Chapter 01 ~ The Fallen Kingdom
A biting chill, bone-deep and relentless, saturated the stone dungeon. No rays of sun pierced the gloom, no hint of morning light dared to trespass. The only illumination came from a single, sputtering candle, fighting for its last breaths and casting long, dancing shadows against the damp walls.
Within this suffocating darkness, there was only one prisoner. Looking at his youth and slight frame, one could not help but wonder what crime could possibly warrant imprisoning a boy like this in such a cruel place. Chains bound him at the waist, coiling around his wrists, arms, and neck. His hair was a shock of black, his head hanging low as if burdened by more than just the weight of the iron. His eyes were closed.
In the quiet solitude of his mind, a thought took shape: When a person is faced with an obstacle, a hardship so immense it threatens to swallow them whole… what are they to do in that moment?
Slowly, as if rousing from a long slumber, he opened his eyes. They were as black as the abyss that surrounded him. His gaze fixed on the grey, metallic door of his cell. Behind that door, he knew, lay a world of horrors—murder, rape, and plunder. I fear I must confess, he thought with a grim sense of irony, after all I have witnessed, I am grateful for the silence of this cell. Here, at least, I do not hear the screams of women being violated. I do not hear the tortured cries of children being murdered in the most gruesome of ways.
Humanity has always been this way, throughout history. A coup, an invasion from a foreign land… and the youth of the fallen nation are subjected to the most severe forms of physical and psychological torment.
But… A fire began to smolder deep within him. Something inside me wants to swear an oath. An oath to put an end to all of this. Even if it means I must one day sit upon the throne of this very kingdom. I will move forward, and I will not stop until my last breath.
CLANK.
The sharp, metallic sound of a key turning in the lock echoed through the chamber. The heavy door groaned open, and a brilliant slash of light from the corridor stabbed into the darkness, forcing the boy to squint. A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway: a soldier, clad in dark green trousers and a buttery-white shirt. A sword hung at his hip, and a green military cap sat on his head. His skin was dark, his expression severe.
He stepped inside, keys jingling in his hand. "Fulan Nanimo," the soldier said, his voice a commanding bark. "His Majesty the King has declared that you have a chance to prove you are useful for something, you moldy loaf of bread. Make one wrong move, and I'll make sure this sword finds a home in your kidney."
Fulan's voice, when he replied, was unnervingly calm. "You and I both know that if these chains were gone, I could kick your damned ass. What makes you so confident I won't simply escape?"
The soldier knelt and began to unlock the cuffs on Fulan's wrists. "If you want to control a man," he sneered, "you hold his family and his heart hostage. In that case, it's impossible for him to do anything reckless. Just like you, right now. You could kill me, and then you and your sister could prepare for a lifetime of torture. Or have you already missed the sound of your people screaming?"
The moment his right arm was free, it fell limp for a second before snapping out with viper-like speed. Fulan's hand locked around the soldier's throat, his fingers digging into the flesh. He squeezed, his black eyes now burning with a cold, murderous hatred. "You dare touch a single hair on her head," he hissed, "and I will drag you with me to the deepest pits of hell."
The soldier's eyes widened slightly, not in fear, but in annoyance. "As if I care about a brat like her," he choked out. "There are plenty of women." He swatted Fulan's hand away and finished unlocking the remaining shackles. Standing up, he turned his back. "Follow me. His Majesty is waiting for you personally."
Fulan placed a hand on the cold wall behind him, pushing himself to his feet. As he began to walk, leaving a pile of chains clattering behind him, he spoke, his voice low but clear. "His Majesty? You mean the bastard who assassinated the true king."
He stepped out into a long, grey corridor lit by tarnished gold lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Dozens of identical cell doors lined the walls. As they walked, the soldier, now feeling safer with distance between them, spoke again. "Fulan, you're wasting golden opportunities with this stubbornness. You know the King is impressed by your… unique ability. He offered you a place in his army. Your defiance is the only reason you were thrown in a cell with the rest of them. The fact he hasn't executed you yet means he still plans to bring you to his side. Wouldn't you be better able to protect your sister that way?"
