The horizon stretched wide and unbroken before Jannet, the golden grasses of the plains rippling like waves under the touch of a steady wind. His senses were alert, honed to the unfamiliar weight of the system’s urgency. The ping had been vague, offering no clear direction or insight, yet its resonance lingered in his mind like the fading echo of a predator’s roar. Whatever anomaly the system had identified was out here, waiting to be found. He knew he couldn’t waste time.
His human companions were far behind, their two-legged gait ill-suited to the Sovereign’s speed. He had left them without hesitation, his massive claws digging into the soft earth as he surged forward in a blur of motion. The air whipped past him, the scents of the plains mingling into a chaotic medley that sharpened his focus. The humans would catch up eventually—if there was still a place for them to catch up to.
It was nearly an hour before Jannet saw it: a dark smear against the pale horizon. At first, it resembled the smoke of a distant campfire, the wisps twisting and writhing unnaturally in the windless air. Yet something about its motion set his scales on edge, the way it swirled and dipped with an organic chaos that no flame could mimic. He slowed his pace, his golden eyes narrowing as he crept closer.
When the scene came into full view, Jannet froze. Before him lay a massive Stoneplate Bison, its corpse sprawled across the ground in grotesque defiance of its once-proud stature. The beast had been the apex of its kind—a bull of unparalleled size and strength, its hide thick with natural armor that even seasoned hunters would have struggled to pierce. Yet now it was lifeless, its body skewered by jagged black growths that erupted from its flesh like grotesque sculptures.
The black smoke, he realized, was no smoke at all. It was a swarm—millions of tiny beetle-like creatures, their carapaces darker than the void, their movements so frenetic they created the illusion of flowing air. They swarmed in and out of the bison’s body, a steady tide of activity that made Jannet’s scales itch. Some returned to the corpse swollen and bloated, their abdomens glowing with a sickly blue light, while others emerged darker and sleeker, their movements purposeful as they spread outward into the withering plains.
The land around the bison was already dying. The grass was shriveled and brown, the soil cracked and dry as though it had been drained of life itself. Tendrils of a viscous black substance—neither plant nor root—snaked out from the corpse, burrowing into the earth with an almost deliberate malice. They pulsed faintly, a grotesque mimicry of veins carrying corrupted lifeblood.
Jannet stepped closer, his claws digging into the brittle ground as he scanned the scene with a Sovereign’s predatory caution. The bison’s body twitched sporadically, the remnants of its nervous system jerking under the control of whatever abomination had overtaken it. The black growths that pierced its flesh weren’t random; they formed a pattern, a grotesque symmetry that suggested a deliberate structure. As Jannet circled the corpse, he realized with growing unease that the growths were shaping themselves into something akin to architecture—a mockery of towers and spires erupting from the ruin of the bison’s body.
The system’s warning had spoken of regional collapse, and now Jannet understood why. The swarm wasn’t merely feeding—it was transforming the land, consuming it and twisting it into something unrecognizable. The plains were being rewritten, reshaped into the image of whatever force drove this infestation. If left unchecked, it wouldn’t stop here. It would spread, devouring everything in its path.
Jannet extended his claws, his instincts urging caution even as his Sovereign nature demanded action. He attempted to identify the anomaly with his ring, focusing its arcane energies on the grotesque scene. The results were immediate—and jarring.
The ring’s glow faltered, its usual steady hum replaced by a distorted whine that grated against Jannet’s senses. The identification attempt failed, the magic’s output a garbled mess of symbols and fragmented text. Worse, a sudden backlash rippled through Jannet’s body, draining a sliver of his mana and leaving a faint but unmistakable ache in its wake.
300/400 MP
Jannet growled low in his throat, his tail lashing against the ground. The magic itself was struggling to comprehend what he faced, and that alone was enough to set his nerves on edge. This was no natural anomaly. Whatever this hive-core monstrosity was, it operated outside the boundaries of his magic’s knowledge—a terrifying prospect in a world so tightly bound to its rules.
