Caelus stood at the edge of a precipice, a precipice that bridged the remnants of his old life and the chaotic unknown before him. The young king's plea echoed in his mind, intertwining with the surge of new sensations coursing through his veins. He clenched his fists, feeling the weight of heavy armour that felt both foreign and exhilarating, the cool metal pressing against his skin—a stark reminder that he was no longer the man he once was. No longer just Caelus, but the warlord, Vorrath.
As he gazed at his hands, adorned with intricate patterns and adorned in blackened metal, confusion washed over him. The sword at his side, heavy and foreboding, seemed to pulse with a life of its own, an extension of a power he had yet to comprehend. Memories flickered like shadows at the edges of his consciousness—visions of brutal battles and the deafening roar of war cries—and he recoiled. The thrill of battle was intoxicating, yet a wave of revulsion washed over him.
What have I become? he thought, grappling with the violent aura that enveloped him. The remnants of Vorrath's fierce nature clawed at his sanity, eager to surface and dominate. Caelus fought to anchor himself, to maintain the vestiges of his humanity amidst the chaos of his new reality.
In the back of his mind, he felt a strange resonance—a pulsing energy that beckoned him to embrace the power that was now his. He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing, trying to quiet the storm within. The weight of his death hung like a shroud, and for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to remember the mundane—his life in the city, the buzz of traffic, the laughter of friends. But that was gone now, extinguished by a tragic fate.
“But I’m not some kind of warlord. I’m not Vorrath, I’m just Caelus. I—” Suddenly, a vivid flash struck him, seizing his consciousness. He was thrust into a memory not his own: a cacophony of clashing steel, a battlefield strewn with the remnants of war.
In an instant, he was aware of the exhilaration of commanding troops, of the taste of victory coursing through his veins. However, with it came a sharp pain—a deep ache in his chest as the knowledge of countless lives lost weighed heavily upon him.
Gasping, he stumbled back into the present, drenched in sweat, disoriented. The echoes of that memory lingered, intertwining with his newfound reality, and he felt a surge of energy course through him. A power unlike any he had ever experienced. It was as if a door had cracked open, revealing glimpses of his potential—a hint of strength and agility that pulsed just beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.
Suddenly, a shimmering holographic interface materialised before Caelus, illuminating the dim space with its ethereal glow.
You have unlocked: [Bloody Fury]
“Grants a temporary increase in all combat Stats (strength, speed, defence) while in this enhanced form”
Description: Harness the rage of your inner warlord to become an unstoppable force on the battlefield.
Skill Tree: [Warlord Abilities]
- Blood Fury: [Unlocked!]
- Dark Edge: [Unlocked By Default]
- Spirit Summon: [Locked]
A surge of exhilaration washed over him as he absorbed the details, yet confusion clouded his mind. Abilities? Caelus thought, struggling to reconcile his modern sensibilities with the fantastical mechanics unfolding before him. He put his hand on the hologram, but his hand fell through.
King Rowan, his eyes widening in astonishment, snapped his head to Caelus. “It seems like you truly are the reincarnation of Vorrath,” he said, his voice laced with a mix of awe and encouragement. “This is a Soulbound Interface. As you can see, you have unlocked a new ability. As you progress, I’m certain you’ll unlock even more abilities.”
As Caelus steadied himself, still reeling from the implications of this revelation, he finally took stock of his surroundings. Caelus's gaze darted from the glowing interface to King Rowan, disbelief battling with the faint thrill of power coursing through him. He clenched his fists, feeling the newfound strength pulsing beneath his skin, alien yet strangely familiar.
“A... Soulbound Interface?” he murmured, the words foreign on his tongue. He exhaled, trying to steady his racing heart. “I don’t understand any of this. One moment I was… dead.” He stopped, glancing down at his armoured hands, feeling the raw strength of Vorrath. “And now I’m... here. You really think I’m supposed to become some kind of hero?”
Rowan nodded, his gaze steady. “Helia needs every ounce of strength you can give, Caelus,” he said, using his name like a weight anchoring him to this reality. “You’re not alone in this fight. You and the others—together, you can reclaim Helia.”
But Caelus wasn’t a leader—he had never been one. And now he was expected to save a kingdom?
Caelus turned, catching the wary, intrigued glances of the other champions in the room. He felt something shift within him, a glimmer of purpose, but doubt still shadowed his resolve.
In this sacred space stood the six figures, each radiating a distinct aura that filled the air with a potent blend of confusion, fear, and a flicker of resolve. Their varied expressions mirrored Caelus’s own turmoil, as they grappled with the enormity of their situation. This was no ordinary gathering; they were champions summoned to a kingdom on the brink, and the weight of their destinies hung heavily in the air.