Fulan's tone was flat and unyielding. "Your filthy mouth needs to be washed before it has the right to speak of my sister. Besides, I have sworn to kill that damned throne-thief. How dare he summon me like this after only a few days…"
Their footsteps echoed down the corridor until they emerged from the prison's gloom and into the open air. The kingdom spread before them, a collection of dilapidated villages and broken homes. The air was cold, with the sharp promise of snow, even though the sun was a pale disc in a clear blue sky.
Fulan's black eyes scanned the landscape. He saw the war orphans, their faces smudged with dirt and their eyes hollowed out by things no child should ever see. A pall of despair hung over every street. The skeletal remains of burnt-out houses stood as monuments to the recent violence. Here and there, soldiers in the same green and white uniforms patrolled the streets, their swords a constant, threatening presence at their hips. This was the world he had been spared in his quiet cell. This was the world he had sworn to change...
The grand doors of the palace groaned open, and the soldier stepped inside, with Fulan following in his wake, his footsteps measured and quiet on the stone.
Fulan's first glance took in a scene of ruined majesty. Massive chandeliers, works of crystal and gold, hung from the high ceiling. Some were partially collapsed, dangling like broken skeletons of light, while one lay completely shattered on the floor, a glittering carpet of debris. There were vestiges of the palace's former grandeur here—it was far more opulent than any home in the kingdom—but the scars of war were fresh. The air was thick with dust. Great cracks ran like veins through the marble floors, and the walls were pockmarked with the evidence of a recent, violent struggle.
Amidst the ruin, commoners were at work. Their faces were etched with coercion, their movements weary as they cleared rubble and attempted repairs. They toiled under the watchful, callous eyes of patrolling soldiers identical to the one Fulan followed.
A wide, crimson runner stretched across the floor, its path leading through the grand hall, up the royal staircase, and toward the throne room. It was meant to be a symbol of power, decorated with two parallel lines of gold thread, one on each side. Now, it was a testament to the palace's violent capture. The fabric was riddled with tears and slashes, and large sections were scorched black. Sprawling over its rich color were dark, dried stains that could only be blood. Yet, despite the desecration, it guided their path. Broken vases and other debris littered its surface, but they walked on.
They finally reached the doors to the king's chamber. Massive and carved from dark wood, they were flanked by two guards who stood like stone sentinels, dressed in the same uniform with swords at their hips. The moment they saw Fulan's escort, one of them reached out, pushed the heavy twin doors inward, and announced, "His Majesty is waiting for you."
The soldier strode in, but Fulan paused at the threshold. He turned his head slightly, his gaze falling upon the two guards. "Did you not swear an oath," he asked, his voice dangerously low, "to protect the true King's back, to never betray him, no matter what?"
The guard who had opened the door answered, his expression unchanging. "What nonsense are you spouting? I am doing my duty. I guard the door of the King of this kingdom."
Fulan stepped closer, invading the guard's space. His black eyes were voids, threatening to consume the other man's defiant stare. "Damned, honorless traitors," Fulan whispered. "A day will come when you will beg the people for mercy."
A cruel smirk touched the guard's lips as his hand moved to the hilt of his sword. With a faint shiiing, he drew the blade a few inches from its scabbard. "For now," he replied softly, "the only one begging for mercy will be you."
"Move it," the soldier inside the room barked.
Fulan cast one last look at the three of them—his escort and the two sentinels. A look of pure, undiluted contempt. They were all Royal Guards, sworn to the true king. Now they protected his murderer.
He turned and entered the throne room.
This chamber was in even worse shape than the rest of the palace. The walls were deeply cracked, with great fissures running across the ceiling. The brutal scars of a fierce battle were everywhere, from the gouges in the stone to the splatters of old blood that stained the walls.
"Your Majesty," Fulan's escort announced with a bow. "I have brought him as you commanded. Fulan Nanimo."
