Chapter 1211 Against the Universe
A few days had brought a whirlwind of change to Yalen. The Empyrean's death still echoed in the streets. Whispers of Arthur Netherborne's involvement filled the air, a mix of fear and desperate hope. The Yalen King, rattled and grief-stricken, clung to power, while Lucian, the newly crowned prince, tried to impose order. It was precarious, tense, and suspicion was brewing.
Lucian was increasingly isolated. His advisors clashed, his father watched him warily, and even his oldest friend, Zas, seemed to carry a new burden of doubt. It was this loneliness, as much as his burning ambition, that had drawn him into another uneasy alliance with the outsider, Arthur Netherborne.
Arthur left the palace to return with Zas, visiting the mansion. The two of them were enemies on more than one occasion, but the recent development forced them to be allies. Inside the mansion was an unexpected scene awaiting them.
William, injured, lay on a bed. Vihan raised his hands, using his mana to heal the gunman. Zas explain the alliance between Sier and Arthur, and the three sighed in relief.
"What happened?" asked Arthur, looking down at the gunman. Although they never had a good relationship, years revealed that the gunman was anything but disloyal to Sier. "Sier," William uttered, his one good eye defiant. "He sent me… said I had to bring back Reece, alive or dead," said the gunman. Sensing the confusion on Arthur's face, he explained the situation.
Reece, the one closest to Arthur when he was with Mistletoe, had vanished in the Republic of Orlan while investigating Empyrean schemes. His disappearance, and William's injuries, were troubling. Mistletoe was united as one before, but it was now a mess.
"Where?" asked Arthur with a deceptively soft voice. "Tell me where he is."
Zas stepped closer. "Arthur, focus," he urged. "The Agard execution is still planned. It's a distraction, meant to keep us blind." His gaze swept the room. "We need to outsmart them and focus on the trap laid ahead."
The silence stretched, broken only by the faint hiss of Vihan's fading healing magic. Arthur stood unmoving; his gaze lost in the intricate dance of shadows that swirled around the room as he raised his hand. A chilling sight ensued. The Mistletoe members, accustomed to chaos, still watched with a mix of awe and mounting fear.
"The shadows..." William breathed, the name heavy on his tongue. "They came from...you?"
Arthur's hand fell, the shadows dissipating. Queen Ruki, a flicker against the wall, vanished without a sound. "An old power," he said quietly, a hint of self-mockery in his tone. "One I thought unnecessary, and perhaps...unsavory." He looked at Ruki's last lingering image. "They have grown stronger in my absence. Ruki is...Deme-Rank now."
The implications hung in the air. Deme-Rank, a being of immense power, capable of leveling armies, kneeling before him. Arthur met Ruki's voice in his thoughts, a whisper of gratitude, the word 'lord' laced with unwavering loyalty. He felt a pang of guilt, a familiar echo of his failure to protect his shadows in the past. He looked back at the room's occupants. "I am no master of armies," he admitted, a wry twist to his lips. "But they will serve our purpose. They will find Reece, and bring him back." His voice held absolute certainty. It was the promise of a storm, a testament to the power he was only now beginning to reveal.
With a flicker of movement, the shadows vanished completely, leaving the room feeling stark in their absence. Zas, ever the voice of reason, let out a long, slow breath. "Arthur," the name was laced with both newfound wariness and respect, "How…how strong have you become?" He hesitated, then added the question that burned within them all: "Strong enough to bring down an Empyrean..."
Arthur's grin was sharp, filled with the thrill of a predator scenting prey. "Power," he mused, "has never been the issue. Timing... ah, that's the key to it all, isn't it?" His golden, fathomless eyes glittered. "But yes, Zas," he purred, "I believe I am quite strong now."
After the swift departure of the shadows, a thick silence descended upon the room. Ruki's silent cry of "We will not falter, my lord!" echoed in the aftermath, a testament to Arthur's hidden depths. The Mistletoe members, once allies and enemies, now shared a single realization: Arthur Netherborne was far more powerful, far more ruthless, than anyone had fully grasped.
As they were still taking in how powerful this newbie has become, Arthur waved his hand. Golden mana rushed toward the gunman, William, on the bed. His wounds began to heal even without his notice.
"He healed you…" Vihan's voice was barely a whisper, laced with awe. William, staring at his newly mended injuries, could only nod.
No simple restorative magic could achieve this; Arthur had wielded something potent, something akin to the divine power of creation, the golden mana that was the antithesis of the shadows he commanded. It was another piece of the puzzle that simply didn't fit with the brash, sometimes arrogant youth they had known.
Arthur's grin was a flash of white in the dim light. "We'll need all hands on deck," he remarked casually. "Yalen will be swarming with armies wanting a piece of the outsider." He paused, studying their faces. "And before you ask, I'll be preoccupied."
