The dawn was still a whisper in the horizon when Arasha and her handpicked knights moved.
Their cloaks were dyed in the colors of earth and ash, blending with the forest roads and mountain passes they traversed.
The Sanctuary's banner was absent from their convoy, replaced by crates marked as relic containment for artifact transport.
Inside one such crate, the young Crown Prince was hidden, shielded beneath sacred sigils, wrapped in wards of silence and obfuscation.
The mission was swift. Silent. Calculated to perfection.
Arasha rode at the center, her silver armor muted with a matte enchantment to avoid the gleam of early light.
Her eyes remained fixed forward, but her senses drank in everything—the rhythmic breath of her horse, the distant hush of the wind over tall pines, the pulse of tension radiating from her knights.
They reached the Sanctuary's side gate by midmorning. The gatekeeper, already prepared, nodded and turned the crank, opening the passage to the inner halls buried beneath the stronghold.
It was there—under the vast chapel library repurposed as a secure archive—that the Crown Prince stepped out of his crate.
His violet eyes adjusted to the torch-lit stone corridor.
He straightened, bearing the regal posture of someone raised in courts, but his hands trembled slightly when Arasha turned to him.
"You're safe now," she said. "For as long as I can hold the walls."
He looked up at her—not as a prince to a subject, but as a boy trying to understand a force greater than the palace that raised him.
"I thought we had the best warriors in the kingdom," he murmured. "Until I saw your knights cut through the cursed bandits that tried to ambush us on the pass. They moved like they weren't afraid of death."
Arasha glanced at her knights—dust-streaked, silent, standing straight despite the night's travel and skirmishes.
"They trained through pain," she said softly. "Through failure. Not one of them is here because of bloodline or favor. They are here because they chose to be strong enough to carry what others cannot."
Her words held no pride, only weary respect.
She turned to them then. One by one, her gaze moved over the squad—veterans of subjugation zones, defenders of dying towns, survivors of dungeon collapses. Each bore scars more emotional than physical.
"You held the line when even the gods looked away," she said, her voice echoing through the quiet hall. "Because of you, the kingdom stands. Because of you… I am able to still stand."
The knights, hardened by war and years, lowered their heads—not out of protocol, but reverence.
The Crown Prince stepped beside her, his princely aura dimmed by awe.
"I want to be like that," he said.
Arasha looked at him, this boy caught in the machinery of power, still whole despite being surrounded by rot.
"Then you start by shouldering your first burden," she said, handing him a folded cloak of the Sanctuary. "Not as a prince. But as someone who chooses to fight."
He took it with both hands.
From the shadows, Sir Garran watched the exchange with a flicker of approval in his eyes.
And far beyond the walls of the Sanctuary, storms brewed—monsters clawed at realms unseen, and men sharpened knives behind crowns.
But for now, one child had been saved.
****
Even within the Sanctuary's stone walls, where the scent of magic and burning incense clung to every corridor, the air breathed differently—crisp, alive with quiet purpose.
People walked not with fear, but with the tempered assurance of those who had weathered storms and stood tall.
Prince Alight had been raised among silks and scented courtyards, gilded cages wrapped in etiquette and invisible expectations.
Yet here—here in the heart of a bastion born of blood, sacrifice, and unrelenting will—he saw something utterly alien:
Freedom.
Not the kind that came with a crown, but one carved through fire, tears, and unwavering conviction.
The knights sharpened their blades and sparred until their arms trembled. The awakened ones meditated under waterfalls or trained against mana-infused beasts in simulated riftgrounds.
Staff members organized vast halls of resources, managing healing supplies, rations, and refugee documentation with military precision. And all of them, from the lowest-ranked to the highest, offered Arasha their full attention.
They offered devotion.
Not blind worship, but respect won through shared battlefields and moments where she bled beside them.
Alight saw how she walked among them a far cry from the robes of royal lineage.
She carried a sword not for ceremony but for survival, and every nod she gave was remembered like a medal.
Even the commoners smiled when she passed, offering blessings or food with warm insistence. A grizzled knight once called her "our flame," and no one disagreed.
He couldn't hold the question any longer.
That night, while the Sanctuary dimmed and only a handful of guards patrolled the lantern-lit halls, Alight found her alone in the training yard—striking at a reinforced sparring post with smooth, relentless motions.
