(259, Of Eldoria.)
In the forsaken city of Eldoria, where war hath ravaged the very bones of the land, a dark yet wondrous breath of renewal didst stir the air. The fountains, long dry and mute, now spoketh in crystalline tongues, and the barren fields, once cursed by famine, did yield crops of unnatural plenty. Even the shattered homes, steeped in ruin and despair, did rise once more, as though touched by some unseen hand of divinity. Yet, amidst these strange and wondrous miracles, whispers of suspicion harkened through the shadows. From whence cometh these blessings? And what cost hath been paid for such grace? Though thy hearts were swelled with fragile hope, a shadow didst linger—a gnawing fear beneath the surface. And thus, with hearts both heavy and uncertain, Eldoria, though reborn, embarked upon its path of restoration, torn between gratitude and the dread of a debt yet unpaid.
(1100, Eldoria St. Laperixes City.)
In the midst of the sprawling city, where the marble columns of divinity cast their long shadows upon the teeming throngs, Kyotani wandered, an unholy specter amongst the living. The great metropolis stretched before him, a city born from the union of old-world philosophies—an ancient fusion of Eastern solemnity and Greco-Roman reverence. It was a place of high towers and sanctified stones, where the earth's weight was borne upon the backs of men and their prayers, offering their voices up to gods they scarcely understood, as though the divine were but a distant echo from the heavens. His feet, though clothed in fine leather, moved as if indifferent to the thousand lives around him. His mind, steeped in darkness and solemnity, had long since forsaken the trappings of joy that the bustling city held.
The lanterns of the evening began to flicker against the growing gloom, the glow from their lamps casting long, wavering shadows across the cobbled streets, as if the city itself had taken on a life of its own, a quiet, breathing beast, one that exhaled its prayers into the night air. The scent of incense—tangy and sweet like the promise of a burning offering—intermingled with the fragrance of earth, of bread and sweat, of iron and metal. It was the scent of devotion, mingled with the grime of toil. Kyotani's fingers, coiled tightly about the edge of his coin pouch, shifted absently as he passed the various vendors, their voices rising in chants and calls to bargain.
"By the gods, do purchase thy sacred silks—woven from the very fibers of the spirit," a merchant cried, his voice thick with the honeyed rhythm of centuries-old dialects. "These fine vestments shall adorn thee with the grace of Arketh herself!"
Kyotani's lips parted slightly, a wisp of a smile flickering like a shadow before his features darkened again. His eyes, gleaming like twin shards of obsidian, turned briefly toward the merchant's wares, the silken folds of the fabric shimmering like the river's surface under the kiss of moonlight. But no warmth stirred within him. No desire. There could be undeniable beauty in the face of a scum-pawn, well, as each their own.
"Grace of Arketh," he murmured under his breath, as though the words themselves carried an irony only he could fathom. "What is grace but a fleet? clung to by those who do not know the weight of divinity."
His hands—calloused and scarred from his own training—gripped the coin tightly, feeling its edges bite into his palm as though it too sought to remind him of something more substantial. It was not wealth he sought, not riches, nor the fleeting pleasures of the mortal world, for he was far beyond such trivialities. No, Kyotani's heart beat for one thing alone: strength. Strength not for glory, not for power, but for the unyielding domination over his own soul—a soul which had, in his eyes, become too frail to endure the world in all its wretchedness.
He continued through the crowded square, indifferent to the frantic life unfolding around him. Merchants hawked their wares, the smell of food tempted the senses, children scampered across the streets with innocence in their laughter, yet none of it penetrated his reverie. His thoughts, like a torrent, overwhelmed him. Strength, unyielding strength, that was what he required. It was the only thing that could fill the hollow void within him. Not the shallow prayers of the masses, nor the fleeting comforts of life—these were chains, pulling him ever deeper into their embrace. No, he sought strength that would allow him to transcend this ephemeral world, to command the gods themselves.
