In the autumn of the 654th year of the Einfast Calendar, about half a year had passed since the undead war that had shaken the entire continent.
It was as if a tale from a knight's novel had suddenly leapt into reality. Half a year ago, the continent's most mysterious and darkest organization—the Dehya Valley Necromancer Guild—incited a war between the Church of Light and the kingdom of Orford through cunning schemes. Lord Theodorus of Orford and Pope Magnus both perished as a result. Then, within the walls of Glory Fortress, they used the dark artifact from Dehya Valley, the hilt of the Black Star, to summon the Death King.
Glory Fortress was leveled by countless undead. An army of the dead was assembled and marched toward Dehya Valley, turning everything in their path into lifeless wastelands. The Death King sought to unearth the blade of the Black Star and rule the world through death.
In this moment of crisis, the nations of the continent set aside their old grudges and rivalries. The most elite forces and countless brave warriors from across the land united and intercepted the Death King in the Flying Dragon Desert, just before Dehya Valley. After an unprecedented and cataclysmic battle, the Death King and all the necromancers were finally annihilated.
No matter how moving the bards' songs were, or how heroic the verses of their poems, none could truly capture the essence of that war—because no one knew the truth of that battle anymore. Not a single person survived. All that was left were the devastating, majestic scars of war: the entire Flying Dragon Desert and the surrounding hundreds of miles of land were nearly overturned, the earth buried beneath towering piles of undead remains, a path of flesh and blood carved through the undead horde by tens of thousands of warriors who gave their lives to reach the Death King.
At the very heart of the battlefield—presumed to be where the continent's mightiest heroes faced the Death King—the ground had turned into molten lava. Some unknown force had even caused a volcano to rise from the desert.
And in the end, the greatest and most brutal mark of victory remained: the Death King was destroyed. The hilt of the Black Star, shattered, released a torrent of dark energy that forever sealed the land's tragic legacy in obsidian. Even the remnants of allied forces who failed to retreat in time were turned into obsidian statues—silent guardians of that sacrifice—preserved for eternity in that cursed land.
At the very center of the black miasma stood a particularly striking statue. It was the statue of a woman—not fighting, nor fleeing, but with both arms raised toward the heavens in prayer. A look of devoutness and unwavering resolve was frozen on her face.
Her posture suggested she was cradling something in her arms—yet, curiously, no one could see what it was.
As for the heroes whose names were etched into the very soul of the continent—Roland, Captain of the Holy Knights of the Einfast Empire; Lancelote, Paladin of the Church of Light; and Grutt, the God of War of Orford—none of them were ever seen again. No remains were recovered. They had perished in the final battle with the Death King, vanishing alongside him in the cataclysm.
Some who remained at the Imperial Magic Academy claimed there had been another—an unknown yet crucial figure who also fought in that final stand. But who he was, or what role he played in that earth-shaking battle, no one could say. His name, like the truth of that day, was lost to the darkness.
At last, the joint search party of the Elves and the Einfast Empire discovered the Black Star atop the peak of Dehya Valley. Resting quietly on a dark altar, the dark artifact stood there—its hilt missing. According to the elves, this artifact was the embodiment of the continent's darkest energies, and it could never be truly destroyed.
Elder Ruya, the newly appointed leader of the Elves, broke from the traditional isolationist stance of her people. After negotiations with Einfast, she announced the founding of an Elven Kingdom centered in the Whispering Forest. Moreover, she proactively reached out to establish diplomatic relations with other nations, officially placing the Elves on the geopolitical map of the continent.
By mutual agreement, a joint force composed of soldiers from various nations and elven warriors would henceforth be stationed in the Spiral Shadow Mountains, tasked with guarding the area and preventing anyone from ever again attempting to use the dark artifact to plunge the continent into chaos.
After this cataclysmic battle, the elite forces of every nation were nearly wiped out, leaving the continent deeply wounded and its political structure completely disrupted and reshaped. The upheaval was especially severe in the Western Continent. The Church of Light, which had long held subtle dominion over the continent's affairs, was virtually uprooted. Even the famed Glory Fortress, once considered a sacred city, had become a lifeless ruin. All the Bishops perished.
