Clad in armour from head to toe, ninety-nine paladins stood in unshaken formation. The dull golden sheen of their heavy plate reflected like muted sunlight in Asher’s eyes as he looked down upon them from the high throne on the dais of the Sacred Hall.
Before them stood Nero, the only one in black armour, an obsidian contrast to the others. Yet like his brothers-in-arms, a white cloak—symbol of their vow and purity—flowed from his shoulders. White fur lined the upper backs and collars of every cloak, lending a regal air, making these warriors seem less like mere soldiers and more like noble champions of a forgotten age.
To Asher, they were more than that.
They were his blood.
Born of the sacred line, each paladin carried a spark of his essence—a bond deeper than oaths or banners.
In their left hands, they held broad, round shields—each polished and etched with the sigil of the White Wolf. In their right, spears taller than their eight-foot frames, gleaming and deadly. The sight of them filled even Asher with a rare sense of confidence. For these were not just elite soldiers—they were the pinnacle of military excellence. The embodiment of war refined.
And among them stood four—chiefs—whose reputations were carved into the walls of every battlefield.
Eleazar, master of the unseen. His mind could bend the world around him. With telekinetic prowess unrivalled, many believed him the strongest of all, if measured by raw advantage alone.
Levi, the juggernaut. His monstrous strength was said to be second only to Lord Commander Alec himself. Ferocious and relentless, Levi could clash with ancient-ranked foes head-on and emerge unbroken.
Simon, the silent blade. Compared to the others, he seemed unremarkable—until battle began. Calm and precise, he wielded the sword and spear as extensions of his body. To watch him fight was to witness weapon and man in perfect harmony. His battle awareness eclipsed all others.
And lastly, Moses—violent, disciplined, and deadly. Of the four, his mastery over flames made him the most devastating in combat. His sweeping strikes could bring down dozens. Unlike others, Moses had honed a single technique to near-perfection. “I fear not the man who knows a thousand forms,” he was once quoted, “but the one who has mastered one a thousand times.”
They were giants among titans. Though they were part of the ninety-nine, to Asher, these four alone were worth a hundred.
At the head of them all stood Nero.
His black armour drank the light, and his helmet, once symmetrical, now bore only a single horn—the other shattered during the Battle of Everard. The damage made him appear more menacing, like a cursed warlord reborn.
Only fourteen, Nero’s rank had already touched the threshold of the ancient rank—a terrifying feat.
Two sheathed swords hung at either side of his waist, and around him shimmered an aura sharp enough to cut through silence. It was not mere presence—it was a blade’s will made flesh.
Asher rose from the throne.
He stepped down from the dais slowly, boots echoing across the sacred marble floor. With each step, he shed the weight of hesitation. At the foot of the hall, he closed his eyes.
“I, Mig’dal-el, seek passage to Eden.”
The moment the words echoed in his mind, a swirling portal formed before him—its core roiling with black and green mist, spiraling like a wound in space itself. The air shifted, heavy with pressure and ancient power.
Asher gripped the handle of the Leviathan Sword at his side.
Instead of a cloak, he wore a thick woolen coat over his dark gray Leviathan plate, its surface scorched with memories of war. His snow-white hair stirred gently, caught in the gravity of the portal’s force.
Then the great doors of the Sacred Hall creaked open.
A slender figure peeked through—Sapphira. Her eyes swept across the line of paladins as they marched forward, golden and black, until at last Nero entered, leading them like a shadowed flame. All that remained was Asher, standing at the threshold of the unknown.
He turned slightly.
Their eyes met.
He smiled.
And—
Vanished.
The portal collapsed into itself with a silent exhale, the swirling mist gone in a breath.
Silence reclaimed the hall.
….
All of them appeared in the center of a modest village, surrounded by ten or so small cottages with thatched straw roofs and mud walls browned by the sun and years. A breeze stirred the dust around their boots, and for a moment, the only sound was the soft creak of wooden doors and the distant rustle of leaves.
The air smelled of damp earth and something faintly sweet—like crushed bark and ripe fruit.
Asher turned slowly, taking in his surroundings. Behind him stood the lord’s residence. If it could even be called that.
It was slightly larger than the cottages, though not by much. The roof sagged in one corner, and the wooden beams showed signs of weathering. A narrow porch led into a hall barely large enough to fit a war table and a few chairs. He could imagine a private chamber tucked in the rear, simple and cold. Around the house ran a low mud wall, barely waist-high—a child could climb over it without effort.
Asher raised an eyebrow.
‘This is what awaits a King-seeker?’ he thought, unimpressed but curious.
He turned away from the building, casting his gaze beyond the village perimeter.
There wasn’t even a defensive wall, no gate, no palisade—only wilderness.
And what a wilderness it was.
Ringing the village were unfamiliar trees, their smooth white trunks rising like pale sentinels from the forest floor.
Orange leaves fluttered gently from above, and though most of the trees stood at around five meters, some climbed as high as eight or even ten.
But the further one looked into the forest, the taller and denser the trees became—until their crowns vanished into the haze like pillars supporting some unseen ceiling.
They swayed silently in the breeze, the rustling of leaves coming from every direction.
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