The sun was on the horizon, casting a dull orange glow across the land. I had been searching for clues about the old man, but all my efforts came up empty. Most people said he had already died, long forgotten, but I knew better. He wasn't dead—just unnoticed and unfound by the people of the kingdom.
The kingdom itself was divided into three distinct parts. The first part was the village, where the common people of this world and players who had yet to find their rune resided. It was a simple place, filled with struggle and survival, devoid of mana. On the opposite side, separated from the village, was the region of the immortal nobles—those who had obtained their rune, both the players and the natives of this world. At the center of it all lay the school, a sprawling complex bordered by a river that divided the kingdom into its three parts. The school was vast, with nearly 15,000 people studying there. This river touched every region and had a common point: a large rocky terrain atop which the magnificent palace rested, towering over the kingdom like an omnipresent force.
The kingdom was indeed vast, but what surprised me most was the technology. Though I had been told that no technological advancements were allowed, the devices I encountered operated on mana. The village lacked these devices due to the absence of rune-bearers, but in the nobles' region and the school, mana flowed abundantly, powering everything. The answer was simple—the king had control over these mana-fueled devices, and the kingdom's law prohibited only advancements that he could not control. With the power of the first rune, which the current king, Martin II, possessed, he could easily subdue any revolt. His rune, known as Riptide, was a force to be reckoned with. The First King had won the Great War with it, a victory that cemented his rule.
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The battlefield had been brutal, filled with blood and bodies. There were no tanks, no rifles—just crude weapons. Few had steel swords, and the enemy's primitive fiery catapults seemed like an advantage. The battle was filled with flames, despite the absence of modern weapons. The army of the great palace was losing, pushed to the edge. As defeat loomed, their leader gathered the remaining men for one last stand, leaving the women and children behind. But the battle ended in tragedy. The enemy stormed the gates, severing the leader's head and tossing it at the palace doors.
The victors reveled in their conquest, taunting the terrified women who cowered in despair. The once-glorious palace, built on hopes of peace, was now in the hands of their enemies. They approached the women with disgusting grins, making cruel promises of what they intended to do. The women wept, consumed by fear and hopelessness. But among them stood a boy, just 9 years old. The women didn't even notice him at first, too lost in their own terror. Some pitied him, knowing he would soon share their fate. The fate of six adults and three girls lay in the hands of this child.
He held a wooden sword—one he had crafted himself during the palace's construction. Without hesitation, he charged at the enemies. They laughed, amused by the boy's bravery. One man kicked him in the face, sending him flying, while another struck him in the back of his head with the boy's own sword. Rain poured from the heavens, thunder rumbling overhead as the boy collapsed outside the palace gates. His body lay motionless, his face bruised and bloodied, a delicate silk chain around his neck, from which hung a silver pendant. The enemies, unimpressed by his defiance, decided to give him a slow, agonizing death.
They dragged him outside, forcing him into the mud and slashing his neck. As his life ebbed away, they shoved his face into a puddle, watching as the water turned red with his blood. It was a gruesome, cruel scene. They believed the battle was over.
But the war was far from finished.
The rain slowed, and the puddle where the boy's body lay began to bubble. A strange stillness filled the air as if nature itself was holding its breath. The blood in the water started to retreat, flowing back into the boy's lifeless form. A tingle spread through the hearts of those watching, their bodies frozen in place. Before their eyes, the boy slowly rose into the air, limp, as if some invisible force lifted him. His hands, head, and legs hung loosely, but there, glowing brightly in the rain, was a shimmering stone embedded in the silver pendant.
It was the first Rune Stone to descend into this world—Riptide.
With newfound power coursing through him, the boy opened his eyes, his once-bloodied face now healed. The rain gathered around him, swirling and twisting as he commanded the water with nothing but his will. The enemies stood frozen in terror, unable to move as the boy controlled the storm. The rain lashed out, turning into deadly spears of water that pierced through their bodies. One by one, the men who had mocked him fell, blood mingling with the rain, leaving only the leader alive.
He could only watch as the boy—their supposed victim—now stood as their executioner.
The pressure was unbearable. The leader, once full of arrogance and cruelty, fell to his knees, his sword clattering from his trembling hands. His body shook, not just from the cold rain but from the sheer terror that gripped him. The boy remained in the air, still, as if untouched by the chaos he had just unleashed. His eyes, dark and devoid of any mercy, fixed upon the last man standing. There was no surprise in those eyes, no remorse. Only the cold certainty of power—the kind of power that made a grown man beg for his life before a mere child.
He pleaded, his voice cracked and pitiful, words stumbling over each other as he sought mercy from a boy. Not from the adults he had tormented, not from warriors or kings—but from a 8-year-old. Such was the power of the Rune.
The boy raised his left hand slowly, and the raindrops that had been falling so heavily came to a halt. They gathered around his wrist, swirling and twisting, shimmering with the energy of the Rune. Without a word, without hesitation, he flicked his hand in a swift motion. A sharp, slicing arc of water shot forward, cutting clean through the man's neck. His head tumbled to the ground, his body falling lifelessly beside it, the rain mingling with the blood-soaked earth.
The boy floated back to the ground, his feet touching the mud without a sound. There was no celebration, no sign of triumph. Only silence. He had saved no one but himself.
That boy, now forever changed, went on to become the first king, crowned in a blood-soaked world. His name was Aurelius—the name that would be whispered for centuries. The Rune, powerful beyond comprehension, passed down through his bloodline, and his blood alone made them worthy.
So began his legacy, Aurelius, the Rune'd King.
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The messenger seemed to take a strange pleasure in telling the story. I hadn't felt a chill like that in a long time. Aurelius, huh? That man—no, that boy—sure had an aura about him. The thought lingered in my mind longer than I expected. I had always assumed King Martin II was a man of this world, a mortal. But the first king too? That means the entire royal family... they're all mortals.
It felt unsettling. All this time, I had believed there was something more, something beyond the mortality that tied them to this world. If a 8-year-old boy could become king, wielding unimaginable power, what did that mean for me? What would I need to do to become worthy of my own rune?
My mind wandered back to the one clue I had—finding the old man. People in this village had either forgotten him or believed him to be dead, but I was sure he was still out there, unnoticed by the kingdom. I clenched my fists, feeling the weight of uncertainty. What was I supposed to do with nothing but whispers and rumors?
Then a thought struck me. If this kingdom was filled with mortals, then there must be a place for them to bury their dead. A graveyard. If people thought the old man was dead, that's where they would have put him—or at least a marker for his supposed death. I exhaled, my breath visible in the cool air as I pieced it together. If he wasn't dead, that's where I would start.
The graveyard.