She was drenched in sweat, her long braid sticking to her back, but her expression was still sharp and distant. Haunted.
He waited until she stopped and turned to reach for a water flask.
"Commander Arasha?" he asked, voice steadier than he felt.
She turned, blinking sweat out of her eyes, surprised—but not unkind. "Prince Alight?"
He stepped forward. "Just Alight here… right?"
Her lips curved faintly. "That's right."
He hesitated, then bowed—not out of formality, but sincerity.
"I need to ask you something," he said. "How do I become like you?"
Arasha stared at him, caught off guard for a rare moment. The torchlight flickered behind him, casting the boy's face in earnest shadows.
He looked so young. Too young.
"Why would you want that?" she asked softly.
"Because people follow you not because they must, but because they want to," he said, gripping his hands at his sides. "You're not afraid to act. You protect them. They trust you. I want… to be someone like that. Not a symbol. Not a pawn. Someone who matters."
There was silence between them.
Arasha wiped the sweat from her brow with her forearm, then looked at him fully.
"I didn't become this because I wanted to," she said. "I became this because the world forced my hand. Every battle carved something off me. Every death left a scar I can't erase."
She stepped closer, her voice low and clear.
"If you want to be like me, then be prepared to sacrifice. To lose. And to keep standing, even when all that's left is your will to survive. To stay alive."
Alight didn't look away. His throat bobbed. "Then I'll stand. Even if I have to start small. Even if I'm not strong yet."
Arasha regarded him, eyes narrowed—not in doubt, but in silent evaluation.
Finally, she nodded.
"Then you start tomorrow," she said. "Training hall. Dawn. Back in the base fortress."
His eyes lit up, and she saw it—the same fire that once danced in Levi's, in Lucian's, in the many who had chosen to fight not because they were born to… but because they refused to be victims of fate.
She turned away to resume her training, but her voice drifted back like an ember on the wind.
"Don't try to be me, Alight. Be someone the world hasn't seen yet."
And far above them, the stars shimmered.
****
The hour was late, and most were asleep.
High above, stars pressed like frost against the black velvet sky, their cold light cascading through the narrow, angular windows of Arasha's war room.
She sat at the obsidian-lined table alone, sleeves rolled up, candlelight flickering in half-melted pools across ancient tomes, maps, shattered sword fragments, and glowing riftspawn cores.
Arasha leaned back in her chair, fingers pressed against her temples, eyes narrowed at the erratic constellation of red markers she'd pinned onto the tactical map of the continent.
The rift outbreaks had started subtly—isolated and irregular.
But recently, they had begun emerging in disturbing patterns. Perfect triangulations. Spiraling formations. Some even opening at precise altitudes—on cliffs, mountain paths, and coastal ridges—ensuring maximum destruction or maximum fear.
"These aren't random anymore…" she murmured, voice husky from exhaustion.
She reached toward the riftspawn core on the table—dull and cracked, unlike the ones they used for weapon enchantments. The core hummed low, throbbing like a broken heartbeat.
"Even their energy signature is changing."
Beside it lay the shards of a once-legendary enchanted blade—Lionfang—a sword that had cleaved riftspawn for nearly a decade, sword of Sir Misha, a senior knight. But it had shattered during the latest skirmish in the western forest, brittle against a mutated beast's carapace.
Arasha gritted her teeth.
If enchanted weapons—blessed by gods, reforged in sanctified flame—could now be rendered obsolete… what could withstand the evolving threat?
She flipped open a worn journal of metallurgy and muttered ingredients under her breath:
"Adamantite… no, too unstable… Dragon scale? No—too reactive with rift energy…"
Her mind buzzed with fragments: ancient dwarven alloys, deep-sea forgemetal, even the speculative black-silver ore found only near collapsed dungeons.
But nothing seemed durable enough without unpredictable side effects—or impossible to mass produce.
And beneath it all: the quiet fear that something—someone—was orchestrating the riftspawns' growth. A will behind the chaos.
Arasha's jaw tightened.
She needed clarity.
Throwing on her worn sparring coat, she descended through the still corridors of the fortress and went to the Sanctuary training ground.
Her boots echoed across the flagstones as she entered the moonlit training yard, silent save for the occasional flicker of torchlight and the distant screech of a rift owl in the far forests.
