Book 1: Chronicles of the past
Chapter 1: The outsider
The moonlight draped the ancient forest in silver, casting shifting patterns over gnarled branches as a gentle breeze wove through the tangled limbs. It whispered over the tender buds pushing up from the damp earth, carrying the scent of moss and wet bark. The night was hushed, the silence broken only by the faint rustle of dry leaves as unseen creatures slithered through the undergrowth.
Then, as the moon slipped behind a ragged shroud of clouds, the hush shattered.
A sudden explosion of wings tore through the stillness, and a piercing screech echoed through the woods.
A girl—no older than sixteen—crashed to the ground, her clothes streaked with mud. Gasping, she scrambled backward, her entire body trembling, slick with sweat.
A pair of glowing red eyes locked onto her.
Menace rolled off the creature in waves, freezing her in place. She clawed at the earth, fingers sinking into the damp soil. A sharp sting lanced through her hand as a nail ripped away completely. Blood welled up, dark and glistening against a porous rock beneath her. But terror swallowed everything—pain, thought, reason.
From the depths of the shadows, something vast moved. A hulking figure emerged, its powerful form shifting with unnerving slowness, savoring the moment.
A werewolf.
[This is it… I'm done for.]
The thought barely formed before sheer survival instinct took hold. With a desperate lurch, she forced herself up, stumbling as she tried to flee.
"Run all you want…" The creature's voice was deep, guttural, laced with dark amusement. "This forest is my hunting ground."
She froze for a heartbeat.
[It can speak!!?]
[No, That's.....]
Monsters weren't supposed to speak. They were supposed to be mindless—savage, relentless.
The night air thickened, pressing in on her. Every ragged breath burned her lungs as she crashed through the undergrowth, her feet slipping on damp leaves. Twigs snapped beneath her weight, each sharp crack like a death knell in the oppressive quiet.
"Oh my God… Why? Why is this happening to me?"
Panic blinded her. She staggered through the darkness, crashing into tree trunks. Like a fly in a spider's web, every struggle only pulled her deeper into despair.
The werewolf watched, unhurried. Its glowing eyes tracked her every stumble. Slow, steady breaths. Endless patience. It was savoring the hunt.
"You shouldn't run… not until—"
Before it could finish, her scream tore through the night.
The ground vanished beneath her.
She fell.
The werewolf stiffened. Then, without warning, it threw back its head and let out a thunderous howl.
Muscles coiled. Its posture shifted in an instant. It dropped onto all fours and lunged into the darkness after her.
---
Three Days Earlier,
Villagers distrusted outsiders—especially hooded ones. Hidden faces meant trouble. They could sense it. And if a stranger was armed? That meant danger was certain.
So, naturally, they kept their distance.
From a rugged trail that barely passed for a road, a lone rider emerged. He had all the makings of a troublemaker: a concealed face, an arsenal fit for a warband. An axe, a bow, and even a wizard's staff hung from his saddle, while a sword rested across his back.
Yet it wasn't the weapons that unsettled the villagers most.
It was the polished wooden instrument he carried.
Beneath the folds of his hood, only a white beard was visible, swaying gently in the breeze. His face remained unseen, but there was no mistaking it—this was a man who had traveled far.
He rode through the village at an unhurried pace, sharp eyes catching the wary, astonished glances thrown his way. The villagers wanted no more trouble than they already had.
"These people never know when to fear and when to smile," the rider mused, casting one last glance at them. Then, without a word, he continued on, leaving them behind—just as they had silently wished.
Before long, the towers of a small fortress rose on the horizon, yellow banners fluttering in the distance. Several wooden barricades, fashioned from sharpened logs, blocked his path. He maneuvered past them with practiced ease.
"Halt! Dismount and state your name, stranger!"
The command came from a group of young guards, their inexperience evident in the way they gripped their spears—tight, but uncertain.
The rider hesitated briefly, his gaze sweeping over them. His horse snorted loudly, its powerful frame shifting beneath him. The sudden noise made the guards flinch.
"Easy, my friend. No need to startle them," he murmured, stroking the horse's neck before raising his voice.
"I am Harold Golden Shrine! Open the gate!"
Harold Golden Shrine?
The name alone sent a ripple of shock through the guards. They exchanged disbelieving glances. The legendary knight—here, in this forgotten village, standing at the gates of a minor baron's fortress?
It seemed absurd.
This old man?
One of the guards stifled a laugh.
"No way. Who in their right mind pretends to be Harold Golden Shrine?"
They sized him up again—the weathered cloak, the jumble of weapons, the travel-worn horse. He looked like a man who had seen battle, sure.
But the Harold Golden Shrine? Impossible.