A group of townsfolk, their backs bent with toil, their faces worn like old cloth, passed him by, some murmuring to themselves in their native tongue—Elevoriéne, their words as fluid as the river's current, flowing like prayers to an unseen power.
"The temple calls," one man muttered as he passed, his voice low, reverent. "The gods await the offering of our labor this evening. May the Fates smile upon us and grant us prosperity, as we labor beneath the eyes of the divine."
Kyotani barely spared them a glance. Their words were as hollow as the ringing of the market bell—a sound which resonated through the streets but filled none of the hearts around him with true purpose. Their offerings, their sacrifices, were nothing more than pittance, petty tokens meant to soothe their inner fears, to appease the gods they so desperately needed to believe in.
"The gods smile upon the weak," he thought bitterly, his gaze hardening like a blade. "But strength… strength, they will never offer me. I must take it from them. Take it from the very air they breathe. Only then will I be free of their pathetic influence. This mortal world."
As he passed the grand temple of Arketh—a towering edifice of gleaming white marble that rose into the heavens like a divine sentinel—he paused for a moment, gazing up at its magnificent columns, its intricate carvings that depicted the goddess in her many forms: the warrior, the protector, the wise queen of the heavens. The temple's sanctity was a palpable thing, a weight that pressed down upon the soul.
A Kyarest (Priestess In Order), adorned in ceremonial garb of pale blue and gold, stood near the entrance, her arms raised in a gesture of supplication, as she recited ancient prayers that had long been etched into the very stones of the city. The words, heavy with the gravity of the divine, filled the air, her voice a lilting chant that carried with it the power of centuries.
"O mighty Arketh, we offer our prayers to thee, to guide our hands and strengthen our hearts," she intoned, her voice a sweet, mournful hum, her eyes closed in reverence.
Kyotani's lips curled slightly, though not in disdain. His gaze lingered on her, the delicate beauty of her face, the purity of her devotion, and yet, in his eyes, there was only one thing: the cold realization that such piety was a cage. It could never deliver him from the abyss in which he had cast himself. Only by carving his own path—through blood, sweat, and fury—could he hope to break free from the restraints of the gods. Only by bending the world to his will could he find the strength to truly rule.
"Prayers," Kyotani muttered to himself, his words barely a whisper. "To beg, to plead for the gods' favor—so fucking weak. I can't be like any of them. I need to become something beyond this city, beyond this life. I shall be the one to dictate the terms of my existence without the trait of scum wastebags."
With a sudden motion, he turned away from the temple, his pace quickening as though the weight of his thoughts had propelled him forward. The city around him, with all its ancient rites, would never provide him with what he needed. No coin, no offering, no prayer would ever quench the thirst within him—the hunger for a power that surpassed even the gods.
"I do not seek their favor," Kyotani thought, his voice now rising in the echo of his mind. "I seek dominion. Dominion over this fragile existence, over the very forces that bind men to their fates. And when I possess it, I shall cast off the veil of weakness, and all shall bow before me. It is strength that will define me, not the prayers of the fool."
-!-
The people, the hellenistic gods, the rituals—these were nothing more than the smoke that clouded the truth. His journey, the path he walked, was one of solitude and grim purpose. He had no need for their hollow gifts. His was a greater ambition—a quest for power that transcended even the divine. And with each step he took, the walls of the city seemed to grow ever smaller, as though he were walking towards an unknown, yet inevitable horizon.
-!-
Kyotani did not look back on those who were pathetic, how troubling indeed.
-!-
Despite all this, life continued. Children played in the dirt, their laughter ringing through the square as they kicked stones and chased one another. Merchants continued to hawk their goods, their voices sharp and persistent. Even the beggars continued to sit and wait, their hands outstretched toward any who would give. But beneath the surface, something far darker stirred. In the hearts of those who walked these streets, there was a gnawing emptiness—a sense that something was missing, that the city had forgotten what it meant to truly live.
