Nearly two thousand years had passed since the fall of the Pentapolis of Philistia, when the Dukedom of Ansara, in alliance with the Dukedoms of Rosas, Renato, and Alara, as well as the Marquisdoms of Corina and Varona, had united their banners to conquer the barren southern and eastern reaches of the continent.

  The victory had been hard-won, forged through long campaigns of blood and endurance, yet in the end, they claimed dominion over all lands west, east, and south of the mighty Argent River.

  History would later call it a righteous expansion.

  Those who lived through it remembered hunger, steel, and fire.

  Alarico De Ansara, duke of that fateful era, pledged solemn fealty to the ascending faith centred in Templo and devoted his reign to propagating devotion to AEON, the Lord of Balance and Order. With the steadfast support of his fellow lords, he crowned himself King and established the Ancestral Kingdom of Ansara.

  The ceaseless tribal conflicts across Rhodar's vast prairies granted them precious seasons of relative peace, which were interrupted only by border skirmishes with the heretic Barbarians from Murmur, as they nurtured their newfound realm.

  To the north lay expansive wastelands encircled by treacherous mountains, nourished by the Argent and its tributaries, a formidable natural bulwark that no invader had ever surmounted. Those desolate expanses were the Barbarian Lands of Murmur, a peril that eclipsed even Rhodar, casting long shadows over Ansara's ambitions.

  It was King Johan de Ansara I—later known as —who transformed the ancestral city into a true cosmopolis. He ordered the construction of the Johanin DamAnsem

  With it Ansara rose to prominence among the Major Territories.

  Ansem and the dam endured as twin jewels of the kingdom, eternal testaments to mortal ingenuity prevailing against nature's untamed might.

  Expansion eventually brought the kingdom into direct conflict with Rhodar. Three counties were taken, the last of them Siracusa. Only then did the Ten Great Tribes cease their infighting and form the War Council of Rhodar

  Thus began the wars that never truly ended.

  When Nerion finally stood before Ansem's towering gates, the sight stirred in him an awe unlike any the wilderness had inspired. Nature's vastness had humbled him; here, the triumphs of humankind ignited true wonder.

  Coronas and Siracusa dwindled to mere shadows beside this splendour.

  Ansem sprawled across more than twenty thousand square kilometres, sheltering over a hundred million souls, a number swelled further by the ceaseless flow of merchants, pilgrims, and travellers. Among the world's greatest cities, it claimed an exalted rank.

  Walls ascended seventy meters into the sky, towers approaching a hundred, encircling the southern and northern quarters with unyielding stone. To the east opened a vast port teeming with vessels bound for Brindisi and Luztar. Westward extended a broad ditch and barren fields reserved for grand festivals, martial tournaments, army drills, and mines.

  The walls stood lightly manned, not from negligence, but from profound confidence.

  Legends resided within the city's heart, and Aeonia had known no invasion since its founding.

  Westward rose a magnificent yet austere compound emblazoned with the royal lion and eagle, the pulsing core of Ansara's military might, Headquarters of the Grand Royal Army.

  This was the Martial Temple

  Soldiers moved with disciplined purpose, royal guards ever vigilant. Nobles from the city and surrounding counties gathered in anticipation, awaiting the arrival of His Majesty Johan De Ansara III, the Lion King, from the Golden Palace.

  Excitement permeated the air like a living thing.

  “Matters are improving at last,” one soldier remarked to his comrade, his voice carrying quiet optimism. “I believe a new golden age draws near for Ansara.”

  His companion nodded thoughtfully. “One must remain cautious, yet I cannot disagree. After more than a decade of that oppressive stagnation, the path finally clears. Had it not been for Lirian's treacherous actions, we would never have endured such trials, shaken by foes on every side.”

  “Lower your voice—that name invites peril among many here. His Majesty never lent credence to Templo's accusations; that is what truly strained our bonds. Fortunately, Lord Donato tempered the worst of it.”

  “And what could Templo have done in truth? Launch an assault? With Lord Falma, the Titan, and the King himself safeguarding us? Lord Falma alone would scatter any gathering of Legends.”

  At the mention of Falma Nil Murmuria

  And it was not misplaced.

  Among the Six Major Territories, Falma, The Master of the Sword, was considered the strongest TAO warrior alive. Dragon General. Guardian of the North. A living bulwark against Murmur.

  In Ansara, Falma was not merely admired.

  He was believed in.

  Within the main hall, noblewomen conversed in hushed, eager tones.

  “It is truly a pity that Lord Falma will not grace the ceremony with his presence,” one sighed. “Even a distant glimpse of him sets my heart to racing in ways I cannot describe.”

