Ravon Vale, the Champion of the Empire, stood as a living testament to the will to rise above limitations. At 22 years old, he had ascended to the highest ranks of the Empire, not through magic or special abilities, but through an unwavering drive for victory. Yet, despite his triumphs on the battlefield, Ravon lacked what most warriors relied on—unique powers.
He had lived through countless battles since the age of 16, during a time when the Empire was still struggling to establish its dominance on the continent. Ravon thrived on the battlefield, relying on his sharp mind, precision, and fierce resolve.
When Ravon Vale died, the already weakened Empire crumbled, and Caden Lighthollow, the one who 'defeated' the champion, rose to prominence, becoming the hero of the era. He founded a dynasty that would endure for hundreds of years, shaping the course of history. As a mark of respect, Caden had Ravon's body buried in the main estate, where the remains of the Lighthollow family's most important patriarchs would later rest, their legacies preserved for eternity.
When Ravon Vale died, the already weakened Empire crumbled, and Caden Lighthollow, the one who 'defeated' the champion, rose to prominence, becoming the hero of the era. He founded a dynasty that would endure for hundreds of years, shaping the course of history. As a mark of respect, Caden had Ravon's body buried in the main estate, where the remains of the Lighthollow family's most important patriarchs would later rest, their legacies preserved for eternity.
Centuries passed. The Empire fell into the annals of history, and the world changed. New nations arose, technology advanced, and the magic that once shaped civilizations faded into legend. The name of Ravon Vale became a faint whisper, a relic of a forgotten age, relegated to dusty records and ancient stories. No one truly believed that the Champion—one of the last warriors to stand without magic—could hold any true significance in this new world.
Yet, the fascination with the past never truly faded.
In the present, the revival of Ravon Vale was little more than an experiment, a spectacle for the curious. His body, once a symbol of past glory, was now a piece of history to be studied, dissected, and ultimately resurrected not for a noble cause, but as an oddity. He was not the only one brought back to life; many historical figures had been resurrected in the name of curiosity, entertainment, and scientific advancement. Modern technology had made the impossible possible, and Ravon's revival became a show for the public—an event of morbid curiosity, a chance for the modern world to witness the rise of a champion long dead.
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Ravon's eyes snapped open, the harsh light blinding him for a moment. His head pulsed with pressure, and his limbs felt sluggish, as if they hadn't moved in days. Where am I? His chest tightened as he tried to orient himself, eyes scanning the strange surroundings. A sea of faces stared back at him—people, all watching, waiting. Why are they looking at me like this?
He struggled to sit up, his hands pressing into the cold surface beneath him. The effort felt heavier than it should have. His body didn't respond as it once had. He forced himself upright, legs unsteady, and took in the view. A stage. A stage? The platform beneath him was elevated, and the crowd was silent, all eyes on him. What is this?
His mind raced, pieces of the past flooding in. The Empire. The battles. This isn't where I'm supposed to be. But he wasn't dead. He could feel his pulse, the ache of his muscles. They weren't the aches of battle; they were the aches of something more distant. Something's wrong.
He stood slowly, steadying himself as he took in the surroundings. The people were still watching, and he could feel their gaze press into him. Why are they looking at me like this? What do they want?
Suddenly, a voice boomed around him, so loud it seemed to come from all directions, vibrating in the air like a thunderclap. "Ladies and gentlemen," it said in a language he didn't recognize, but the words were clear, despite the unfamiliar sounds. What is that? The voice rang through his bones, deep and commanding, but there was no one in sight to speak it. It was as if the very air carried the sound, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. Where is that voice coming from?
The crowd didn't flinch, didn't even react. They just stood, still and expectant, their eyes locked on him. What is this? Who are they?
The voice continued, and despite the language barrier, Ravon could feel its weight.
The crowd didn't flinch. They didn't even murmur or shift. Their eyes remained fixed on him. He swept his gaze across them, his chest tightening further. Their expressions weren't those of reverence or fear. There was something… detached about the way they stared. Cold, observant, curious.
And then it dawned on him. They're here for me.
A wave of unease coursed through him, tightening his throat. He wasn't a soldier standing before his comrades, nor a victor before an adoring crowd. I'm not their champion. I'm their spectacle.
