image [https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/53963988262_42e5c5d041_m.jpg]Map of Escia, forever known.

3.9 billion years later.

In Escia, Virtue comes from a reincarnation cycle. Knowledge and virtue energies pass from one life to another whenever one ends, and another begins. If your ancestor happened to be powerful, you are fortunate to be born powerful, too. Wars have been fought in the past in an attempt to shift knowledge from one nation to another. By killing influential people in one country and making sure there are many births in another, the chances of reincarnation of powerful souls are higher in the latter.

Some seek to break this inheritance cycle to protect the world against the spread of mishappen, but some claim they're doing it to prevent their secrets from falling into the wrong hands.

Expert from the ‘Virtue Outlaw’ Written by King Arcrelm. In the year 1142.

The snow was heavy. It wasn't too high; it was simply heavy. Walking through it was a burden; all 5000 soldiers in heavy armor knew that. Most people here were already hesitant to go in the first place, considering they were going to a place with the dreaded title of the ‘Land Of No Return.’ Despite this, the king of Azesh racked up many of the most elite soldiers in the country to make this expedition.

The king, who was wearing a long, red and gold cloak, was clean-shaven and had short white hair. His eyes were brown, and he was a tall, stout man in his late thirty’s. Atop his head was a golden crown, beginning to turn white through all the snow.

Next to him was an even taller man with wrinkly brown skin, brown hair cut off by his forehead, and absurdly round ears. If you were to pull on them, they were sure to make a funny sound. This man was certainly not the same race as the king. He was wearing gold armor, layers of gold covering his chest; This material alone could change a poor man's life for the better.

The two were surrounded by knights, all wearing the same rusty iron armor. They marched through the heavy snowstorm, surrounding the king from every corner and side. These men were professionals, and the king thought so as well.

“King Arcrelm, sir.” Said the dark-skinned man, his round ears collecting some flaky snow as he would swiftly brush it away. “Yes, Braffolk?” Said the king, his cloak trudging through the large amounts of snow.

“It’s been two days since we’ve left Azesh. As we speak, many men are hungry, cold, and suffering. Is it truly okay to blindly trust a letter we received? The risk here is far greater than the reward.” Said Braffolk, resisting the urge not to shiver his body through his golden plates.

The king would squint. Was it to think or to get the snow out of his eyes? Nobody knew. “I agree. But these lands… These lands are ancient, Braffolk. Not a single soul has traversed through the lands of no return and returned. But I’m not just a king. I’m an explorer—a sightseer. If I can meet the king of this land and strike peace, the Sibland empire will grow twice as much. And Azesh will finally get on its knees again.”

The brown-skinned man would know. Is he insane? This could be a trap for all we know… Don’t tell me he plans to... The man thought. Sure, he was good with politics and managing Azesh, but when it came to curiosity…Well, it was a blessing he hadn’t been captured, or far worse. The men eventually all stopped. Arcrelm would continue walking, staring ahead to see a large castle.

The men stepped aside one by one. The king and his right-hand man emerged from the ring of soldiers, staring directly at the large castle. “It’s magnificent!” said the crowned man, his smile letting snowflakes fall directly on his teeth. Braffolk was still clearly hesitant, but he knew his king's wishes were above all.

“Shall we go, Your Majesty?” Said Braffolk, staring at the man in charge. The king ponders momentarily, his eyes telling of all kinds of ideas. Braffolk knew something was wrong here but couldn’t pinpoint it. “Your majesty?” Repeated the man. The king snapping out of his trance and looking at the man.

“You go on ahead; take all 5000 men with you. I’ll be waiting outside.” “But sir.” “That’s an order, Braffolk.” The king interrupted. The dark-skinned man would stare at the snowy ground and, with a reluctant sigh, would make an oval-like hand gesture. The guards all marched one by one into the sizeable, snowy castle. Braffolk followed all of them. Meanwhile… The king smiled deviously.

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The interior of the castle was grand in both scope and design. A large red carpet spanned the entire entrance flooring, with a throne at the front and a large, rectangular table. The men stood at all sides near the entrance, with Braffolk walking in front and looking around. He knew something was wrong here—and before he could form a hypothesis, everything shifted.

The floor was no longer the floor. Braffolk saw himself looking down- no, falling. His brain quickly processed what was happening, and he touched the large metal table that was also falling. The table flipped the other way beneath Braffolk as he rode it down, using it to break his fall. He watched as the other 5000 men fell, bones snapping and skulls cracking as the floor became the ceiling and the ceiling became the floor.

Few men survived it. And for the ones who did survive, they were on the ground, crying or grunting from the quick plunge. Braffolk knew precisely what was happening. This was the work of a Virthi. The dark-skinned man stood on the table, 5000 dead, broken men lying next to him on the ceiling and table. He narrowed his eyes, not seeing a source. “Come out, Virthi!”