  “You speak truly,” her companion replied with a wistful smile. “He is not only supremely talented but handsome and courageous beyond measure. Yet he remains unwed—no woman has captured his fancy. How else could he have attained such unparalleled power, if not by devoting his heart entirely to the Sword?”

  “He’s guarding the northern border,” the first continued. “The barbarians grow restless. They say even the Shark Lord walks again. But with Falma there… they can do nothing but hide.”

  Her gaze shifted.

  “Oh? Even has come.”

  Julieta Anniana de Corina entered the hall.

  Her beauty was so breathtaking that it seemed capable of toppling nations. At fourteen, her golden locks cascaded like sunlight, her emerald eyes held depths that captivated all who met them. Her features were exquisitely chiselled, her lips red and inviting, her bearing one of innate grace and commanding charisma.

  She was reckoned among Ansara's three fairy beauties, the undisputed pride of House Corina.

  Suitors converged upon her like stars drawn to the moon, offering compliments and courtship with eager words. Julieta responded with courteous bows and soft acknowledgements, her voice alone sufficient to stir dreams of swift ascension in the hearts of young nobles.

  She walked, accompanied by her steadfast steward Manke.

  At her side also walked Giannino Manolo de Corina, Minister of Revenue, patriarch of House Corina, and one of the wealthiest men in the world. His soft features and heavy eyelids fooled only the foolish.

  The Five Great Families arrived in succession, House Varona taking position beside Corina, their excitement scarcely veiled, for much of the forthcoming celebration centered upon their achievements.

  Patriarch Abram De Varona, veteran warrior with a hooked nose and greying brownish-red hair, stood attired in stern militaristic robes. His son lingered nearby, summoning courage to approach Julieta.

  Abram initiated the exchange with a genial tone.

  “Old Fox, your daughter grows more radiant with each passing day. Are you not concerned that some clever rogue might steal her heart and spirit her away? You would do well to consider an alliance with my house—at the very least, I can assure you she would be treated as befits a queen.”

  Giannino laughed with boisterous warmth.

  “I harbour no opposition to such a union in principle, yet I wonder whether any of your sons would prove truly worthy of my precious girl. It is a pity your Elisabetta was not born male, else I might have been the first to propose. Congratulations are long overdue; however, a Legend at merely twenty-seven years. The Iron Maiden, such a mighty title. And now, Templo selects her as the next Seneschal. With her ascent, Ansara assuredly rises anew. A shame regarding old Donato, otherwise we might boast three Dragon Generals, each a Legend in their own right.”

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  “And her protégé Elisha, so mesmerising in talent and presence,” Giannino added smoothly. “An orphan rising to such heights resembles a tale from ancient lore. Another example of the Ansaran dream. Double congratulations are in order, though many insist he remains neutral amid noble intrigues.”

  An undecipherable gleam flickered in Giannino's eyes.

  “Elisha's honours are his alone,” Abram replied with a touch of self-deprecation, though pride shone clear. “We offered merely training and opportunity. I opposed Elisabetta accepting him at first, yet he has surpassed all expectations. Her discernment for talent eclipses even mine.”

  Julieta leaned toward Manke, whispering.

  “Uncle Manke, I remember when we hired that escort years ago. To think he would rise so far… even among nobles, talent like that is rare.”

  Manke and Giannino nodded in silent agreement. Their connection to Elisha far more intricate than most suspected, a matter closely guarded.

  Julieta composed herself swiftly, yet a memory stirred unbidden: another boy at Elisha's side long ago, equally brave and full of spirit.

  She pondered quietly, her gaze drifting distant as the ceremony's anticipation swelled around her.

  The celebrations loomed, excitement mounting, while shadows lingered beneath the splendour.

  Upon the towering walls of Ansem, where vigilant sentinels maintained ceaseless watch over the thronging multitudes below, the guards shared in the city's excitement, their voices rising with laughter and boasts as they spoke of the grand events unfolding within the Martial Temple. Tales of rising stars and kingdom glory passed among them with the easy fellowship of comrades bound by duty.

  Yet their merriment stilled when one man's sharp eyes caught an unusual shadow atop the highest vigilance tower—a lone figure squatting boldly at the pinnacle, gazing out over the sprawling city as if claiming it for his own.

  Chill prickles ran across their skin.

  “By the heavens above,” one whispered in disbelief, “has some fool scaled the tower and breached our walls? Or does he court death itself in such reckless fashion?”

  It was Nerion, perched at the loftiest vantage near the gates, his heart swelling with unbridled joy as he drank in the vista. Ansem unfolded beneath him in breathtaking splendour—a glimpse sufficient to kindle love for the city in his young soul.

