In Experia Dimension, an alternate Earth...
Elf Kingdom
The Elf Kingdom Palace was an edifice of ancient power, built from gold-tinted stone that glimmered under the light of twin moons. Its towering spires pierced the heavens, and intricate carvings of mythical beasts adorned the walls, whispering tales of forgotten wars and long-forgotten gods. Yet tonight, the air was thick with tension, an oppressive cloud that settled in the hearts of all who served within its sacred halls.
In the throne room, King Myrdelas sat upon his seat of ivory and gold, his brow furrowed in frustration. His crimson cloak shimmered like blood in the flickering candlelight. His sharp, amber eyes glowed with barely contained rage.
"Your Majesty, we have identified the child," the servant said, trembling as he knelt before the throne, his voice barely above a whisper.
King Myrdelas' gaze narrowed, his fingers tightening around the carved armrests of his throne. His voice, cold and unyielding, rang through the chamber. "Speak. Do not waste my time."
The servant flinched but pressed on. "Rezekiel… He is not your blood, my King." His words hung in the air like poison.
The King's expression twisted into a mask of fury. He stood suddenly, his robes flowing like dark rivers."How dare she? To betray me in this way… " His voice echoed through the chamber, a hint of wrath present in his voice.
"Find him. Whoever he is, his life ends tonight." His command was final, as cold and sharp as the sword he so loved.
The servant bowed hastily. "At once, Your Majesty."
The dungeon below the palace was a place of darkness, cold stone walls, and the fetid scent of decay. It was here that the truth of the King's wrath played out wickedly. In a dimly lit cell, the Queen—once radiant and regal—was now a shadow of her former self, her beauty marred by time and torment.
"My children… no, not them!" Her voice was hoarse, her breaths shallow. The pain in her chest threatened to suffocate her.
The torturer, a cruel man with eyes as cold as the steel he wielded, sneered as he dragged the child, Rezekiel, forward. The boy was but an infant, his tiny body bruised and battered from the abuse he had endured.
"Who is his father, woman?" the torturer demanded, his voice a low growl as he held Rezekiel by the scruff of his neck.
The Queen's gaze lifted, her eyes full of defiance. She spat at his feet. "His father is no mortal man. He is a god." Her voice rang with a certainty that made the torturer pause, his expression faltering for just a moment.
"He is not the King's," she added, her words laced with venom.
"Do not test my patience, woman," the torturer hissed, tightening his grip on Rezekiel. "I could have you executed for treason, you know."
The Queen didn't flinch. She didn't care anymore. "Screw you." The torturer, knife in hand, stabbed at her heart dealing a fatal blow and was about to retort at her last statement.
Before another word could be spoken, the sound of thunder rumbled through the air. A flash of blinding light filled the room, followed by a deafening crack of lightning. The torturer's body was lifted into the air, his flesh sizzling with the raw energy. His scream echoed as he disintegrated into nothingness.
The Queen collapsed against the cold stone wall, her breath a mere whisper as she muttered her final words.
"You've saved them, my love…" she sighed, her body going limp as the Grim Reaper claimed her soul.
A figure appeared, silhouetted in the crackling light. The air around him seemed to shimmer with power as he approached the Queen's lifeless form. His eyes—pools of untamed fury—flickered with a deep, burning rage, but then, as if drained by the act of vengeance, it dissipated into cold resolve.
"Rest now, my love. Our child will live," the god whispered, lifting the infant Rezekiel into his strong arms. Unknown to him, there was another child in a separate cell. In the blink of an eye, both were gone, disappearing in a bright golden bolt of lightning.
★★★
In a distant kingdom, one which ignored the conflicts of gods and kings, a single bolt of lightning struck with brutal precision. The flash illuminated the small, humble house of Daniella, a woman who had lived her life on the fringes of society. Her long black hair fluttered in the wind as she stepped out into the rain, her red eyes glowing faintly with an otherworldly light.
"The heavens have blessed me with a beautiful child," Daniella whispered, a mixture of awe and trepidation in her voice.
