The world had fractured, its very foundation shaking under the weight of an ancient chaos unleashed. The sky, once a familiar blue, had turned to a swirling purple vortex, a rift from which monsters poured like floodwaters. Beneath the storm, the earth cracked and buckled, its surface scarred with the violent tremors of destruction. The remains of the fallen—heroes, civilians, and creatures alike—littered the battlefield, their blood mingling with the dirt, their final screams hanging in the air like a distant echo. The battle was over, but the war had only just begun.
Grey stood amid the devastation, clutching the child tightly to his chest. His heart was heavy with sorrow, but there was a stirring within him—a dark, unstoppable force that came with the weight of Bruno and Diana's sacrifice. They were gone, erased from existence itself. No longer could anyone recall their names, their deeds, or the lives they had led. The very essence of who they were had been stolen, consumed in the wake of their final choice. Their existence was a mere whisper in the wind, fading from memory and history, erased from past, present, and future.
The world felt like it was collapsing in on itself, but amidst the chaos, an unsettling calmness washed over Grey. His mind, a storm of grief and confusion, was suddenly pierced by an unexpected presence.
A flicker in the air.
And then, a figure appeared.
The old man stepped from the shadows, his form an unsettling blend of age and power. His hair, white as snow, flowed behind him like a stream of light. His body, though frail and ancient, seemed to carry the weight of the centuries with ease. His eyes glowed a piercing yellow, deep with the wisdom of aeons, yet holding an unnerving gleam. The very air around him felt as if it bent to his presence, the ground beneath his feet quivering in reverence.
His form was both real and ethereal, his outline indistinct, as though the shadows themselves embraced him. He was a figure born of myth and legend, a king who had stood at the pinnacle of power, and a being who had been forgotten by time itself. His gaze settled on Grey, and the child he held, and the old man sighed, as if amused by the scene before him.
"Quite the mess you've found yourself in, young one," the old man said, his voice rich with ancient amusement. He didn't seem to care that the world was burning. His voice, though cracked with age, had a resonance that could command armies and still the very heavens themselves. "Chaos, destruction, and yet, you stand here, clutching a child like a fragile hope. How quaint."
Grey narrowed his eyes, still unsure of what this man was or what he wanted. The old man's aura was unmistakable—there was power in every word he spoke, in every movement. He felt as though the ground itself quivered beneath the weight of his presence. This was no ordinary figure.
"Who are you?" Grey demanded, his voice steady, but his heart racing. "What do you want from me?"
The old man grinned, a sly, knowing smile curling at the corner of his lips. "Want?" He chuckled softly, as if the concept of wanting was beneath him. "I do not want. I take what I am owed. But I suppose you want to know my name. The question is, can you even grasp it?"
He stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world. "I am the immortal king. The god of unfound riches, the weaponry king. I hold the Grail—the artifact of ultimate power, the key to life and death itself. I have lived through countless ages, seen empires rise and fall, and I have come to know things that no mortal could ever comprehend. I have been to the ends of the earth and beyond, and nothing has ever truly posed a threat to me."
Grey's mind raced, trying to piece together the words, but they came too quickly, too grandly for him to fully grasp. The name lingered on the tip of his tongue, but it remained elusive, buried under layers of myth and legend.
The old man's eyes glinted with a sharp, almost mocking gleam. "You've heard of me, haven't you? Gilgamesh—the name that echoes through the halls of time. The one who defied the gods and lived to regret it. The one who sought immortality and found only the ruin of his own desires. But you, Grey… you, like so many others before you, are about to face a choice."
There it was. The name, spoken with such familiarity that it felt like an old ghost walking back into the world. Gilgamesh. The name reverberated in Grey's mind, stirring echoes of forgotten stories.
"Gilgamesh," Grey muttered, the name tasting both ancient and powerful. The stories spoke of a king who had ruled beyond the bounds of mortality, who had sought the ultimate treasures of the gods, and who had paid the price for his arrogance.
Gilgamesh smiled, a flash of something darker in his eyes. "Yes. That is the name they call me. The name that once struck fear into the hearts of gods and mortals alike. The name of a king who once ruled all things, but who was eventually cast down, imprisoned in the abyss, where no one would find him again."
His expression softened slightly, a rare vulnerability slipping through his usually confident demeanor. "But you see, Grey… I respect Bruno. He was a king in his own right. He fought with the strength of a thousand warriors, and though his heart was tempered by compassion, he did not shy from battle when it was required. And Diana, she was no mere woman. She was a force, a protector of her people, a queen in her own right. I saw it in them both. Strength, courage, and an unyielding will to protect what they loved."
Grey's heart twisted, his gaze falling to the lifeless body of Diana, her essence now entwined with his own. The weight of her sacrifice—of Bruno's—hung heavily on him, but the old man's words cut through his grief like a knife. There was power in what he said, a truth that carried with it a strange resonance.
"I know they are gone," Gilgamesh continued, his voice lowering. "Erased from existence, from time itself. Not merely lost, but erased. Their very essence, taken. Gone from history, from memory, from the future. To erase a soul completely, to make it as though they never were… that is a price not many are willing to pay. But you, Grey… you carry their essence now. In you, they live. Their eyes—Bruno's yellow and Diana's blue—are now part of you."
Grey's heart ached as he thought of them. The eyes, the memories, the power. It was all too much. And yet, there was no turning back.
Gilgamesh's expression darkened. "But as for me, I cannot hold back Chaos any longer. Not without my true form. My body, imprisoned in the abyss. I've been bound by chains of time, by the gods themselves, but now... now, I am free to offer you a choice."