Zas, the ever-present voice of reason, swallowed hard. "Just how preoccupied, Arthur?"
The outsider's smile took on a predatory edge. "Fighting against six nations, of course."
Silence fell once more, broken only by William's harshly indrawn breath. The sheer audacity was staggering, yet so undeniably Arthur-like. Even after learning from Sier that a trap awaits him, with gods being summoned, he still planned on taking the entire world alone.
Arthur stood, a restless energy buzzing around him. "I'll leave saving the Agard on that day to you," a flicker of amusement crossed his features, "Mistletoe always did excel in…creative solutions." With that, he excused himself, heading toward the upper levels of the mansion. His footsteps were light, yet they echoed ominously in the silence left behind.
Upstairs, a different mood awaited. Oriole's old room was a sanctuary, untouched since his departure. The air was still warm, a lingering effect of intricate runes woven into the very structure. The scent of exotic herbs and the metallic tang of alchemical experimentation clung to the space. Oriole's belongings lay scattered – clothes neatly folded, half-finished potions, and a curious, leather-bound book resting prominently on the workbench. Arthur picked up the book, a frown creasing his brow. It was unremarkable in appearance, yet… there was a strange resistance to it, a magic book perhaps?
This wasn't an object Oriole would casually leave behind, not one that couldn't be placed within a storage artifact for safekeeping. Arthur carefully opened the book, scanning the dense script and arcane diagrams that filled the pages. This wasn't just alchemy, but something…older, more primal.
A flicker of unease danced in his eyes. Perhaps Oriole had stumbled upon something dangerous, something best left undisturbed. Yet, Arthur Netherborne, disrupter of worlds, wasn't a man to shy away from mysteries, especially those left tantalizingly close by a friend whose fate was uncertain.
He shut the black leather book with a soft thud, his fingers tracing the embossed title: Ragnar Netherborne. The name struck him like a lightning bolt. Ragnar... the defiant ancestor who had dared challenge the heavens, who shared blood ties with Arthur himself, whose legacy was the volatile power surging beneath Arthur's skin. Yet, why would Oriole have this? A chronicle of secrets so potent even the heavens sought to erase them?
A flicker of curiosity, tinged with apprehension, ignited within him. Arthur reached out, a single finger touching the worn leather cover. A jolt surged through him, not of pain, but a strange, alien resonance. It pulsed through the room, the air shimmering as if reality itself was straining, threads of unseen power swirling around the book and converging on him.
His touch turned into a tentative caress, and a shift occurred. Not in the room, but within himself. His vision blurred, his consciousness tunneling through time itself, slipping away like sand through fingers. A story appeared in his mind, telling him about the man he was meant to follow.
The images faded. The echo of Ragnar's presence, so vast and overwhelming, retreated like a receding tide. Arthur sat back, drained, his hand still resting on the leather book. His mind buzzed, a chaotic swarm of half-formed thoughts and the lingering imprint of a will so potent it had transcended time itself.
Ragnar Netherborne. More than an ancestor, he was the echo of a rebellion, a defiance that burned brighter than any star. The story wasn't a glorification. It was a testament to both strength and frailty, a portrait of a man wrestling with a universe that defied his ideals.
The power of charisma... Arthur mused, a flicker of darkness in his eyes. Ragnar didn't conquer by force alone, but by inspiring loyalty, a strange sort of devotion in enemies and allies alike. A man too vast to bend to the heavens, yet too merciful to simply crush those who opposed him. He had loved a universe that didn't love him back, a fatal flaw, a flicker of humanity that had, ultimately, doomed him.
The King of Wrath. They had crowned Ragnar, seeking to twist his defiance into a symbol of monstrous savagery. But in this book, he was...different. His wrath wasn't unthinking rage, but a righteous fire against injustice. His kingdom wasn't a wasteland, but a refuge, a testament to the possibility of a better world. Arthur, so often cynical, felt a strange, grudging respect stir within him.
And then...Devaheim. The gods. They feared Ragnar, not just for his power, but for the ideals he embodied. They tempted him, and he rebuffed them with a violence that echoed through the ages. That defiance, the utter rejection of their authority, it was...magnificent. And suicidal.
Arthur felt a prickle of excitement, and a shiver of apprehension coursed through him. It was the lure of chaos, of a fight no sane being would pick. This, then, was his legacy. Not just power, but a collision course with beings older than worlds, a rebellion begun centuries ago, passed down a bloodline soaked in defiance.
He closed his eyes, seeing Ragnar atop a black throne, a lonely figure in a kingdom of defiant joy. Could it be any other way? Carrying the weight of such a legacy, such ambition, was it any wonder Ragnar had stood alone? And was this Arthur's destiny as well – to rise, to burn brightly, and to ultimately stand apart in his fight against the tyranny of the heavens?
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