Braffolk would yell. Seconds later, a large, pale-skinned brute emerged from behind the flipped-over throne. His beard was orange, reaching down to his shirtless, well-defined, muscular chest. He was bald, had a blacker shade of eyes, and wore brown pants that any poor beggar or thief would typically wear. His shows were green, curling near the end like an elf. The man was grinning all too much for someone who just murdered thousands of people. “I knew it! You are a Virthi!... HELL YEAHHHHHHHH!!!!” Screamed the large, shirtless man. Braffolk would sigh, stepping down from the table.

“That would be correct. I am a Virthi, contracted by my king to protect and serve the country of Azesh. You have committed a grave mistake… Killing all these men. I must put you down.” Said Braffolk, touching the metal for a moment. He then grinned. This man… is powerful. To merely touch the floor and completely flip it with the ceiling… It reminds me of him.

“Let’s do this then!!” Screamed the man, grabbing his large iron throne as it quickly gets reduced to particles, transforming into an iron ball attached to a chain. The man smiled ear to ear and dashed towards Braffolk at incredible speeds. Braffolk stepped back, nearly tripping on a nearby soilder, and pulled out a large golden sword from back. The two clashed weapons, and a clanging sound echoes throughout the large, empty castle.

The shirtless man would swing his arm over, touching the gold plates on Braffolk's armor as it disappeared, turning into a golden fist used by the brute to land a deadly right hook towards the dark-skinned man. Braffolk gets lunged back so hard that he flies into the wall near the entrance. He coughs, feeling his mind-numbing, as he struggles to open his eyes.

“THAT ALL YA GOT??!!!!” Screamed the Virthi, running over and preparing another blow with the golden fisticuff. Braffolk, mind still dazed, instinctively touched a nearby dead soldier, his body dispersing and transforming into a human wall that appeared right in front of Braffolk. The golden fist punches a precise hole through the flesh shield. Braffolk would finally snap out of it, his breath heavy as he touched the wall behind him.

The wall becomes the floor, standing as he leaps off it and twirls his golden sword. The brute looks up, not quick enough, as the sword connects with his face, barely missing the contents of his eye. The big man shouts in pain, grabbing his cut face. With one swift dash, Braffolk wastes no time and closes the distance between the two, thrusting his golden sword into the man's shoulder.

He grunts again. Swinging the iron ball over, as it hits Braffolk in the side of the hip. His mouth opens as if to scream, but nothing comes out. He gets flung again, landing back on the metal table. He was seeing double now, and his legs felt numb. He knew this wasn't good. Pulling the golden sword out of his shoulder with a quick pant, the brute would throw it backward, whereas Braffolk wouldn't be able to get it back.

He rushes over again, jumping up as he tries to slam the ball onto Braffolk. With hazy vision and missing teeth, the dark-skinned man would touch the metal table from underneath him; it transforms into a large shield, and the ball dents it slightly, bouncing off. The brute lands, grabbing the shield and stabbing Braffolk in the stomach with the bottom end of it. Braffolk opens his mouth to scream, but again, no sound comes out. Only spit and blood.

Braffolk tried to move the shield away, but his strength gave out. The large man standing over him pushes the shield deeper into the man's stomach, blood splurging out as a scream finally surfaces. He yanks the shield from Braffolk’s stomach, throwing it away.

“You put up a good fight lad… I’ll give it to ya.” He would say, wiping blood from the spot Braffolk sliced him.

“You… Who the fuck are you…?” Said Braffolk in between breaths. “Name’s Gadolt. As for what this is, you should know. The king set you up.” Braffolk’s eyes would widen. No… There's no way he would do such a thing. Then this means…!

“I can see it in your eyes. Betrayal. Tough feeling. But your suspicions are correct… You are just an extra—a stepping stone for a much bigger piece here. The king plans to reincarnate you.” Braffolk would breathe heavily, realizing what was going on. His life, everything he currently lived for… It was about to end. And for what? Was it meaningless?

“Don’t give me that look.” Gadolt would touch Braffolk's golden chest plate, transforming some into a small golden dagger that he would hoist right above the man's neck. “The king is having a child soon. Tonight, as a matter of effect. He wants a strong one… One birthed with knowledge of Virtue. No hard feelings, lad… But it was all rigged from the start.”

Gadolt smiles widely, swinging the knife down as it connects with Braffolks throat. Braffolk would choke on his blood as it poured out rapidly, creating a small pool of it right beneath his head. Gadolt would sigh, looking at the castle full of dead bodies and the man who was tricked in the middle—a look of regret and betrayal on Braffolks pale face. Gadolt would leave the castle.

That night… A child was born.