The wind picked up, howling like a beast in pain, the storm swirling around them. The land groaned as if it, too, could feel the weight of the decision hanging in the air. Gilgamesh's eyes gleamed brightly as he locked his gaze with Grey's.
"You have time, Grey. Enough time to decide. Will you save the child? Will you make the choice to carry on the legacy of those who sacrificed everything for you?" He paused, his smile sly, almost conspiratorial. "But know this—you will never be the same again. And even if you choose to save the child… you will never, ever be able to escape the price of this deal."
Gilgamesh's form flickered, his body slowly starting to fade into the shadows. His voice, a soft murmur, carried on the wind.
"Before I go, know my name, Grey. I am Gilgamesh. And you… you have a choice."
And with that, Gilgamesh was gone, leaving only the howling winds and the weight of the choice that lay ahead.
Grey stood alone amidst the ruins, the child in his arms, the essence of Bruno and Diana coursing through him. The storm raged, the earth trembled, and the future—his future—remained uncertain. But one thing was clear: the path ahead would lead him into the very heart of darkness, and no matter what choice he made, it would shape the fate of everything.
****End_of_Flashback*******
The courtyard was silent, save for the faint rustling of the wind that whispered through the ancient trees. The palace grounds, once a symbol of power and grandeur, were now a hollow echo of their former glory. Bruno and Diana's graves stood before Grey, their marble stones etched with symbols of their past glory—symbols that now felt like the only traces of their existence in the world.
Grey stood at the foot of their graves, his eyes fixed on the engraved names, though his heart had already begun to numb to the agony. The stone seemed so cold, so final. The gentle glow of the moon bathed the courtyard in pale light, casting long shadows over the ground, reflecting the emptiness that had settled within him.
He glanced down at his nephew's lifeless body, the child that had grown into a young man before his eyes, yet his life had been one of agony, loss, and now, death. The boy had lived with nothing but hate and rage in his heart. His eyes, once full of innocence, had turned cold and bitter over the years as he witnessed the world crumble around him. And now, those very eyes stared into the abyss of nothingness, a cruel reminder of what had been lost.
Grey's grip on the young man's body tightened as he tried to force himself to feel something other than emptiness. He couldn't mourn him as he should have; the pain was too sharp, too sudden. His nephew had never been given the chance to live the life he deserved. His death, a product of this endless war, was a stain on his soul.
The winds howled, the coldness in the air biting at his skin, as he whispered to the lifeless form of his nephew, "I couldn't protect you. I couldn't give you a chance... I couldn't be the family you needed."
Behind him, Daimon stood at attention, his massive form a silent sentinel. The red-haired warrior, clad in his gargantuan armor that seemed too large for any man, stood tall despite the weight of his own sorrow. The intricate carvings of his armor—runes and symbols of the old ways—glimmered in the dim light, the steel reflecting his silent resolve. His blindfolded eyes remained fixed ahead, unwavering in their commitment, but there was no mistaking the sorrow in his posture.
"Your nephew had only known darkness, Grey," Daimon said, his voice rough but steady. "This life—this world—was never kind to him. He bore the weight of it all, and now, he's gone. But the pain you feel… it's the same pain we all feel. You can't bear it alone."
Grey remained motionless, his gaze never leaving the grave of his brother and sister-in-law. The tears that had burned his soul for so long now began to flow, each drop heavier than the last. They fell silently, no longer hidden behind his strength or pride. His hands trembled as he held his nephew close, the cold body offering no comfort.
But despite the agony that tore at his insides, Grey remained unmoving. He refused to let the grief take him completely. Not yet. His tears were not for the world to see, but for the tragedy that had stolen everything from him. From his family. From his country.
"I'll make them pay," he whispered, his voice raw and hoarse. "Chaos will pay for this. I will make sure of it."
Daimon's face, unreadable behind the blindfold, gave a silent nod, but there was a flicker of understanding in his stance. He knew the kind of rage that was burning inside Grey—the kind that was all-consuming, the kind that could either break a man or make him unstoppable.
Grey's voice hardened, and his grip on his nephew's body tightened even more. "We will rebuild. We will show the world that Ethel is not finished. We will make them understand that this is not the end."
Daimon's massive hand rested on Grey's shoulder, a gesture of solidarity. "We will stand together. But you need to prepare yourself, Grey. For the battles that are coming. For the invasion, for the wars that are to come, you'll need to be strong. The enemies of Ethel will try to seize this moment."
Grey's eyes burned with determination, and a coldness began to settle in his heart. He looked out over the horizon, where the looming threats from foreign lands were beginning to stir. The winds carried the scent of war and blood, but it wasn't just the land of Ethel he would fight for. It was for every life that had been stolen, every soul that had been lost.
With a final glance at the graves of his brother and sister-in-law, Grey made his promise—one that would echo throughout history.
"I swear on their graves," he whispered fiercely, his voice carrying the weight of an oath. "I will destroy Chaos. I will wipe it from existence, for all that it has taken from me. From my family. From my kingdom."
He closed his eyes, allowing himself one final moment of grief for his nephew. The child that had grown into a broken soul, whose life had been defined by the suffering of the world. And as his tears fell, they seemed to mix with the rain that began to fall from the heavens above, as if the very world mourned with him.
"Let the war begin," Grey muttered, his voice unwavering, cold with resolve.
Daimon gave a sharp nod, the steel in his voice as unyielding as the massive armor that covered his body. "We will stand as one, Grey. The world will see the strength of Ethel. And they will know that we will not fall."
The wind howled through the courtyard once more, but Grey stood unmoved, his heart heavy with the burden of loss and the fire of vengeance that now burned brighter than ever. The world would tremble before him.