The farmer staggered up the long hill toward the castle gates, every step a battle against his failing limbs. Sweat poured down his dirt-streaked face, soaking into the collar of his threadbare tunic. His breathing was ragged, the kind that came from hours of running—not for sport, but for survival.
At the towering wooden gates, two knights stood guard, their polished armour gleaming under the midday sun. One of them stepped forward, holding out an armoured hand to stop him.
"Hold, peasant," the knight said, his tone firm but not unkind. "The king is not receiving visitors."
The farmer doubled over, hands on his knees, drawing breath like a man drowning. When he finally looked up, his eyes were wide with urgency.
"It's the orcs," he gasped. "They've returned. They're attacking again."
For a heartbeat, neither guard moved. Then, like a switch had been thrown, they sprang into action. One turned and pounded on the door behind him, and within seconds it groaned open.
"Go," the knight said, motioning the farmer through.
The farmer gave a quick, grateful nod, barely able to speak, and limped forward into the cool shadow of the castle. One of the knights followed close behind, the sound of his boots echoing down the long stone corridor.
They passed through high-arched hallways lined with flickering torches, their light dancing against faded tapestries and ancient stone. As the heavy doors of the throne room swung open, the farmer looked up.
There, on the raised dais at the far end of the chamber, sat the king—crowned and cloaked, his expression unreadable beneath the weight of his office. His gaze shifted from the guard to the breathless man standing before him, mud-splattered and trembling, yet unbroken.
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked, his voice low but commanding. His eyes flicked between the dirt-streaked farmer and the knight at his side.
The farmer dropped to his knees, breath catching in his throat. "My lord… it's the orcs," he said, his voice shaking. "They've returned. They're attacking again."
The words hit the room like a thunderclap.
The king's eyes widened. Around him, nobles and advisors stared in stunned silence, mouths agape. One of them, a portly man in gold-trimmed robes, found his voice first.
"That's impossible," he scoffed, though his voice trembled. "We had the greatest mage in the realm banish them—cast them into the Inferna Fires themselves! They shouldn't be able to return. Gods help us, we barely survived the last time…"
Another noble, pale and clutching his wine goblet like a lifeline, stepped forward. "It must be a curse," he whispered. "A punishment from the gods for some sin we've yet to understand…"
Before panic could spread, a voice cut through the room like a blade.
"Enough."
All heads turned toward the speaker. a tall, silver-haired woman in steel-blue armour by the name of Beatrice, her expression as steely as her voice. She was the highest of the king's council—respected, feared, unwavering.
"The gods don't curse cowards," Beatrice said coldly. "And we are not cowards. If the orcs want a war, then we give them one." Beatrice's eyes scanned the room before settling on the anxious noble. "Surely you're not suggesting our king would hide while his people bleed?"
The room fell silent again, her words hanging heavy in the air.
The king rose slowly from his throne, his gaze fierce, and the fire of resolve kindled in the eyes of those around him. "If it's a battle they want…" The king rose from his throne, his voice steady and deep, echoing through the great hall. "Then we'll give them one. We will not cower behind walls. This—" he glanced at the gathered nobles, his eyes burning with quiet fire, "—this is our time to show the world why we are the greatest kingdom."
With that, he lowered himself back onto the throne, the carved wood creaking softly beneath his weight. He leaned forward, resting one elbow on the armrest, his fingers brushing his chin as he spoke again, sharper now. "Send word to every knight, every mage, every archer. Tell them to take their positions. We will not lose war."
There was a pause—just long enough to be tense—before the room erupted into movement. The nobles surged out like a tide, their robes rustling, voices hurried, purpose returned to their steps.
The king watched them go in silence, his gaze distant, calculating. He didn't move. Only his eyes betrayed the rapid pace of his thoughts.
Then, in the stillness that followed, he spoke again—softly, but with weight.
"Beatrice."
The woman stepped forward from the shadows beside a marble column, her posture graceful, her head bowed. "Yes, my lord," she said, her voice composed, smooth with loyalty.
The king's gaze flicked to her, sharp and unwavering. "Bring me the five royal knights."
Beatrice didn't hesitate. She gave a respectful nod, her cloak trailing behind her as she turned to exit the great hall.
In the heart of the village that nestled just beyond the castle walls, the air shimmered—then tore open with a low hum. A swirling portal emerged, crackling with arcane energy. From its depths stepped a man, cloaked in amour of gold and and titanium. this man was Valebane.
The portal collapsed behind him with a soft implosion, leaving no trace it had ever existed.
Valebane stood still for a moment, surveying the world he had arrived in. Cobblestone streets stretched before him, lined with villagers and warriors alike—knights in gleaming plate, robed mages clutching staves that pulsed with runes, and archers stringing their bows with practiced precision. The scent of metal and oil lingered in the air as the army prepared for war.
He scoffed lightly, the sound barely audible over the bustle. "So this is the so-called greatest kingdom," he murmured. His voice was calm, almost amused. "Let's see how great it truly is."
With steady, deliberate steps, Valebane made his way toward the castle, the centrepiece of the realm's might. Along the path, soldiers paused in their preparations to watch him pass. Whispers rippled through the crowd. The way his armour glinted under the sunlight—etched in ancient symbols and unnaturally pristine—marked him as someone of legend. His sword, sheathed across his back, radiated a faint, otherworldly hum. To the men and women of the kingdom, he looked more myth than man—perhaps even the knight-god spoken of in rumours. But none dared to speak the name aloud.