She stood in the middle of the yard and exhaled.
It wasn't battle, but it was motion—discipline. A silence she could control.
With practiced ease, she began.
Blade out. Slash. Turn. Reverse grip. Stab.
Her muscles sang with familiarity, her breathing deepened into rhythm. She moved faster. Lunging, pivoting, slicing invisible enemies with every strike, sweat trailing down her temples like forgotten prayers.
Every breath expelled frustration.
Every step, a denial of despair.
Every strike, a reminder that she still endured.
She pushed herself until her limbs ached and her vision swam. Until her braid came undone and stuck to her neck. Until her thoughts grew quiet.
That was when she sensed him.
Not a threat. A presence—hesitant, warm.
She slowed and turned—and saw Alight.
And then, the night unfolded anew, the heir to the crown stepping forward with a question that pierced deeper than a blade.
But before that moment, before the words exchanged, it was the stillness of motion, the ritual of battle, that brought Arasha clarity.
The rifts may evolve.
The world may shift.
But she would not wait idly for an answer.
She would forge it. One strike at a time.
****
The midday sun spilled molten gold across the training grounds of the Sanctuary, glinting off the metal studs of armor and the bladed silhouettes of practicing knights.
The air thrummed with the rhythmic clash of steel and shouted instructions, a symphony of discipline echoing through the stone courtyards.
At the edge of the field stood Arasha, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable as she watched Alight—a blur of focused strikes and honed motion—dance through a drill far more advanced than anything a newly awakened should have mastered.
His movements were clean, sharp, balanced.
She narrowed her eyes.
He mimicked her own flow—the footwork, the pivot, even the brief moment of stillness before each finishing strike.
He wasn't just talented—he was watching, learning, and adapting far too quickly.
When the drill ended, Alight wiped sweat from his brow and stood at attention, breathing steady, eyes bright with discipline.
Arasha stepped forward and said simply, "You're advancing too quickly for the standard curriculum. You'll need a personal instructor."
Alight blinked in surprise. "I… would be honored, Commander. Who will it be?"
Her eyes flicked toward the far end of the field, where Kane was working through his own set of drills with the other elite awakened ones.
"Kane," she called.
He paused mid-thrust, turned, and approached with casual steps—wiping his brow, his gray eyes sharp beneath sunlit bangs. "You called?"
"I'm assigning you a student," Arasha said, nodding toward Alight. "He's to be trained in swordsmanship and awakened control. Spar with him daily. I want him capable enough to fight in the field within three weeks."
Kane raised an eyebrow. "Three weeks?"
"He's almost on par with you already," she said flatly.
Kane glanced sideways at Alight, who bowed slightly, earnest and respectful.
Before he could say more, a familiar voice chimed in.
"Oh, how generous of you, Kane," Leta said, sauntering over with a teasing smirk, arms behind her head. "Training your rival in the art of war? How noble."
Kane shot her a glare. "Don't start."
"What? You are training the royal family's golden boy. One who's talented, charming, and getting a bit too close to Commander for your comfort, I'd say." Leta's smirk only widened as Kane stiffened.
"That's not—he's just a student. Don't let that messed-up imagination of yours run wild," he snapped, though his voice faltered just slightly at the end.
Because the truth was… it had struck him. Deeper than he cared to admit.
And that thought lingered as he trained with Alight in the following days.
The prince was a natural. Every instruction Kane gave, he absorbed. Every sparring session, he lasted longer. Every challenge, he rose to meet.
Kane tried to be patient. He really did.
But after the third consecutive match where Alight nearly disarmed him with a maneuver he himself had taught him two days prior, Kane stormed off to the training yard's edge and dunked his head into the water trough.
Leta, perched lazily nearby, sipped water from a flask and smirked. "Need a bucket of ice too?"
"I swear," Kane muttered, water dripping from his face, "he's like Lucian. All talent, no struggle. It's infuriating."
"Careful," Leta sang. "That sounds suspiciously like admiration."
He gave her a side glance, grimaced, and muttered, "It sounds like trouble, is what it sounds like."
Still, when Kane returned to the sparring grounds and met Alight's gaze again—sincere, determined, respectful—he forced his frustration down.
Alight wasn't arrogant.
He wanted to learn. He worked as hard as anyone else.
