It was supposed to be a quiet night.
But, of course, quiet nights were a luxury no one could afford anymore—at least not in Chronoa, and definitely not in Estevania. Not when your neighbors were fire-breathing reptiles the size of castles, or beasts with too many teeth and not enough skin, tearing through cities like toddlers with rage issues. Not when your kingdom was slowly, aggressively, and consistently being devoured from every direction—like an insect that the world itself was trying to squash.
And tonight? Well... tonight, they were about to gamble their last card. Humanity's final ace: The Hero's Covenant—a grand ritual born of ancient magic, feared more for its cost than its power. No one had dared to use it for centuries. But in desperate times… it is their last hope.
The Royal Palace of Estevania—usually a proud display of polished towers and ceremonial trumpets—had seen better days. Now it stood with patched walls, exhausted guards, and a bitter smell in the air, like burnt parchment and regret. Not exactly the fantasy dream you'd see in paintings. The surrounding territories had already been scorched and clawed through by the fire-breathing Dragonia and the ever-war-hungry Beastia. To make matters worse, the Demonia—demonic horrors in humanoid skin—had begun to march on the empire's flanks, threatening to swallow up what was left of human territory.
Deep in the palace, beyond locked doors and whispered prayers, lay the Hall of the Breathless Flame. The very air shimmered like it was holding in a scream. At the center, etched into stone older than memory, was a ritual circle so complex it could give a seasoned mage a migraine just by glancing at it.
Thirteen rings. Dozens of glyphs. Silver dust. Holy chants. And mages murmuring in forgotten tongues. Blood-red liquid traced the outermost circle—less "divine summoning" and more "satanic than the name itself." It was supposed to call forth hope. Instead, it looked like the beginning of something... darker.
This was it.
This was the so-called Hero's Covenant—Humania's final gamble.
A last-ditch, no-turning-back, "oh-gods-we're-really-doing-this" ritual. Designed centuries ago. Passed down by mad scribes and desperate survivors. The idea? Summon a soul from another world—a hero powerful enough to shift the tides of war—and bind their fate to ours.
You win, we win.
You die, we all die.
Simple. Terrifying. Maybe effective?
Thirteen people stood in a wide circle around the glyphs. Not just anyone. These were the pillars of the empire—the ones carrying its hopes, and soon, its curse.
At the front stood Emperor Hazard. No crown tonight, just battle-scarred armor and a cloak soaked with old blood and older regrets. His expression was unreadable, but his fingers twitched like a man itching for a sword that wouldn't help. There was a weight to him—the kind that came from a whole species expecting you to fix everything before breakfast. He stood stiffly, composed. He had to look unshaken. They needed him to.
Beside him, Sage Gritova leaned on her cane—a jagged staff made from a dragon's femur. Her robes were ancient and scorched. Her face looked like it had argued with death and won. She had the kind of voice that always sounded like it was in the middle of saying "I told you so." In fact, she'd been saying they should've done this ten years ago. No one listened. Of course.
To Hazard's right stood Sir Andreas, the empire's strongest Holy Knight and its human battering ram. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His sword glowed faintly with holy inscriptions, and he radiated that rare kind of calm that usually meant something really, really bad was about to happen.
And finally, Princess Rinara—youngest of the royal line, wielder of strange space-bending magic no one could explain, and the only one openly showing her nerves. Her fingers clutched a glowing crystal focus. Her long blonde hair shimmered as her eyes stared, fixed on the glyphs, caught between fear and fascination—and maybe a touch of excitement she didn't want anyone to notice.
The other nine in the circle were loyal vassals of the empire. Lesser-known, perhaps, but no less vital. They stood silently, each feeling the weight of what was to come. Because once the ritual began, their fates would be sealed.
Behind them, trying very hard not to breathe too loud, stood Thomlin—a palace aide whose main job was "carry things and try not to die." He held a tray of incense, wondering why it smelled like burnt cinnamon and… impending doom.
Sage Gritova tapped her cane against the stone. The echo hung longer than it should have.
"Alright," she muttered. "Let's begin the Grand Ritual of the Hero's Covenant."
She glanced around. "Before we proceed, let me remind you—one last time—what we're actually sacrificing."
Hazard looked over, silent. The rest held their breath.
"After this ritual," Gritova said, "our souls will be bound to the hero. That means if the hero dies—we die. But if we survive... The hero's strength will grow with ours. As long as we endure, so will they."
A few murmurs broke the silence, but Gritova pressed on.
"I trust that everyone here is prepared to shoulder this empire's final hope. So no matter what happens—stay alive. Live long enough to see the hero show us the path to Humania's future."
Sir Andreas silently gripped his sword. He understood the truth behind her words. Each of the thirteen would anchor a portion of the hero's power. If one of them died, the hero would lose one-thirteenth of their strength.
As Gritova finished, she raised her hand. Magic sparked.
Then, the chanting began.
"Let all that is bound be severed. Let all that is sealed be opened…"
The others followed in perfect unison, their voices echoing in unnatural harmony.
The runes flared. Shadows twisted. A howling wind blew through the sealed chamber, teeth-chattering cold with no source.
"Let Chronoa surrender a thread of fate to our call…"
One by one, their hands began to glow. Then came the blood—trickling from their eyes. Mana poured from their bodies like water from a broken dam. They felt hollowed out, drained, like their very souls were being wrung dry.
"Through covenant and blood… through faith and sacrifice… we call for your aid!
Grant our empire a new future!
Answer us—Hero of the Covenant!"
The floor trembled. Reality wavered. Thomlin dropped the incense tray and nobody blamed him.
The circle collapsed inward with a thunderous boom. The chandeliers trembled. The air turned deathly still.
Then silence.
And in the center of the circle… a figure stood.
Cloaked in mist and darkness.
Human-shaped. Breathing.
Alive.
Everyone stared. Waiting.
Hazard was the first to move. He stepped forward slowly, cautiously.
"You came," he whispered. "You actually—"
The figure didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Gritova's brow furrowed. "Transfer shock… or partial binding," she murmured. "The soul may not be fully anchored yet. But I can feel the link—it's there."
Andreas slid a hand to his sword. Just in case. He wouldn't strike unless absolutely necessary—he knew the risk. If the hero died here, they'd all die. But if anything tried to harm the hero…
Princess Rinara's breathing quickened. Her magic was sensitive to the shift in atmosphere.
"The hero needs time," she said quietly. "It's probably like waking up from a really intense nap. Or… disoriented from the summoning."
The mist around the figure slowly began to fade.
And then the chill came.
Bone-deep. Wrong.
It looked Humania… it felt Humania...
But something wasn't right.
Then Thomlin—brave, background Thomlin—squinted and spoke:
"Uh… not to interrupt or anything," he said, voice trembling, "but… is anyone else seeing… that?"
Everyone was tense.
Thomlin pointed.
"Under the hero's feet," he whispered. "There's… blood. No. Something's… biting them!"
Suddenly, a second shape—small, writhing—peeled itself from the hero's legs. At first, it moved in sync with them.
But then…
The second shadow moved the wrong way.
The room fell into frozen silence.
The temperature dropped further.
Outside, somewhere in the dark, a beast howled.
The figure raised their head… and smiled.
But it wasn't the kind of smile you wanted to see.