Fulan's steps halted. His eyes, blazing with a raw hatred, fixed on the man before him. There, sprawled on a throne carved from shining silver, was the new king. He was a corpulent man with long, dark green hair and matching dark green eyes. A heavy golden crown, studded with brilliant jewels, rested on his head. He wore fine white clothes, and a soft, light green silk robe was draped over his broad shoulders. He leaned forward, resting his cheek on his fist.
Standing behind the throne like monoliths were three other men. They were tall and imposing, each wearing a suit of partial armor, as if for a knight, but incomplete, leaving parts of them exposed. Each suit was a different, distinct color. All three men possessed a unique, overwhelming presence, a palpable aura of power and mystery.
The King spoke, his voice a lazy, mocking drawl. "Ah, Fulan. Have you finally cooled your head? The fact that you came all this way without causing a fuss must mean you've finally grown up a little."
Fulan stared, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. This wretched swine… he thought, the fury inside him a raging inferno. He's the source of all that has happened. An evil unleashed, a plague that has descended upon this kingdom. But the real problem isn't him. It's the three standing behind him. Those men… they are what people call the Three Admirals of Destruction. They are the true reason the entire kingdom fell.
Silence descended upon the throne room. The King, the Admirals, and the lone soldier all waited for Fulan's response.
"You are surrounded by men who could serve you, who could be far more loyal to you than I," Fulan said, his voice a low, dangerous hum. "You know for a fact that if I were given the slightest chance, I would kill you with these two hands. And knowing all this, you still have the audacity to summon me."
The King's condescending smile never wavered. With an air of absolute authority, he spoke a single name. "Pedro."
The soldier standing beside Fulan stiffened. "Yes, my lord."
"How is that girl… what was her name again?" the King mused aloud, tapping a finger on his silver throne. "Ah, I remember. Yumina."
Fulan's jaw clenched so tightly his teeth groaned in protest. His hands curled into white-knuckled fists. "Do not let her name pass through your lips," he snarled, his black eyebrows knitting together in a severe line.
The King's expression turned utterly contemptuous. "She is a virgin, and young—fourteen, is it? Perfectly suited for my amusement. And that's without even mentioning the beauty of her pure, black eyes."
In that instant, something snapped. Visible only to Fulan, a stark, white interface flared into existence before his eyes.
[Ability Activated: White Tiger]
An incandescent white aura exploded around Fulan. With a furious, guttural roar, he launched himself forward. He moved at the speed of sound; the air itself seemed to crackle and split around him. The soldier, Pedro, yelped as the wind from Fulan's passage whipped his hair violently across his face. Fulan's fist was a blur, aimed directly at the King, who remained motionless, watching the supersonic punch approach with a detached calm.
Before he could reach the throne, one of the Three Admirals of Destruction moved. He was a crimson streak, a blur of motion so fast it was barely perceptible. His leg swung up in a devastatingly swift arc.
BASH!!!
The sickening crunch of the impact echoed like a thunderclap as the Admiral's foot connected squarely with the side of Fulan's face, intercepting his charge. The force was astronomical. Fulan was thrown sideways, a human projectile.
CRASH!!
He didn't just hit the wall; he demolished it, blasting through the stone and plaster as if it were paper. His body disappeared into the adjacent room, the sound of his collision lost in the roar of crumbling masonry. Dust and debris billowed out, completely obscuring the newly formed hole in the wall.
The Admiral who had struck him lowered his leg. He was tall, with long, dark brown hair and startlingly light brown eyes. The partial armor he wore was a deep, blood-red. His expression, despite the violence of his action, was utterly serene.
"Your kick was a bit stronger than necessary, wouldn't you say?" the King remarked lazily. "I need him alive, you know."
The Admiral in red replied, his voice calm but firm. "It's because I know how stubborn this brat is. I will not forget that I suffered more against him alone than I did against this kingdom's entire army."
A stir came from the cloud of dust. Through the haze and rubble, a figure emerged, stepping back into the throne room. It was Fulan. Blood trickled down his forehead from a fresh gash, but his gaze was as sharp as shattered glass. The spectral white aura still pulsed from his body, causing his short black hair to tremble slightly. His stance was steady, unwavering.
