The sound of footsteps echoed through the palace's empty corridors.
The pale light of the moon filtered in through the towering windows, casting long shadows on the pristine marble floors. The high gothic ceiling was supported by ornate columns, their alabaster surfaces adorned with golden accents. White and gold ruled supreme in the hall's décor, imbuing the space with a regal, almost ethereal beauty.
Morlowe moved quickly, his stride purposeful as he made his way toward the reception hall.
His father had summoned him to discuss recent events.
As if I don't already know… news spreads fast in Kaiserstadt.
At last, he reached the towering double doors leading to the hall.
Intricately carved eagles adorned the massive wooden panels, their ruby eyes glinting in the faint light. They stared down at him, silent and imposing, almost as if judging his resolve.
Morlowe took a deep breath, steadying himself before pushing the heavy doors open.
The hall was vast, but it was empty save for one man seated in a grand armchair. A glass of wine rested delicately in his hand, its dark red hue glinting like liquid garnets.
Morlowe's lips twitched at the sight.
Who would ever believe this man is almost forty?
The figure before him exuded elegance. His long white hair cascaded down his back like silk, and his porcelain skin, impossibly flawless, betrayed not a single imperfection. Every aspect of his appearance spoke of noble bloodlines, from his aristocratic features to the extravagant outfit that draped his lean frame.
The three-piece suit was intricately embroidered, the golden threads glinting faintly in the dim light. A pale blue cape rested on his shoulders, and a lace cravat adorned his neck, adding a final touch of opulence to his already grand appearance.
Morlowe felt his father's amber eyes settle on him, sharp and discerning.
Those eyes shimmered brighter than any jewel in the room, their intensity both mesmerizing and unnerving.
"Good evening, Father," Morlowe greeted, bowing slightly.
"Come now! No need for such formalities. Come give me a hug!"
The man's voice was cheerful as he gestured with his wine glass, spilling its contents carelessly onto the floor.
"Tell me, Father," Morlowe began, settling into a nearby chair. "I already know why you're here."
His father raised a brow, swirling the remnants of his wine. "Oh? Then you know that three days ago, Crownsville was razed to the ground."
Morlowe stiffened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Who could have done such a thing?"
"We believe it was the work of a monster horde," his father said grimly.
"Were there any survivors?"
The older man's face softened, though his amber eyes remained piercing. "I'm sorry, son. We found no one."
_________
Several days earlier...
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE DEFEATED A PLAYER FAR ABOVE YOUR LEVEL!
YOU HAVE EARNED THE TITLE 'DAVID AND GOLIATH'!
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE GAINED 10,000 EXPERIENCE POINTS!
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE EARNED 10,000 COINS!
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE REACHED LEVEL 10!
YOUR CLASS LEVEL CAP HAS BEEN REMOVED BY THE SKILL: LIMIT BREAKER.
__________
Rayliar gasped for breath, barely able to move as the notifications flooded his vision.
His body ached, every fiber of his being screaming in protest. Blood trickled down his arm, pooling on the cracked ground beneath him.
With great effort, he opened the system shop, his uninjured hand trembling as he scrolled through the list of items.
He selected a health potion, hastily downing its contents. The bitter liquid burned his throat, but relief washed over him as he felt his bones and muscles begin to mend.
Grandpa...
The thought of his grandfather was the only thing that kept him moving.
Ignoring the pain that still lingered in his limbs, Rayliar staggered to his feet. His vision blurred as he looked toward the horizon, where a faint red glow painted the night sky.
With a surge of desperation, he began to run.
The village was gone.
The acrid smell of smoke stung Rayliar's nose as he stumbled through the ruins.
Flames crackled in the distance, their heat offering a fleeting reprieve from the cold night air.
But all that remained of Crownsville were charred rubble and ashes.
Rayliar climbed over a pile of debris, his heart pounding in his chest. His breath hitched as he reached the central square.
There, amidst the wreckage, he saw him.
His grandfather lay on the ground, motionless, a pool of blood spreading beneath him.
"Grandpa!"
Rayliar's voice broke as he ran to the older man's side.
The sight was more horrifying than he had imagined.
The right side of his grandfather's body was gone, severed cleanly in a brutal attack. His skin was scorched, the burns blackening what remained of his frame.
"N-No… Grandpa…"
Rayliar knelt beside him, tears streaming down his face.
"H-Hey… thank the gods… you're alive…" Dimitrov's voice was weak, barely a whisper. Blood stained his lips as he struggled to speak.
"The… the chest?"
Rayliar's hands trembled as he responded, his voice cracking. "It's gone… but don't worry. The contents are safe."
"W-Where?"
Rayliar pressed a hand to his chest. "Inside me."
A faint chuckle escaped Dimitrov's lips. The sound was wet, rasping.
"Good… good boy…"
The old man's amber eyes softened as he gazed at his grandson. "Listen to me… you have to leave this place. Run… far away. Don't let them find you…"
"Grandpa, stop. Save your strength!" Rayliar cried, his tears falling onto the bloodied ground.
"I love you, my boy… always have."
"I-I love you too, Grandpa!" Rayliar's voice broke as he clutched the man's cold hand.
"Shhh… don't cry," Dimitrov murmured, his voice fading. "That's… life…"
He reached up, his rough fingers brushing away Rayliar's tears.
"Go to Kandahar… it's a big city. You can hide there. Find the Storyteller's Tavern… tell them I sent you. And… please… try to be happy…"
His hand fell, limp, to the ground.
The warmth in his eyes faded, leaving only stillness behind.
"Grandpa?"
Rayliar's voice was barely audible. He shook the old man gently, his body trembling.
But there was no response.
That night, the sound of a boy's anguished cries echoed through the ruins of Crownsville, drowning out the crackle of flames and the howling of the wind.