The guard stepped forward, shaking his head.
"Look, old man," he said, barely suppressing his amusement. "I get it. We all have dreams. Maybe once, you wanted to be a hero like Harold. But take a good look at yourself—you're dragging around a heap of scrap metal on that poor horse, and now you're here, wasting our time. Maybe you didn't make it as a knight, but you really shouldn't go around pretending to be someone you're not. Impersonation's a serious crime, you know."
Another soldier joined in, grinning. "He's right, old man. No need for fairy tales. Me? I've got simple dreams—like not standing in this heat all day. But you don't see me claiming to be the Emperor!"
The others erupted into laughter.
"Exactly! Know your limits, old man. The ones who overreach always sink the fastest."
Harold stayed silent, letting their mockery pass. His amber eyes remained calm but heavy—cold, unreadable. The soldiers were too amused to notice.
After a long pause, he finally spoke.
"Are you finished?"
One of the guards groaned inwardly. Ugh, why won't this old fool just drop it? Guard duty's miserable enough without dealing with lunatics. Maybe if I let him in to see the baron, he'll shut up. But first, I need to disarm him—don't want trouble later.
"Alright, fine," the soldier grumbled. "But you're not bringing any weapons inside, Sir Knight. Leave them on your horse. You can take the horse with you, but stay clear of the armory."
Harold raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Not worried I might be dangerous?"
The soldier laughed. "With all these guards around? You wouldn't stand a chance unarmed. Besides, if a baron got killed by some crazy old man, that'd make one hell of a story."
The others chuckled.
"Yeah, and who'd assassinate our baron anyway? He's not rich or important enough to be worth the trouble!"
Harold merely shrugged and complied, unstrapping his sword and securing it to his horse's saddle. The soldiers barely gave it a passing glance, missing the sacred emblem etched into the hilt—an unmistakable mark of the Order of Light, carried only by holy knights.
A faint smirk ghosted across Harold's lips.
No wonder this place is in shambles if these fools are the best they've got.
Inside the Castle
The baron hunched over his desk, buried beneath a chaotic heap of reports—floods, crop failures, soaring military expenses, and outbreaks of disease. His pen scratched furiously across the parchment as his muttered curses grew harsher with each passing word. In a fit of frustration, he slammed the pen against the desk again and again, splattering ink across the page.
A steward stepped in cautiously.
"Milord, someone requests an audience."
Without looking up, the baron snapped,
"Do I look like I have time for peasants?"
The steward hesitated, then extended a letter. With a groan, the baron snatched it away. But the moment his eyes caught sight of the wax seal—the emblem of the Order of Light—his irritation vanished. His face drained of color.
Hands trembling, he broke the seal and scanned the letter. His breath quickened and beads of sweat gathered at his brow. By the time he finished reading, he staggered to his feet, nearly toppling his chair.
"W-where is he? Where is the envoy?"
"In the guest room, milord."
"Prepare refreshments! The finest wine we have!"
"Milord…" the steward began, only to be cut off by the baron's roar:
"Shut up and move!"
In a flurry, the baron rifled through his wardrobe. He tore off his coat and scrambled to don something more befitting of his station. Hastily, he powdered his wig and wiped the sweat from his face with a silk handkerchief, muttering curses under his breath.
Hurriedly, he made his way to the guest room, heart pounding in his chest. But the moment he stepped inside, he froze.
His soldiers—yes, his very own soldiers—were gathered around Harold, prodding at his weapons and laughing, calling him a madman. At the center of it all sat Harold, unmoving, his very presence like a blade poised at the throat of the room. A quiet, unshakable authority radiated from him, sending a cold shiver down the baron's spine.
Then rage flared in the baron's chest.
"You fools!" he bellowed, his face burning red. "Do you not recognize the insignia on his sword? Did you not even glance at the letter? This isn't a barnyard! Have you all lost your minds?"
The soldiers recoiled as if struck, their laughter dying instantly. Stammering apologies, their expressions shifted from smug amusement to sheer terror.
The baron barely spared them a glance as he strode forward. Then, to the utter shock of every soldier in the room, he dropped to one knee.
"Lord," he said, his voice unsteady. "Please forgive their insolence. They didn't know—"
Harold lifted a hand, silencing him with a single motion.
"No need for theatrics, Baron," he said, his tone edged with dry amusement. "I'm too old to care for formalities." His amber eyes flickered with something unreadable—patience, or perhaps irritation. "This mission is hardly worth my time, but I needed a change of pace. Let's get to the matter at hand."
Silence engulfed the room.
The soldiers stared, jaws slack, eyes wide with dawning realization.
[Wait… did he just say mission?]
[He's really Harold Golden Shrine?!]