alaric nodded once, his tone calm.
"Well enough."
He finally glanced back toward Tharrok, posture still relaxed, but eyes sharp.
"How are the men settling in?"
Tharrok's chest rose, his voice level.
"They have adjusted quickly, Your Highness. The warriors are rested, the councilors have begun their records, and all companies await your orders to proceed."
Then, his jaw flexed slightly, a different edge entering his voice.
"However… that witch… arrived this morning."
Alaric's lips twitched in mild amusement.
"Li Mei," he corrected lightly.
"Yes… Li Mei… came bearing garments—bright, colorful fabrics with… strange symbols and odd pictures woven into them. The men grow uneasy, Your Highness. Some whisper she is… crafting a new spell to cast upon us."
A flicker of a smile crossed Alaric's lips, but he replied evenly,
"Not spells… customs. And our duty is to understand them."
Tharrok nodded respectfully, though his gaze remained wary.
Strange cloths… painted with beasts and symbols… he mused grimly, …we left demons behind, yet now stand before a witch dressed in foreign colors… I must not allow my resolve to weaken.
His gaze narrowed slightly in thought before softening just a touch.
"Li Mei is wild-spirited… but she extends her hand freely. She may seem unpredictable… but she has shown us no ill will."
Tharrok gave a short nod, though internally, his thoughts drifted grimly.
I was born on the battlefield, he thought grimly, no demon has ever crossed swords with me and lived… and yet that woman…
His lips pressed thinly as a chill ran down his spine, remembering her grin, her boldness, her complete disregard for rank and ceremony.
…her gaze unsettles me more than a charging war beast. By the ancestors… my heart must be softening. I need to steal it… or she'll undo me without raising a blade.
Alaric spoke, breaking his reflection.
"Summon her, Tharrok. We begin learning the ways of this world today."
Tharrok bowed, voice firm once more.
"At once, Your Highness."
The door pushed open without hesitation.
"Hope I'm not interrupting royal business, Prince Charming," Li Mei's voice rang out, cheerful and sharp.
Alaric's gaze lifted, immediately recognizing the playful energy in her stride. She entered confidently, arms overloaded with bright, strange-looking garments, colors, and patterns that seemed to hum with life under the muted morning light.
Behind her, Tharrok stiffened immediately, eyes narrowing as the foreign fabrics spilled onto the nearby table, the bizarre crests, strange creatures, and bold symbols glaring back at him.
Li Mei winked at Alaric, oblivious to the tension radiating from Tharrok.
"Morning, Prince. I brought clothes… or at least, clean clothes."
Alaric remained composed, answering in her language, his tone smooth.
"Your generosity is… noted. You may proceed."
Tharrok frowned slightly, understanding none of it.
Li Mei's eyes glittered with mischief. She walked closer, selecting a dark blue jacket with a sleek cut, and held it up toward Tharrok, inspecting his broad shoulders. She casually stepped into his space, sizing him up without hesitation.
"This guy needs something simple… a no-nonsense, deadly type… black or navy," she said, tapping her chin in thought, before adding with a grin, "…but definitely something to soften that permanent scowl."
She winked at him boldly.
Tharrok's spine locked like steel, his fists briefly clenching at his sides. His eyes flickered to Alaric, as if demanding an explanation.
Alaric cleared his throat, struggling to suppress a grin, and said calmly in their tongue,
"She… offers you a warrior's cloak… befitting your rank."
Tharrok muttered under his breath, "This… feels like sorcery…" but he remained still as Li Mei moved around him, mock-measuring shoulder width and sleeve length with exaggerated hand gestures.
Li Mei leaned close to Alaric, whispering in her language with a mischievous grin,
"I swear he flinches more from me than swords… priceless."
Alaric smiled faintly, replying in her tongue,
"He was born to cut down demons… but you, Lady Li Mei… you rattle him more than any blade."
Li Mei beamed, patting Tharrok's chest lightly before stepping back, arms crossed with satisfaction.
"Perfect. I'll have your men dressed like locals before sundown."
Li Mei stood with arms crossed, grinning broadly as she watched the towering, grim-faced warriors awkwardly adjust their bright, ill-fitting clothing.
"Alright, tall brigade," she chirped, casting a glance at Alaric, "we'll head to the tailor after this—get proper measurements, decent fits. You won't have to wrestle with sleeves for long."
Alaric's fingers brushed along the delicate edges of his royal robes, silver embroidery catching the light like moonlit water. His posture straightened, tone firm yet gracious.
"Lady Li Mei, while we will adapt… and wear these common garments to learn your world… our people are bound to robes that reflect discipline and heritage. Can you arrange clothing—fitting for this climate… yet worthy of our standing?"
Li Mei's grin widened as she gave a mock salute.
"Regal but practical… I know exactly where to take you. No more cartoon animals, I swear."
Alaric nodded with quiet approval.
"Good. We will walk among the people unnoticed… as observers first."
Li Mei burst into laughter, shaking her head as her gaze lingered on him.
"Unnoticed? With that silver hair and royal jawline? Only the blind will fail to notice you, Prince Charming."
Her eyes flicked to the assembled ranks of towering warriors, broad and imposing with their silver hair glinting beneath the morning sun.
"And with this lot… this town's going to make the news for sure," she added, half-laughing, half-awed.
Alaric's expression shifted—not amused, but proud, his chin lifting ever so slightly, his silver eyes gleaming with quiet pride.
"Then let them remember us," he said, voice rich with quiet strength, "not for spectacle… but for discipline… for wisdom… and for the legacy we carry."
Then, addressing his warriors in his own tongue, his voice rang clear.
"Brothers of Selvaris… these strange clothes are the beginning of understanding. You will walk these streets, learn their customs, their laws, and their strengths. Our dignity will not fade—it will endure. Our robes will be remade… our identity unbroken. Stand tall… stand proud… and remember who you are."
A ripple of determination moved through the warriors, their postures straightening. The burden of their mission seemed lighter.
Even Tharrok, though silent, stood a little taller, his hands loosening at his sides.
"As you command, Your Highness," Tharrok answered.
Alaric nodded, composure regal, determination clear.
"Prepare yourselves. Today… we learn."
From the doorway, Old Man Liu stood with his wife, arms folded, watching the scene unfold.
His wife whispered, grinning, "Like storks in festival rags."
Old Liu snorted. "More like lost generals in peasant cloth… the whole village will be talking by noon."
She elbowed him playfully. "Or chasing them for wedding prospects."
Old Liu shook his head, lips twitching. "Silver hair, royal posture… even the chickens will gossip."
They watched, half amused, half in disbelief—knowing peace in Baiyun Village was about to end.