At the towering castle gates, a guard stepped forward, his voice stern. "Halt. Who are you, and what business brings you here?"
Valebane stopped, locking eyes with the man. His face was unreadable—stone still, yet commanding.
"I am Valebane," he said. "Sent by the King of the Valdyros Imperium. I've been ordered to aid this kingdom in the coming war."
The guard's expression shifted in an instant. His brows shot up, eyes wide with disbelief. "You're... Valebane?" he said, his voice suddenly lacking the edge it carried a moment ago. His jaw slackened. "Forgive me, sir. Please—right this way."
He turned quickly, pushing open the massive iron gate and leading Valebane inside.
As they walked through the grand halls of the castle, Valebane couldn't help but let his eyes wander. He moved in silence, but his gaze was anything but idle—he studied everything with quiet curiosity, almost like he was sizing the place up.
The corridor bustled with movement. Maids hurried past in crisp uniforms, servants moved with quiet efficiency, and every step echoed softly off the gleaming marble floor. Valebane's brow lifted slightly as he took it all in. This king must be obscenely rich to keep a place running like this.
His eyes drifted upward to the ornate paintings lining the walls—towering portraits in gilded frames, each brushstroke carrying wealth and legacy. He turned his head slightly, glancing at the guard escorting him. Even the man's armour was pristine, finely crafted, and clearly not just for show. Even the guards wear better steel than most knights I've seen.
Then his gaze shifted to the very bones of the castle itself—the floors beneath his boots, the walls that caught the light just so. Gold. Real gold. And those… are those Aether Crystals? He exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes narrowing as the pieces came together. No wonder they call this the wealthiest kingdom on the continent.
They reached a pair of enormous doors, each carved with the kingdom's crest and reinforced with ironwood. The guard paused, placing his hands on the handles, then glanced at Valebane nervously.
"You'll be speaking to the king shortly," he said.
Valebane gave a curt nod, his expression unreadable.
The doors groaned open, revealing a throne room soaked in grandeur. Red and gold banners hung from the walls, and a crystal chandelier bathed the space in soft, flickering light. At the far end, on a raised dais, sat the king—crowned, robed, and watching them with careful eyes.
The guard stepped forward, bowing deeply. "My lord," he said. "Forgive the interruption, but there is a visitor from the Valdyros Imperium… he says he comes to offer aid."
He stepped aside, leaving the king with an unobstructed view of the figure who now stood silently at the centre of the throne room. Valebane raised his gaze, meeting the monarch's with a calm, unblinking stare.
All eyes turned as the man stepped forward, his presence cutting through the murmur of the grand hall like a blade. Whispers died on tongues, gazes narrowed, and for a moment, silence reigned. He wore the crest of the Valdyros Imperium on his cloak — a symbol that drew immediate suspicion.
They stared at him like he'd come from another world.
The king sat tall on his throne, his voice rising with practiced authority. "So… the Valdyros have sent someone again. Just like last time." He leaned forward slightly, disdain tugging at the edge of his words. "Typical. That kingdom always believed itself above the rest — the strongest, the most righteous. It's no surprise they see fit to send someone, out of pity, to deal with the rest of us."
His voice echoed off the stone walls. Then, a pause — sharp, deliberate.
"Speak your name," the king commanded.
Valebane didn't answer right away. His gaze swept across the five knights stationed before the throne, their armour glinting under the hall's torchlight. They didn't speak, but the message in their posture was clear: Say the wrong thing, and we'll cut you down.
They were an odd group — diverse in stature and bearing — but their collective presence radiated discipline and barely restrained aggression. A quiet storm waiting for a reason to break.
Valebane turned his attention back to the king. His voice was calm, unwavering.
"My name is Valebane," he said. "Fourth son of the Misaki Kingdom… and a member of the inner council at the heart of Valdyros."
The king leaned forward in his throne, a sly grin playing at the corners of his mouth."So… the Misaki Kingdom, is it?" he said, voice laced with amusement. "So you're the failure who couldn't even protect his own kingdom from the Gestahl Empire."
A ripple of laughter followed—soft at first, then growing bolder. Nobles exchanged smug glances. Even the five knights lining the chamber allowed themselves crooked smiles, emboldened by the king's mockery.
"Why would we take aid from someone who couldn't even save his own people?" one of the nobles jeered, their voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "Seems a bit... desperate."
Valebane didn't flinch. He stood tall in the center of the throne room, silent, unmoving. He had heard worse. The weight of his kingdom's fall was something he carried like a second skin. Their mockery was noise—familiar, dull, and beneath him.
The king's laughter faded into a smirk. "Hard to believe," he mused, "your father was at our gates just a day before he died—hoping to secure a treaty, wasn't it? And now here you are. How poetic."
Valebane's gaze never left the king. The memory of his father's last diplomatic mission flickered in his mind like an old wound. He felt the heat rise in his chest—but he kept his voice cold.
"And you act like your kingdom is any better," he said, eyes narrowing. "The last war with the orcs left your cities in ruins. You were one more siege away from collapse. If Valdyros hadn't intervened, you wouldn't even have a throne left to mock others from."
The room fell quiet. The nobles' smiles faded, shifting into uncertain glances. The knights straightened, suddenly still.
Valebane's voice rang out steady and sharp. "So let's not pretend we're so different, Your Majesty."
Valebane turned to leave, a cruel smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Let's see how you handle the orcs attack… without any help."
And just like that—he vanished.