The mages began to chant, hands outstretched as they channeled their mana. The magic circle beneath them soon bloomed a radiant gold. Before long, the sword beside the coffin began to levitate off the ground.
The blade slowly began to glow, slight traces of rust falling away.
Soon, the woman with deep purple hair and red eyes, also in red robes, stepped closer into the circle. Facing the sword, she knelt and spoke, her voice heavy with reverence.
"Oh Father of Heroes, King of Knights, First Lord of Dar'Envel… I call upon thy soul from wherever thou dost rest. I beg thee to answer the plea of thy children and save us from an era of war once more."
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then the sword slowly began to vibrate.
Suddenly, it shone a radiant gold.
The light was so blinding that everyone present shielded their eyes. In the next second, the sword fell to the floor, and the glowing circle began to fade. Some mages collapsed to their knees, trembling with exhaustion.
"Did it work?" one of them asked.
The chamber remained silent, the only sound the ragged breathing of the exhausted mages.
Suddenly, a faint grunt drifted from the coffin.
Every mage froze, spines stiffening, breath caught in their throats, as a pale arm slowly pushed out from beneath the roses and gripped the coffin's edge.
Petals shifted, sliding away as the man within gradually sat upright.
Above his head, a golden halo slowly flickered into existence, forming like dawn breaking.
His other hand rose to pinch the bridge of his nose.
"By the Asher's Anvil… what is that accursed ringing in my head?"
The mages flinched at the sound of his voice.
"Did it work?"
"Is it really him?"
The man in the coffin finally opened his eyes.
The moment his gaze swept across them, the entire chamber tensed. It felt as though they stood beneath the scrutiny of a being who had once judged kings, legions, and gods.
For a heartbeat, he said nothing.
He simply looked down at his own hands unscarred, steady, different.
Then gazed at the faded remnants of the ritual circle glowing faintly beneath the coffin.
Finally, his gaze fell on the white wings that unfurled slightly behind his back, their feathers shifting with each motion.
Even a fool could tell what this meant.
A long, weary sigh escaped him.
Then everything changed.
A wave of golden mana radiated from his body, silent and effortless, yet overwhelming.
The pressure dropped the nearest mages to their knees, while the stronger ones staggered back, gasping as the weight pressed down on their souls.
The man stood, rising from the coffin calmly. Bare-skinned, halo shimmering, wings half-open, and then he spoke.
"You had better have an explanation for how you meddled with the body of this lord, and you better start speaking now."
His eyes narrowed.
"Lest I be forced to extract the answers I seek through far less graceful means."
The man with blond hair paused.
Amid the groaning, trembling mages, many crushed under the divine pressure he had unleashed, one still stood.
The woman with deep purple hair and red eyes.
She held her ground, legs shaking, breath unstable, yet she did not kneel.
A look of surprise crossed his face.
"Impressive," he said.
With a slight motion of his fingers, the sword lying on the stone floor vanished, only to reappear a heartbeat later, shooting upward into his open grasp as if obeying its master. Its golden aura flared, illuminating the chamber in intense radiance.
"You would be wise," he warned, leveling the blade toward her, "to lay down your head. For a—"
He stopped.
His breath stopped. His eyes softened. Confusion turned to familiarity, then to something dangerously close to disbelief.
He leaned closer, studying her face, the shape of her eyes, the way her hair caught the faint light of the runes.
"Angelica?" His voice cracked, the name spoken with some sadness and relief.
"Child… is that you?"
The sword slipped from his fingers, clattering against the floor. For a moment, the pressure in the air faltered.
The woman exhaled shakily, shoulders trembling not from fear but from the weight of his pressure from earlier.
Then she bowed deeply.
"Lord Zenith, King of Knights." Her voice trembled with sorrow. "Forgive us for calling upon you from beyond the grave."
She lifted her head, meeting his gaze with eyes both desperate and resolute.
"But the world is in peril, and you may be the only one capable of saving us."
Lord Zenith blinked, his golden halo flickering faintly above his head as if expressing confusion.
"What is it you speak of, child? A world in peril?" he asked, frowning lightly. "Surely you must be mistaken. I felled the Forgotten God myself. The world is now at peace."
He spoke with the certainty of a man who had ended a war with his own hands.
"Besides…" He exhaled, rubbing his temples as if remnants of the summoning still rang in his skull.
"How many times have I told you not to call me 'Lord'? You are as stubborn as ever, I see."
The woman froze, not out of fear, but because his expression made something clear.
He believed the war had only just ended. He believed he had died mere moments ago. He believed the world he saved was still the world he knew.
He had no idea how much time had passed. No idea what had become of the realm. No idea that the peace he spoke of had long since crumbled to dust.
A small, sorrowful smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
"I feared as much," she murmured.
Zenith's brows furrowed. The woman lifted her gaze to meet his.
"Lord of Heroes, although it saddens me to say it, I am not your daughter. But I am one of your many descendants. The world you fought to save has long since come and gone. Much has changed. If you are willing, I would be honored to explain these matters to you." She spoke with intense conviction.
Zenith paused. Having lived as long as he had, having seen and heard as much as he had, he could tell she spoke truth.
She was not his daughter, yet the world may truly be in peril once more.
A heavy weight pressed upon his chest. For a few moments, a deadly silence hung over the chamber. The mages exchanged uneasy glances, each acutely aware of the tension.
Finally, Zenith spoke. "I see. Then let us make haste."
He stepped out of the coffin, his sword flying effortlessly into his hand again. His eyes scanned the circle, resting briefly on one of the mages.
"Provide me armor fitting of a knight king."