And despite Kane's inner turmoil, part of him couldn't help but feel a strange flicker of… pride.
Alight wasn't just mimicking strength.
He was becoming it.
****
The sky had shifted into a brooding tapestry of violet and deep rose, the horizon swallowing the last embers of daylight as Kane slipped quietly from the main compound.
No one noticed—not even Leta, who was usually sharp to his moods. His footsteps were silent over the well-worn path, one only he still used, through old ivy-wrapped corridors and beneath broken archways leading into a forgotten part of the fortress.
The old training ground.
What once was a spartan hall of clashing blades and midnight grunts had become a tomb of memory. The padded floors were faded and scuffed, the weapons on the rack rusted and unkempt.
And yet the scent lingered—of sweat, wood polish, and old leather—faint but permanent, like the echo of his younger self.
In the farthest corner, cloaked in shadows, was the small library he built with his own hands during his earliest years in the fortress.
Books scavenged from missions, scrolls, battle notes from his previous life—neatly preserved, untouched by others.
Kane slumped into the familiar alcove carved into the stone, where the lanterns barely reached.
He sat still for a long time, elbows on knees, staring at the cracked floor.
"Alight…" he muttered, voice low, almost bitter.
Another monster.
The kind of genius that only shows up once in an age.
The kind Kane had only seen in Lucian… and now again in Alight.
The prince had grown fast—too fast. And Kane had the unfair advantage of his past life, system-enhanced reflexes, and years of experience. Yet even with all that, Alight was breathing down his neck with raw talent alone.
It churned in him. Not jealousy, not really.
Futility.
If even with all he had, someone else could still catch up…
He clenched his jaw and leaned his head against the cold stone wall behind him.
Is this all I am without the system? Without the memory of a game long past?
He had come so far for Arasha. Everything he fought for, everything he built—it was for her. And now, here was someone else—bright, sharp, honorable—who could stand at her side just as well. Maybe even better.
Kane closed his eyes. His hand curled into a fist. His thoughts clawed at the inside of his skull.
Another asset, he told himself. Another shield for her. That's good. That's smart. That's what she needs.
And yet, his heart throbbed with quiet grief.
That he might become less needed. That his place beside her was not promised. That all his struggle could end with him… simply being left behind.
A shift in air.
The door creaked faintly.
Soft footsteps.
He didn't need to look up to know who it was.
The space filled with her presence even before she sat down beside him on the dusty bench. Her warmth and scent wrapped around the silence.
Arasha didn't speak.
Not at first.
She just sat beside him, knees drawn up slightly, her gloves tucked away so her fingers could trace faint lines on the stone.
Only when minutes passed in heavy quiet did she say, barely above a whisper:
"You still come here."
Kane gave a humorless chuckle. "Some habits die hard."
More silence.
She turned her head, her profile illuminated by the single lantern's flicker.
"I heard you trained Alight again today."
Kane nodded.
"He's… improving fast," Arasha continued, her voice even. "Too fast, honestly. It's both a blessing and a concern."
Kane scoffed. "Tell me about it."
She glanced sideways. "And that bothers you."
He didn't answer.
So she added, gently, "Kane. You don't need to pretend with me."
His throat tightened.
He leaned forward again, hiding his eyes behind his hair. "It's stupid. I know it is. But I can't help it. Every time I see him move… it's like watching someone overtake everything I've bled for."
Arasha said nothing for a beat, and when she spoke, her voice was steady.
"But you're more than your skills and talents, Kane."
He frowned. "What else am I, then?"
"You're mine. You're the one who stood beside me when no one else did. Who taught the broken ones how to fight. Who made the Sanctuary more than a name. You carry weight not in numbers or titles but in the lives you held up."
You're mine…
Kane turned to her slowly, her eyes meeting his—soft, unwavering.
She continued, quieter now, "I didn't choose you because you were the strongest. I chose you because you never ran."
The ache in his chest cracked a little.
Kane looked away again, biting his inner cheek to hold back the emotion.
"I don't want to be replaced," he murmured.
Arasha leaned slightly, resting her shoulder against his.
"You won't. And never will," she said.
And in that silence, where doubts twisted like shadows, her presence was the single, anchoring warmth he needed.
She didn't need to promise forever.
Just now.
And for Kane, that was enough.