The newly appointed Pope Adra, who had just received the dying wishes of his predecessor Magnus and completed the final preparations for the war against the undead, was found dead during the outbreak of the conflict—seated before Bishop Ronis's tomb in the crypt of the Magic Academy. The cause of death, upon inspection, was determined to be old age. Despite being in his thirties, Adra's bodily functions had deteriorated to that of a man over a hundred years old.
Pope Adra left behind no final words. With all the Bishops, and senior clerics lost to the upheaval, the Church of Light was now a mere shadow of its former self. The nations of the Western Continent, long bound by the church's overarching influence, once again stood as truly independent countries.
Among them, Alrasia had emerged as the dominant power. Queen Catherine's leadership and political acumen were unmatched. Moreover, General Oren, commander of the Royal Knights, had been unable to participate in the war due to a recurring illness. Ironically, this spared him, making him one of the last surviving top-tier warriors and commanders. While large-scale war seemed unlikely in the immediate future, it was widely believed to be only a matter of time.
In the Wild Highlands, the losses suffered by Orford were devastating. Unlike other nations, Orford did not send just its elite troops to resist the undead invasion—it sent nearly all of its adult male orcs. This sacrifice earned them genuine respect from the human nations, but for Orford, whose population was already sparse, the toll was nearly catastrophic in terms of national strength.
Fortunately, Orford formed an alliance with the Tooth Tower, which had also suffered heavy losses. The former city lord, Theodorus, had laid a solid foundation for Orford's development, establishing stable institutions and well-organized governance. The new city lord, Lord Borugan, who had long served as Theodorus's assistant, was equally brilliant and capable. As long as the young orcs in the city are given time to grow up, Orford's resurgence is not beyond reach.
The losses of the Einfast Empire were slightly less severe—but only slightly. The Empire's core military force, the Holy Knight Order, along with its commander, the Sword Saint Roland, perished entirely in battle. With no remaining supreme power to protect the young and timid emperor, the burden of leadership now falls to a few aging ministers.
To make matters worse, several small theocratic states in the south took advantage of the chaos to launch invasions, forcing the empire to relinquish southern territories and defensive lines.
Strangely, the empire's Prime Minister—the Duchess of Murak, widely acknowledged as the most capable stateswoman in a century—mysteriously vanished during the war. Had she remained, the empire's condition might have been far more stable. Rumors persist that, on the day of the undead war, some apprentices at the Magic Academy spotted an unfamiliar female swordswoman among the ranks of the Holy Knights—one who bore a striking resemblance to the Duchess of Murak. Still, many find this hard to believe. After all, what reason would a Prime Minister of an empire have to disguise herself and join a doomed battle?
And so, the history of the continent took a sharp, sweeping turn here, bending toward an entirely new direction. All that had come before—be it dark and intricate schemes, grand and turbulent battles, or the tangled web of love and hatred hidden between—no matter how tragic, how epic, how impossible to untangle, was now reduced to dust of the past.
Only their echoes remained, written in scrolls and tomes, passed down in the verses sung by wandering bards.
Floating Ice Harbor—The most eastern port of Einfast, and the furthest port to the east on the entire continent.
Half a year isn't long, yet here, it's nearly impossible to see any trace of the past upheaval. That war felt distant from the lives of common folk. Over a hundred ships of various kinds were docked in the harbor, and dockworkers swarmed like ants, busily loading and unloading cargo. On the streets, people and carriages flowed in endless streams. The din of sailors in the taverns sounded like it would never cease. This was the eastern mouth of the Donau River, and ever since the founding of Orford, it had become the most prosperous trading port in the East.
Among the ships in the harbor, a few particularly unique large sailboats stood out. Whether due to their unusually massive size or their distinct construction style, they bore little resemblance to vessels from any nation on this continent. Some of their vast sails even bore strange symbols and writing. These were merchant ships from the faraway Eastern Continent—this port was one of their most frequent landing points.