The chamber was a grand library tower, its walls lined with ancient tomes and scrolls that seemed to whisper secrets of the past, serving as both a fortress of knowledge and a centre of governance. Tall, arched windows allowed streams of golden light to spill in, casting patterns on the stone floor.
Above each champion’s head, ethereal displays floated, shimmering faintly in the air like ghostly projections. Each display showed a glowing health bar and mana bar, their colours vibrant—a rich green for health and deep azure for mana. The bars pulsed faintly, a living reflection of their current vitality and magical reserves.
Beneath the bars, their names glowed in elegant script, accompanied by a numerical indicator of their current Level. The font seemed both ancient and alive, shifting subtly as if responding to their presence. The displays were unobtrusive yet striking, a constant reminder of their connection to the Soulbound Interface and the power they carried.
The details moved fluidly as they did, effortlessly adapting to their line of sight. The glowing indicators not only signalled their status but also reinforced their bond to the legacy of the champions they had become.
Lorian, a young boy with snow-white hair pulled back into a small ponytail, paced back and forth, his movements marked by a restless energy. His gaze occasionally flicked to the others, revealing a trace of youthful impatience beneath his otherwise composed expression. His eyes were a rich shade of hazel, reminiscent of polished chestnuts catching the light. A large, ancient spellbook was fastened to his side, bound in leather and decorated with silver filigree. His eyes darted around, betraying both his unease and the skepticism etched into his features. He seemed restless, one hand constantly rubbing at the back of his neck, as if trying to make sense of the scene around him.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Leaning casually against a nearby bookshelf, Riven, though having a small and short frame, exuded an intimidating indifference that contrasted with the others' apprehension. Her short, dark green hair, sharp and slightly tousled, as well as the hood that she was wearing added to her stealthy and elusive nature. She was slightly tan, and had a few short daggers attached at her hip that were secured with leather straps. Her intense eyes gleamed with contempt as they scanned the room, and her crossed arms suggested a reluctance to place any faith in the unfolding situation.
Beside her stood Seraph, a woman of striking contrasts. Her slender frame was tense, vibrating with a nervous energy that seemed barely contained. Her deep, dark grey skin was traced with intricate golden markings that shimmered faintly, a testament to her unique heritage. Long, silver hair cascaded down to her hips, framing a face that seemed almost too gentle for the trials of battle, yet her hands flexed, clenching and unclenching, caught in a struggle between fear and resolve.
Her elongated, pointed ears drooped subtly with worry, while a delicate golden circlet rested on her brow, crowned with a small, pulsing purple gem that glowed faintly. Wide, silver eyes darted between the group, capturing a swirl of doubt and steely determination as she processed the gravity of their situation.
“What are we doing here?” Riven finally snapped, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. “We were summoned by a boy king, and for what? To play soldiers in a game we don’t understand?” Her words hung heavy in the air, stirring a ripple of discontent among the group.
Tension crackled in the air, thick enough to slice through. Caelus felt the weight of their uncertainty pressing down on him, the conflicting desires for leadership and loyalty colliding in a storm of confusion.
“Maybe we should trust him,” Lorian countered, his voice trembling slightly. “He brought us here for a reason.”
King Rowan, standing nearby, seemed to feel the shift in mood. With a deep breath, he stepped forward, his youthful face drawn with the gravity of his situation. “I know you have questions,” he began, his voice steady but edged with vulnerability. “I had no choice but to summon you. My people are suffering under the curse of Myrkos, a dark magician whose malevolence is slowly destroying Helia.”
His admission hung in the air, the reality of their situation settling upon the champions.
“I didn’t summon you for a game,” he continued, urgency creeping into his tone. “I need your help. Helia is in dire need of help.”
Doubt flickered across the group, and some exchanged uncertain glances, silently weighing their options.
“And why should we trust you?” Darius asked, his voice low and challenging. Caelus turned to him, momentarily stunned. Darius was like nothing he had ever seen—a towering, lizard-like figure, almost draconic in appearance. Was he really in the same situation as me? Caelus thought, imagining the shock of waking up with scales and claws.
Darius’s crimson-scaled armour melded flawlessly with the natural patterns of his own scarlet dragon scales, the intricate design evoking the flowing grace of dragon wings and the layered precision of a dragon’s hide. Despite its imposing appearance, the armour shifted effortlessly with his every move, a perfect blend of unyielding defence and agile functionality. Strapped securely to his back was a massive metal halberd, its polished surface glinting faintly in the light—a weapon as formidable as the warrior who wielded it.