A folded note slipped out from under the baby's blanket, and Daniella's sharp eyes snatched it up before anyone could see. Her fingers trembled as she read the words written in an elegant, yet hurried hand:
"This is my son, Rezekiel. I entrust you to raise him well for the war to come. Treat him as you would your own, and prepare him for what lies ahead."
- Your friendly celestial
Her lips quivered, and for a moment, the weight of her task seemed unbearable. But she had no choice. The letter was clear. The child—Rezekiel—was destined for something far greater than she could comprehend.
With a deep breath, Daniella stepped into the shadows, her body morphing into something ancient, dark, and powerful. Black horns curled from her forehead, and glossy scales covered her skin. Her tail swayed behind her, its movement graceful and deadly. She was no longer just Daniella. She was something more, something older.
In the depths of Rezekiel's consciousness, a sudden burst of light engulfed his being. The void he had drifted through now pulsed with energy, and a strange voice echoed inside his mind.
[Ding! Villainous System Activated.]
[Ding! Host 'Rezekiel' completes the conditions.]
The words flashed before him like a warning, a declaration of his new fate. His mind buzzed with knowledge, ancient powers awakening within him.
[Ding! Shutting down until the age limit is reached.]
And just like that, the light faded, and Rezekiel's consciousness went silent.
★★★
The throne room was silent, save for the rhythmic echo of heavy footsteps across the marble floor. The grand hall, adorned with tapestries of battles long fought and victories won, seemed strangely oppressive today. King Myrdelas stood near the window, his back to the room, staring out into the kingdom that had once felt like home but now seemed like a distant, faded dream. His hands were clasped behind him, but his eyes were cold, distant.
The throne was unoccupied, a silent symbol of the power he had once ruled with unwavering strength.
"My lord," a voice broke through the silence, thick with hesitation.
The King turned, his gaze falling on the messenger who had just entered. The man was young, his face flushed with concern, his eyes darting between the King and the bundle he carried.
"Do you have him?" Myrdelas's voice was low, almost imperceptible, but the weight of it pressed against the messenger's chest.
The man nodded slowly, revealing the child in his arms—Varden. Wrapped in royal silks, the child was small, barely alive, but the faintest glimmer of breath stirred his chest. He was pale, fragile, and utterly innocent, a stark contrast to the dark and blood-soaked past of the King. A child born of such power and yet so fragile—he was a contradiction, a reminder of something both precious and dangerous.
The King approached, his heavy boots tapping against the stone. The room grew even colder as he reached the child, his face unreadable. His hand hovered for a moment, trembling slightly as if unsure of the action he was about to take.
"You are not mine by blood," King Myrdelas said, his voice surprisingly soft, as though speaking to the child and himself. "But you are here now, and the fate of this kingdom is in your hands."
The child stirred in the messenger's arms, a weak sound escaping from his lips. Varden's eyes fluttered open, barely, and they met the King's gaze with a flicker of recognition. Myrdelas felt a shiver, a strange sensation that coursed through his veins—a connection he could not explain.
"Bring him to me," the King commanded, his tone firm and final. There was no turning back now.
The messenger stepped forward, carefully placing Varden in the King's arms, the child's warmth pressing against the King's chest. The King gazed down at the child in his arms, his eyes turning blue for a second.
"Your name will be Varden," Myrdelas said to the child, in an almost cold voice. His eyes then returned to their original colour followed by a mild headache which quickly dissipated as if it was never there.
The child's tiny hand grasped the King's finger, and in that moment, Myrdelas saw something in Varden's eyes—a flicker of recognition, a sign of something more than just an infant. A connection to his past, perhaps. A power within the boy, one that Myrdelas had only glimpsed in fleeting dreams but had never dared to believe fully.
The King turned his gaze toward the throne, his grip on Varden tightening. "Your destiny is now tied to mine," he muttered, almost as if to himself. "I will raise you as my heir and a fleeting reminder of today's events."
The silence in the room grew, heavy with an unspoken promise.
But Myrdelas did not flinch. His fingers tightened around Varden, sealing the pact. The kingdom would not fall. The power would not die. He would raise this child as his own, whether fate willed it or not.
And with that, the future of the Elf Kingdom was set into motion.
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