His resilience silenced the room. The King and his Admirals watched him with renewed focus. Pedro, the soldier, looked on with wide, terrified eyes. Is he serious?! he thought, his mind reeling. Why is he putting up such a hopeless resistance…?
"Don't tell me you intend to go through this again," the red-armored Admiral said, his tone direct. "Have you already forgotten what happened only one week ago?"
"Let's all calm down now," the King interjected, raising a hand. "I was merely joking. However, part of what I said was serious. Fulan, your sister… if you obey my orders, no harm will come to her. I guarantee that my soldiers, and even I, will not lay a hand on a single hair of her head if you complete this mission. And not just that. If you complete this mission, I promise to leave this kingdom of Tania forever. I will take my men and go. You can do with this kingdom and its people whatever you wish. All of this, only if you succeed in the task I am about to give you."
Fulan remained still, his breathing steady, the white aura dancing around him like a living flame. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and the aura dissipated. The interface appeared before him one last time.
[Ability Deactivated: White Tiger]
The letters vanished as he opened his eyes and asked, "So? What is this mission?"
The King smiled. "Assassinate the king of the most prosperous kingdom of our time: the Kingdom of Saita."
A tremor went through Fulan's black eyes. The change was so profound that even the Three Admirals reacted. The one in red who had kicked him spoke first. "Do you have any idea what you're saying?!"
From behind the throne, another Admiral spoke. "It's impossible for him to succeed. The Crystal Knights protect that kingdom."
"The Crystal Knights are nothing more than a rumor," the King shot back, his voice sharp with annoyance. "A fairy tale created by Saita's king to give his people a false sense of peace and security. I am not speaking to you cowards. I am speaking to someone of a higher caliber right now. To Fulan. I swear I will give you this entire, boring kingdom, to do with as you please, if you return to me having successfully assassinated the King of Saita. I want that kingdom and its throne. I will leave this one in peace."
Silence filled the room again. Fulan's mind raced. Even assuming I succeed, if this man gets his hands on the Kingdom of Saita, he will bring the same ruin there that he brought here. Still… this is a real chance to negotiate. I can't defeat him with these three protecting him. Assassinate the King of Saita… can I really do it?
In that moment of hesitation, the King made his move. The sounds of hell flooded the throne room, projected by some unseen power. The screams of women being violated, the tortured cries of children.
"Stop! Don't touch me, please!"
"Shut up, you whore."
Fulan's eyes widened. "What is the meaning of this?!"
"A simple reminder," the King said grimly, "of your kingdom's current situation, in case emotion clouds your judgment during your journey. Do you care more for the Kingdom of Saita and its people than you do for your own people, who are being defiled in the most depraved ways as we speak?"
Fulan gritted his teeth so hard a trickle of blood ran from his bitten lip. "Damn it, fine! I'll do it, whatever it takes! But in return, you will not mistreat my people until I get back! No rape, no looting, no treating them like slaves! Do you understand?!"
The King beamed. "Yes, of course. You have my promise."
"No," Fulan snarled as he spun around and sprinted for the door. "A promise isn't enough…"
He vanished through the doorway. "Should I follow him?" Pedro asked nervously.
"No, there's no need," the King said, waving a dismissive hand. "He'll be right back."
They all waited in the throne room, listening. They heard Fulan burst in on the soldier assaulting the woman. They heard her cries of resistance as he tried to tear her clothes, and then the sickening, wet crunch of Fulan's fist breaking the man's teeth. The echo of every punch, every brutal blow, carried back to the throne room.
"Perhaps we should stop him," one of the Admirals suggested. "He might kill him."
"Let him do as he pleases," the King commanded, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
A few seconds later, Fulan returned. He strode back into the throne room, his fists dripping with fresh blood. Splatters of it dotted his face. When the King saw him, his eyes sharpened with a look of severe approval.
"Precisely. That is the face an assassin needs. I let you do as you wished with one of my men. Is that not proof enough that I will not harm these people while you are away?"
Fulan wiped a smear of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand.
"Give me the damn mission details."