The days that followed the breaking of the Crown were quiet — unnaturally so. Villages that once trembled beneath the oppressive aura of the old world now stood in stunned silence, as though the earth itself were relearning how to breathe. The air was lighter, yes, but also uncertain. Every sunrise seemed cautious, as if unsure whether it was safe to rise again.
Raizen walked the new world as a ghost of his former self — not diminished, but distanced. Where once he had carried the weight of destiny on his back like a burden forged in iron and fire, now there was only the ache of aftermath. The scars across his soul did not scream anymore; they whispered. He spent his days helping rebuild the shattered towns and lost sanctuaries, lending his hands to lifting stone and soil rather than wielding a sword. He spoke little, but when he did, people listened — not because of who he had been, but because of the peace in his voice. A peace that had been earned, not inherited.
His allies — what remained of them — had scattered across the world, each choosing a piece of it to tend. Some led rebuilding efforts, others forged schools, watchtowers, and havens of learning. Some, broken beyond repair, had simply disappeared into the horizon, hoping to find purpose away from the long shadow cast by battle. The legends of their deeds spread like echoes in the wind, half-believed and wholly revered. But even in stories, there was unease.
Because something was wrong.
The winds, once erratic and filled with chaotic currents of magic and malice, had stilled — but too much. The forests regrew faster than they should. The oceans shimmered with odd reflections, and in the far corners of forgotten lands, entire settlements were found completely empty — their food still warm on the table, their fires freshly extinguished. No screams. No blood. Just... absence.
Raizen noticed it first in his dreams. The silence. Not peaceful, but hollow. An absence not of noise, but of presence — as if something was watching the world recover, waiting for it to forget. He spoke to the seers, to the mystics who had once served the Crown or fought against it. They offered no answers, only dread. "The shadow doesn't scream when it returns," one whispered. "It creeps."
Rumors began to stir. Entire expeditions lost in the lands once protected by the Titans. Travelers whispering of blackened trees that bled smoke when touched. And in one broken temple, a child was found drawing symbols in ash — symbols from a language older than the gods. When asked who had taught her, she simply said: "He speaks when the world is quiet."
The new world Raizen had bled for was healing, but healing imperfectly. Like a bone set wrong, the break was closing — but not straight.
He gathered the old maps, the ones etched during the war, and compared them to the strange changes now appearing: mountain ranges shifting slightly, rivers cutting through wrong valleys, entire islands where none had existed. Reality itself seemed to be fraying at the edges. And worse still — the stars had moved. Just enough to be noticed by those who dared look.
Raizen stood atop a rebuilt tower one night, overlooking a village that now bore a new name — one free of the past. Children played beneath lanterns. Music drifted from a nearby inn. Peace, fragile and imperfect, had finally come. And yet, his gaze remained fixed to the east, where the horizon pulsed with a faint, almost invisible shimmer.
A presence.
A breath.
Not from this world.
He clenched his fist, not in anger, but in readiness.
The battle had ended. The Crown had fallen. But shadows never truly died — they only waited for light to look away.
And somewhere, something had begun to stir.
END OF CHAPTER 1