The sailors boarding and disembarking were all Easterners with yellow skin, speaking in a language and script that were difficult to understand. They were all black-haired and black-eyed, a feature that was said to be common among the people of the Eastern Continent, as their hair and eyes were uniform in color. Only these Easterners possessed the advanced shipbuilding techniques necessary to construct such massive vessels capable of crossing the vast oceans to reach this port. They brought with them precious goods—spices, porcelain, and silk—to trade for chests full of gold and gemstones.
Today, another group of Eastern merchants, laden with goods, was preparing to set sail. The central ship, adorned with a large square character, was the lead vessel. The sailors on board were bustling about, occasionally casting curious glances at a guest standing at the bow of the ship.
This kind of guest wasn't particularly rare. Occasionally, explorers and travelers from the continent would be intrigued by tales of the distant Eastern lands and would board these ships heading eastward. It wasn't the first time they had hosted such passengers. However, this particular guest seemed different. Unlike the usual curious and talkative adventurers, this one hardly spoke to anyone. After boarding, he simply stood at the bow, silently gazing into the distance. And there was something even more unusual about him beyond just his silence.
The ship finally raised its anchor. The massive vessel's sails swelled with the western wind, and it slowly sailed away from the port, bidding farewell to the continent. The guest finally turned around, casting a deep, lingering gaze at the receding land. His face was marked by an expression of indifference—not the kind of blank, confused indifference, but one borne from having endured too much, accumulated too much, a complex indifference so profound it left his face completely expressionless.
He appeared to be a young man in his twenties. "Appeared" is the word, because it was difficult to be certain—his face was covered in terrifying scars, and he had only one hand; his left arm ended at the shoulder.
"Is this your first time at sea?" the captain approached and asked with a smile.
The captain was an elderly man with white hair, the leader of the merchant convoy. Though he looked to be in his seventies, his stature was short, and yet he moved with great vitality, each step purposeful and strong. His bronze-colored face was always adorned with a kind smile, but one that never bordered on obsequious. He spoke the common language of the continent fluently. In his hands, he held two cups and offered one to the young guest.
"Yes. Thank you." The guest nodded, accepting the cup and taking a sip. His hands were also covered in web-like cracks, and if one looked closely, it could be seen that his exposed skin was entirely marked by these fissures. These scars didn't look like those from weapons; they resembled the cracks on porcelain or stone. The pattern of injuries, scattered across his body, made him look like a broken clay doll that had been hastily reassembled, creating a rather unsettling impression.
"Have you ever had tea before?" The old captain asked with some surprise. The guest appeared calm and collected, not like someone tasting this beverage for the first time.
"Mm." The guest nodded. His expression wasn't cold, but it seemed he couldn't be bothered to speak an extra word.
"Oh, I wouldn't have guessed," the old captain raised an eyebrow and smiled as he observed the young traveler. "This stuff is quite expensive in your continent. But I can tell you're neither a noble nor a wealthy man."
A hulking man, resembling an iron tower, approached. He gave the young traveler a wary glance, then bowed his head and said a few words to the old captain. The man's hair was already graying, and his face was lined with wrinkles, but he treated the old captain with great respect.
After hearing the man's words, the old captain simply smiled slightly and waved his hand, saying a few words in return. The hulking man looked at the traveler once more before turning and walking away.
"My second son, he can be a bit rash, I apologize," the old captain turned to the traveler and smiled.
"Still think I'm a fugitive on the run?" the young traveler smiled and asked. Although he didn't understand the Eastern language, he could read the expression in the man's eyes. This was the reason why many people on the ship had tried to stop him from boarding. If he hadn't been without possessions and crippled, and if it weren't for the captain's approval, he probably wouldn't have made it aboard.
"You're not," the old captain shook his head, then added, "Even if you were, you'd still be a good person."
"Oh?"
"Your eyes are clear," the old captain looked directly into the traveler's eyes, smiling as he took a sip of his tea. "We have an old saying in the East: when speaking to someone, if you look directly into their eyes, you can tell what kind of person they are. I've been around for seventy years, and I can tell you're a good person, a kind person."
"An interesting old saying. Thank you."
"This boy," the old captain chuckled as he watched his son's retreating figure, "is nearing the age of understanding fate, yet still doesn't know how to read people."