The booming voice continued to echo from all directions, still indecipherable to Ravon's ears. His instincts screamed at him to find the source, but there was no one holding the strange, disembodied voice.
Suddenly, the stage beneath him shifted. Lights flickered to life around the arena, casting his surroundings in a cold, artificial glow. Then came the images. Ravon froze as enormous holograms materialized above the crowd, stretching across the vast expanse of the space.
At first, the images seemed unreal—grainy depictions of a massive battlefield. The air shimmered with the colors of the past: the clash of steel, the roar of soldiers, and the chaos of war. A lone figure charged forward, sword in hand, cutting through enemy lines with unrelenting precision. Ravon felt his heart quicken. It was as if he were back there, standing on that blood-soaked ground.
But something was wrong.
The holograms displayed the battle as he remembered it—or almost as he remembered it. The massive clash with the Verdant Republic's main force unfolded in vivid detail: the war cries, the desperate pushes, and the sheer weight of bodies colliding. It was the final battle, the moment that had sealed the fate of two nations. Ravon could almost taste the iron in the air, feel the exhaustion in his limbs, hear the screams of the dying.
Yet in the hologram, the ending was not his.
He watched in growing disbelief as the figure in the projection—a warrior draped in the green banners of the Verdant Republic—stood victorious over the broken remains of the Empire's forces. The figure wielded a sword that gleamed in the fading sunlight, triumphant and unyielding. It was unmistakable.
Caden Lighthollow.
Ravon's breath caught in his throat. No, that's not how it happened. He watched as the hologram depicted his own defeat—not the truth of the battle, where he had crushed the Republic's forces, but a twisted version where Caden was the victor. In this falsified history, Ravon knelt before Caden, beaten, humiliated, his strength failing as the Hero of the Republic delivered the final blow.
A chill ran down his spine. How could they ruin his perfect victory?
The voice above continued, its cadence triumphant and theatrical. The crowd erupted into cheers and applause, their enthusiasm filling the vast space. Ravon's teeth clenched as he tried to steady his breathing. They were celebrating. Celebrating this.
"They're showing my life… like I'm some kind of spectacle." His gaze darkened as anger coursed through him. But beneath the anger, there was something else. A gnawing disbelief, an uneasy feeling deep in his chest. Was this what the world believed? That I lost? That he was the victor?
Ravon's fists clenched, his knuckles white as he glared at the projection of Caden standing victorious. Weaklings, he thought bitterly, his teeth grinding. Those men weren't even worth the edge of my blade, let alone this twisted tale of their triumph. The memory of the battle was as clear as if it had happened minutes ago—he had crushed them, every last soldier, shattered their ranks, and stood unbeaten. And Caden? The so-called Hero of the Republic? Ravon had bested him, sword to sword, strength against strength. Yet here they were, celebrating a lie, rewriting history as if he'd fallen to a man who had no place standing above him. The anger boiled in his chest, his breath sharp as he looked out at the cheering crowd. If this was what they believed, if this was the story they wanted to tell, he would make them see the truth.
Before he could act, figures in sleek, futuristic armor ascended onto the stage. Their movements were precise and mechanical, their faces hidden behind dark masks. Weapons, or perhaps tools of some kind, hung at their sides. One of them gestured toward Ravon and spoke in the same alien tongue.
Ravon instinctively shifted into a defensive stance, but his body protested with sluggish aches. The guards moved closer, surrounding him. One of them pointed to a pathway leading offstage, their tone firm but not hostile.
He didn't understand their words, but their intent was clear. They wanted him to move.
Ravon hesitated, his mind racing. His instincts screamed to fight, to resist, but the weight of the unknown held him back. Where would they take him? Was there a chance to escape, or would he be walking into another trap?
As the guards pressed closer, Ravon straightened. For now, he would play along. But his eyes darted to the crowd, their cheers still echoing in his ears. His jaw tightened. You think this is a game? You think I'm here for your amusement?
He stepped forward, his stance unsteady but deliberate. Whatever awaited him offstage, Ravon promised himself one thing: this world would soon learn that he was no relic.
This was only the beginning.