Rowan’s expression tightened, yet a glimmer of understanding softened his gaze. “I understand your hesitations,” he said, his voice steady but pleading, “but we don’t have the luxury of time. Please, I beg of you all—I will reward each of you handsomely.” Then, in a gesture that left the room silent, the young king bowed low before them.
Immediately, the elder mages stepped forward, urging him to rise, but the gravity of his appeal had already left an impression on the champions.
“The first step to reclaiming Helia lies in a mission,” Rowan continued, standing tall once more. “A village on our kingdom’s edge is under siege by a bandit lord, exploiting our weakness. People are dying.”
Caelus felt a rush of adrenaline at the thought. “Defending a village,” he echoed, the words igniting a fire within him. This was an opportunity—a chance to forge a new path, one that aligned with the instincts swirling in his gut.
“Prepare yourselves,” Rowan urged, a spark of determination igniting in his eyes. “We leave at dawn. Gather supplies, assess your abilities, and let us show Helia that you all are the champions it needs.”
“We?” a soft-spoken voice questioned, drawing Caelus’s attention. The speaker’s expression was gentle, his deep green eyes calm yet tinged with sorrow, hinting at both wisdom and a profound inner weight. This was Magnus—a tall, slender figure with hair the colour of fresh ivy, cascading like living vines that seemed almost to breathe, twisting and shifting as though in sync with some unseen natural rhythm. His ears mirrored Seraph’s, long and tapered to a fine point.
Magnus stepped forward with graceful poise, his flowing robes enhancing his ethereal presence. His skin was pale, almost translucent, untouched by the sun’s harshness, lending him an otherworldly air. He carried an ancient staff made of gnarled wood, symbols etched along its length. Small orbs hovered near the top, glowing faintly, casting a soft light that added to his aura of quiet, mystical power.
Rowan stepped forward, his gaze steady, but his voice heavy with a quiet desperation. “I am committed to helping my people in every way I can,” he said, his tone unwavering. “My knights are spent, worn thin from battle after battle. Only a handful remain fit to fight.” His eyes moved across the champions, pleading yet resolute. “I told you before—you are Helia’s only hope. Please, I beg of you, stand with me.”
As Rowan spoke, Caelus felt a mix of emotions stir within him. A part of him bristled, still resentful at being torn from the life he’d known and thrown into this strange world. But as he studied Rowan’s face—so young, yet etched with the weight of responsibility—he couldn’t deny the sincerity in the king’s words. Helia's plight, the curse of this dark magician, felt like more than just a plea; it was a call to something he had never truly considered—a purpose.
A silence settled over the room as the champions exchanged glances, reading the sincerity in Rowan’s words. Slowly, it became clear to them: this young and inexperienced king truly cared for his people. They could see that he was willing to risk himself for their cause, standing at the front lines if he had to. And though doubts lingered, Rowan’s conviction cast a spark of resolve among them—a shared understanding that perhaps, just perhaps, they could trust him.
Finally, Elira, towering over the others with a powerful, muscular build, smirked as she spoke. “Finally, something interesting!” She pushed herself up, using her massive kite-shaped shield for support, the weight of it barely a strain for her. Her long and messy layered red hair fell forward, framing her face as she gave an eager grin.
Her features were strong and sharp, marked by a few faded scars on her cheek and brow—remnants of countless battles. Elira's skin bore a deep tan, marked by scars, each one a testament to the life she had fought through under sun and steel. Piercing amber eyes radiated fierce resolve and an unwavering protective spirit. She was clad in gleaming silver and gold-plated armour, intricately engraved with Helian symbols of protection and honour. Both majestic and practical, her armour was designed to inspire allies and intimidate foes alike. “Give me a fight! Bring me a challenge!”
Riven sighed, casting her a sideways glance. “She’s way too excited for this,” she muttered, though a small glint in her eye betrayed a hint of curiosity. After a pause, she added with a resigned shrug, “But… I guess it’s worth a shot.”
King Rowan took a step forward, gratitude and resolve evident in his expression. “Thank you, all of you. If you have questions, don’t hesitate to ask. I can also tell you more about the individuals whose bodies you now inhabit. I may not have known them personally, but I’ve studied their histories, and I can provide insight that may help.”
Naturally, questions filled everyone’s minds.
Why was I chosen to reincarnate? Am I going to die again doing this? Do I have to live in this body forever? Do I have abilities? Can we just get to the fighting already? Why do I look like a lizard?
Each question hung in the air, unspoken yet palpable, a mix of hope, fear, and impatience flashing across their faces. The champions exchanged glances, uncertainty giving way to determination. Whatever awaited them, they would face it together—strangers bound by fate, ready to reclaim a broken kingdom.