"Understanding fate?" the traveler didn't quite understand.
"Fifty years old. In our Eastern tradition, we say that when a person reaches fifty, they should have understood their fate. Fate, in your words... you could call it destiny."
"Destiny?" The traveler paused, and his eyes seemed distant for a moment. "Do you believe in destiny?"
"Yes, using the word 'destiny' with a prophetic connotation, as in 'something destined to happen,' might be a bit of a misinterpretation. The true meaning is that it is something irresistible—something inevitable that happens to you, something you can't fight against." The old captain didn't answer directly, just smiled and said, "I can tell, you believe in it, or at least you've felt it before. Only someone who's not frivolous would be troubled by such a thing—it must be because you've encountered something you couldn't resist."
The traveler didn't respond. He sat there, lost in thought, absorbing the confusion the word brought him.
Destiny. He had truly touched it—so close, so clear, so irresistible. But why had it turned out that way? He, the one who should never have survived, had lived on... Why? Why was he still here?
Against the rushing wave of black energy, that figure—though broken, still towering, powerful, and resolute—charged forward. With a powerful kick, he sent the sword blade, the source of the darkest black energy, flying far away.
The blade, carrying the endless black mist, flew for an incredibly long distance. When it reached the Spiral Shadow Mountains, it suddenly changed direction, heading toward the faintly visible highest peak. Then, the unique fluctuations it carried stopped, coming to an eerie stillness. But the figure had already begun to fade after delivering that final blow. He only managed to turn around once, looking back at her, and whispered, "This is all I can do now."
What he did was already incredibly great, but it seemed to have little effect. The black energy pouring from the shattered sword blade still couldn't be escaped or resisted by him. He could only lift his head and look at the woman holding him in her arms, weakly whispering, "I'm sorry..."
The woman shook her head. Although her tears streamed down her face, her eyes held an incredible strength. She raised her hands to the sky, and white flames began to swirl around her body. With a voice full of sorrow and determination, she cried out, "Merciful Lord, may You hear this most devout cry. I offer my life as a testimony. Please, descend Your mercy…"
A beam of white light broke through the endless black and fell upon him, forming a circle of white light that surrounded him. The black mist surged forward, turning the praying woman into a statue, frozen in time at that moment. But the white light shield remained untouched, impervious to the dark force.
He could do nothing but feel the warmth of her body as it transformed into cold stone. Tears flowed endlessly, and in this brief moment, he had shed every tear his life had ever held.
What descended from the heavens that day was not a miracle. His eyes could see it clearly—it was the accumulated faith of countless devout believers' prayers, gathered through the vast expanse of the world. Resonating with the purest of prayers and the white magic flame of self-sacrifice, it converged to manifest this light.
It is not the gods who save people—never has been. Only people can save people.
Is this also fate? Why was he allowed to survive? Why did so many people have to die? Why did everyone die for him, while he survived in the end, carrying the weight of so many deaths?
" As heaven maintains vigor through movements, a gentleman should constantly strive for self-perfection."
"Huh?" The traveler, startled, looked at the old captain. Though he couldn't understand the words, he knew that this was said for him.
The old captain smiled at the traveler, his eyes filled with a deep, compassionate wisdom, like the vastness of the sea. It was the kind of wisdom that only someone who had lived through the vicissitudes of life could possess. "The trajectory of the universe will not change for anyone. What has happened is irreversible. The only thing you can do is to accept and face it with calm and courage. Don't let what has happened bind and enclose you. Instead, let it become the strength that propels you forward, a strength to live better and more courageously."
The traveler was stunned. After a moment, he exhaled deeply. The light in his eyes softened and became clearer, and he nodded. "What an extraordinary saying."
The old captain patted the traveler's shoulder, saying nothing more, for there was no need to say anything.
The young traveler nodded, no words needed. He straightened his chest, took a deep breath of the slightly salty sea breeze, and gazed out at the endless ocean ahead.
Sunlight spilled across the surface of the sea, with waves rising and tumbling, turning the light into countless dazzling white foamy crests, which were then absorbed into the sea, revealing an endless blue that stretched far into the distance, blending with the sky.
(The End)