  From the tower’s edge, Ansem unfolded beneath Nerion like a living map.

  Tall spires rose in clusters, some slender and sharp, others wide and monumental. Far in the distance, bathed in the last light of day, stood the Golden Palace

  To one side, a massive structure glowed without pause. Even from here, Nerion could tell it was sacred ground. Light radiated from it day and night, steady and unwavering.

  he thought.

  Closer to the centre sprawled the Commercial District, nothing like Siracusa’s modest markets. Towers rose there too—functional, severe. One bore the sigil of the Mint, heavy and fortified. Another, broader and stranger in shape, belonged to the Jobs Association, its design practical rather than beautiful, yet unmistakably important.

  To the east, the city changed.

  The streets widened. Green replaced stone. Artificial hills and sculpted lakes broke the urban grid, and behind guarded avenues stood the estates of the noble families—private mountains inside the city walls.

  Magical beasts moved among the crowds below. Some were sleek mounts. Others lounged beside their owners like pampered predators, powerful yet restrained.

  And further east still…

  Nerion’s gaze lingered.

  There was a compound there—vast, ordered, severe. Its walls did not shine. They absorbed light. The air around it felt… heavy. Dangerous. As though the city itself gave way around it.

  Nerion frowned.

  He didn’t know why, but his instincts screamed caution.

  he decided.

  Then his chest swelled.

  A city like this. A world like this.

  Joy bubbled up uncontrollably.

  The guards readied shouts of challenge when Nerion's voice rang out, clear and exuberant, carried upon the winds.

  “ANSEM… BROTHER… I HAVE ARRIVED!”

  The captain's face clouded with indignation.

  “What in the Abyss do you think you’re doing up there, brat?” one guard roared. “Get down here this instant, or I swear I’ll clap you in irons!”

  Nerion peered down, flashing a brilliant and unrepentant smile. Having beheld the city's magnificence from such heights, he grasped its true immensity—even this view revealed only the surface of its wonders.

  A heartbeat later, he dropped.

  Not fell — — landing lightly before the guards, hands clasped behind his back, posture apologetic.

  “My deepest apologies, worthy sirs,” he said cheerfully. “Excitement overtook me. This is my first sight of Ansem, and I just couldn’t help myself.”

  The guards exchanged uncertain glances. The supposed intruder was a youthful teen, handsome and bright-eyed, bearing no trace of malice, only the boundless enthusiasm of youth.

  The captain stepped forward, clearly weighing whether this was worth the paperwork—until the boy muttered, half to himself:

  “Still… you really should watch your towers better. I climbed all the way up, and no one noticed. And there aren’t many guards either. Are you short-staffed?”

  The captain's forehead throbbed with a prominent vein.

  “Smart mouth,” he growled. “Most of the garrison is at the Martial Temple. But since you’re feeling clever, you can stay a while and learn humility. In a cell.”

  “Come now, Uncle Guard,” Nerion replied with feigned gravity. “It was a mere jest. Let us forget this. Say what? I depart peacefully, and you pretend I was never here.”

  The captain stared, incredulous at the boy's audacity. His men stepped back discreetly, familiar with their leader's explosive nature, some stifling smiles at the lad's brazen charm.

  “Very well,” the captain declared at length, voice low with challenge. “One strike from me. Withstand it honourably, and you walk free. Fail, and you'll scrub latrines along the southern wall until humility takes root. You have no choice in this.”

  Nerion's eyes sparkled.

  Nerion’s eyes lit up when he heard the guard, “Thank AEON, we can solve it easily; I was truly concerned, I really had to go to jail.”

  The captain's scowl deepened. He passed his spear to a subordinate and advanced, his stocky frame radiating Praetorian might.

  “I'll not be accused of bullying youth,” he stated firmly. “Prepare yourself, lad.”

  He charged—swift and powerful, yet restraining half his strength, intending only to teach Nerion a lesson, not actually harm him.

  A grave misjudgment.

  Nerion vanished from sight, reappearing beside him in a blur of motion.

  The captain reacted with seasoned reflex, an elbow arcing viciously.

  Yet Nerion anticipated, arm rising to parry and redirect with fluid grace. His free hand struck the captain's chest, toppling him while the other halted mere inches from the glabella.

  The exchange unfolded in the span of heartbeats.

  Guards stood agape, astonishment rendering them speechless.

  “The captain... brought low?”

  Laughter erupted then, warm, unrestrained.

  “Did you witness his expression?” one guffawed, clutching his sides. “Down like felled timber, against a mere lad!”