-!-
And then, as if summoned by the gathering tension, the air grew still. The bustling chaos of the market faded, as though the city itself had held its breath. Every eye turned toward the figure in the white and gold robe, the man who moved with such grace that the crowd parted in reverence without him ever speaking a word. The temperature seemed to drop as Jinghai entered the square, his presence radiating an energy that suffocated all else.
-!-
He was a paradox—an elegant figure amidst the squalor, a pristine force of power in a world crumbling from decay. His sapphire eyes gleamed with the quiet promise of destruction, and yet his expression remained cool, detached as though he were but a spectator to the events unfolding around him. His staff, crowned with the head of a dragon, seemed to pulse with an energy all its own, the sapphire eyes of the dragon flickering with an otherworldly glow. Each step he took was deliberate, as though he were the very embodiment of fate itself.
-!-
The crowd, unsure whether to move or remain frozen, instinctively fell silent. In the presence of Jinghai, they felt their own insignificance. They understood the meaning of his presence without the need for words—he was not here to ask. He was here to take. The market, once vibrant with the noise of commerce, now felt like a tomb. The air was heavy with anticipation, thick with the sense that something monumental was about to happen.
Kyotani, still in the shadows, watched him intently. His expression hardened, his eyes narrowing. This man—Jinghai—was like a storm cloud, a force that threatened to rip the city apart with its sheer presence. But Kyotani was not moved by the spectacle. No, he was something else entirely—an observer, an enigma in his own right. The storm might rage around him, but he would remain untouched. He had his own war to fight, his own path to walk.
As Jinghai moved toward the heart of the square, he cast his gaze toward the palace in the distance. His steps were slow but purposeful, like the inevitable march of time. Every motion seemed calculated, deliberate, as though he was laying claim to the very space around him. His eyes lingered for only a moment on the dilapidated state of the city before his gaze returned to the crowd. It was not pity or even anger that colored his expression—it was something far colder. He saw only opportunity.
-!-
"Is this all Eldoria has to offer?" Jinghai's voice echoed through the square, smooth and cold. It was not a question, but a statement—a proclamation that this city, this forsaken place, was beneath him. His voice carried an almost hypnotic quality, as though his every word was a melody, but one laced with venom.
-!-
The crowd stood frozen, unsure of what to do. The tension in the air could be felt in every corner of the market. And though Kyotani remained silent, his lips curled into a thin, disdainful smile. The others were afraid—he could feel it in their nervous glances, in the way they held their breath. But Kyotani had long since learned that fear was a weakness and a hand of hell, a chain that bound people to their own helplessness.
-!-
"There's something about him…" A voice, faint and trembling, whispered from the back of the crowd. Kyotani could hear the fear in the speaker's tone, could feel the panic rising among the people.
Kyotani's thoughts, though, were clouded with something darker—something far more dangerous. His eyes remained locked on Jinghai, the tension in his body palpable. He knew what it was to chase power. He knew what it was to struggle for control. And Jinghai was a reminder that strength, real strength, was not given—it was taken. It was a lesson he had learned the hard way.
"I'll see what you're made of, Mizunen." Kyotani muttered under his breath, the words a quiet promise to himself.
(Note: "Mizunen" Is A Formal Term Used In Eldorian Writing To Describe A Foreigner; Or Outsider Of Subject Province And/Or Area!)
Jinghai's gaze shifted to the crowd once again. His eyes narrowed slightly, an unreadable expression flickering across his face. He saw Kyotani, though he did not speak to him. Instead, he turned, his back to the market, as though the matter had already been decided.
But Kyotani knew better. The game had just begun. And Eldoria would soon find itself caught in the crossfire between two forces, neither willing to yield.
Oh, Trouble, Arketh To Grace With All Divine Restoration, Shall You Bring Forth A Great Plague Soon To Arise.
Come Now, The Lycheric Martyr Vs The Celesté Eater.
End.