  “A lion must exert full effort even upon a rabbit,” another teased through mirth, “especially when the rabbit possesses such a formidable bite!”

  The captain rose, face flushed crimson, but his roar silenced them.

  “Silence, you lot!”

  The men straightened instantly, expressions solemn, yet their eyes danced with lingering amusement. They harboured no true grudge against Nerion; the boy had surprised the Captain fairly, without intent to main him.

  Otherwise, they'd have swarmed him regardless of any cost.

  The captain steadied, regarding Nerion with grudging respect.

  “You possess true skill, brat. That parry was executed with rare beauty. Yet heed caution. Don’t underestimate any of us Kingdom soldiers.”

  He revealed a concealed awl embedded in his ring.

  Nerion nodded earnestly, the lesson sinking deep. There was no room for overconfidence.

  “Good.” The captain smirked. “You won. Go. And don’t climb my walls again.”

  He paused, curiosity softening his tone.

  “You shouted of a brother. Seeking him within Ansem?”

  Nerion beamed.

  “Indeed! A soldier in the Army. It’s been years since our last meeting. I know not where to begin.”

  “Most of the Army regulars are currently at the Martial Temple for the ceremony,” the captain replied. “Western quarter, two hundred kilometres toward the dam, central before the Barren Field. You could inquire there.”

  “Truly? He must be!” Nerion exclaimed.

  Without further delay, he vaulted the seventy-meter wall, calling back, “THANKS!”

  “Wait, what’s your brother's name?” the captain shouted.

  “ELISHA!”

  Said Nerion in free fall, before landing gracefully and racing westward.

  The guards stared in stunned silence.

  “No way, right?”

  “There is only one Elisha,” the captain murmured, a smirk creeping across his face. “Two little monsters. They could truly be brothers, after all.”

  Then he barked, “What are you staring at? Back to patrol! Move!”

  The patrol resumed, but with lingering smiles and tales to share.

  By the time the main hall filled, anticipation had settled into a low, expectant murmur.

  Then the doors opened again.

  Two young men entered together.

  The first was tall, nearly two meters, his presence immediately commanding attention. Short blond hair framed a sharp, disciplined face, sapphire eyes cold and unyielding. He wore silver armour bearing two blazons: the Royal Eagle and the Lion of Ansara, and on his back, a gryphon rendered in fierce detail.

  He moved like a man accustomed to obedience.

  Viggo De Alara.

  At just over thirty, he stood among the youngest to ever reach such heights—and everyone in the hall knew it.

  Walking beside him was another young man.

  Younger still.

  His armour was simpler, the standard issue of an Army Commander, worn without embellishment. Long brown hair fell loosely around his shoulders, untamed, framing a face that carried neither arrogance nor hesitation. His stride matched Viggo’s without effort, his presence neither diminished nor overshadowed.

  Elisha Nil Radomia.

  Yet the murmurs shifted.

  Elisha’s rise had been anything but ordinary. Talent alone had not carried him here. War had. Blood and discipline had shaped him into something sharp and unyielding. At nineteen, barely twenty, he already stood as an Emperor, battle-hardened and proven.

  A rank below Viggo.

  And yet…

  No one in the hall underestimated him.

  Eyes followed both men as they took their seats at the centre of the hall in seats of honour, side by side, their presence anchoring the assembly.

  The noblewomen in attendance could scarcely hide their infatuation, whispers rippling through the hall as eyes lingered upon the pair. For many, marriage to such powerful young lords represented the pinnacle of ambition, a union of beauty and might, though few dared approach the likes of Elisabetta, whose heart belonged to the path of war alone.

  From the higher seats, a slim, unassuming middle-aged man observed them both.

  Gamon De Alara

  His smile was warm as he looked at Viggo, pride undisguised.

  Then his gaze shifted.

  For the briefest instant, something dark passed through his eyes as they rested on Elisha.

  The smile remained.

  Several more figures entered the hall.

  Seven men and women, some aged, some scarred, all radiating restrained power. Generals, each one a pillar of the Royal Army. The Council of Generals

  Then—

  The hall quieted.

  A man with long dark hair and a beard flowing to his chest stepped forward. His presence did not demand attention.

  It it.

  He stood like a mountain—immovable, eternal.

  Rafael Son Boromin.

  Even among Legends, he was singular.

  Silence deepened.

  An elderly general stepped forward and raised his voice:

  “All rise to receive His Majesty: Grand King, Lord of the Eastern Sea, Monarch Exelcius of the Oriental Lands.

  Johan Aramis De Ansara the Third, the Lion King.

  The hall stood as one, anticipation thick as the ceremony's heart approached.