His golden eyes flicked to the faint trail leading away from the bison’s corpse. The massive creature had walked here, its path evident in the trampled grass and disturbed soil. The tracks pointed toward Daunturia, their direction clear even amid the withering landscape. Jannet’s mind raced. If this infestation had reached the outskirts of the capital, the consequences could be catastrophic. The city, with its dense population and intricate infrastructure, would be an ideal target for whatever force drove this corruption.
Yet even as he contemplated the broader implications, Jannet’s attention was drawn back to the immediate threat. The swarm was growing bolder, its movements more erratic as the hive-core pulsed with a wriggling vibrancy that was almost hypnotic. The blue-glowing beetles returned in greater numbers, their payloads fueling the grotesque growths that spread outward with palpable urgency. The tendrils writhed like living things, their progress slow but relentless as they consumed everything in their path.
Jannet’s claws flexed, his body tensing as he weighed his options. The humans would arrive soon, their slower pace ensuring they were still minutes away. But by then, the situation could escalate further. The hive-core’s growth was accelerating, its influence spreading like a cancer across the plains. Jannet doubted the humans would be able to reach him before the corruption claimed more ground—or worse, before it reached them first.
He bared his teeth in a silent snarl, the Sovereign instincts that had guided him through countless battles roaring for decisive action. Yet a part of him hesitated, the nagging uncertainty of facing an enemy so far outside his experience. He had dealt with predators, armies, and rival Sovereigns, but this… this was something else entirely.
The writhing mass of beetles surged suddenly, the motion drawing Jannet’s attention back to the hive-core. The bison’s bloated corpse shuddered violently, its limbs jerking as though animated by invisible strings. The grotesque spires that erupted from its body glowed faintly, their surfaces slick with the same viscous substance that seeped from the tendrils below. A sound reached Jannet’s ears—a low, guttural hum that seemed to resonate from within the core itself, vibrating through the air like the distant growl of an oncoming storm.
Jannet stepped back, his tail lashing as his body coiled in preparation for whatever came next. He could feel the weight of the system’s gaze upon him, its urgency mingling with his own rising tension. The anomaly was growing, evolving before his eyes. And as the hum deepened, reverberating through the withering plains, Jannet realized one chilling truth.
This was only the beginning.
The hum reached a crescendo, a bone-rattling vibration that seemed to pulse through the very fabric of the air. Jannet watched in horrified fascination as the grotesque growths that had impaled the Stoneplate Bison began to shift and transform. What had once been a massive corpse twisted and morphed, its decayed flesh and blackened bone merging with the jagged spires that had erupted from its body. The result was a horrifyingly ornate structure—part temple, part hive—rising from the corpse like a macabre monument.
The centerpiece of this unholy pagoda was a malformed bowl growing out of what had once been the bison’s skull. The object gleamed with an unnatural sheen, its surface etched with alien patterns that seemed to writhe and shift when observed too closely. Jannet’s golden eyes narrowed as he watched the swarm of beetles move with eerie coordination, pouring into the pagoda and crawling up its grotesque surfaces to deposit their glowing blue payloads into the bowl.
The bowl’s liquid contents pulsed with light, each drop added by the beetles deepening its ethereal glow. The liquid churned unnaturally
Whatever this was—whatever it was becoming—it was wrong on every level. The very sight of it set his instincts screaming, an alien sense of dread that clawed at the edges of his Sovereign composure.
He couldn’t wait for the humans. This had to end now.
Jannet surged forward, his claws digging into the brittle, withering ground as he charged the pagoda. His tail lashed behind him, the sheer force of his movement kicking up a cloud of dust and debris. The swarm responded immediately, the black beetles shifting from their hive-like activity to a coordinated defense. They poured out of the structure in a wave, their dark forms blurring into what looked like tendrils of smoke as they streaked toward Jannet.
He struck first, his claws raking through the mass of beetles with the force of a battering ram. The swarm exploded outward in a puff of black smoke, the beetles disintegrating on impact. For a brief moment, it seemed as though he had the upper hand.
But the swarm was relentless. The black smoke reformed almost instantly, the shattered beetles knitting themselves back together and surging forward again. Jannet lashed out with his tail, a sweeping motion that cleared another swath of the swarm, but the numbers were overwhelming. They pressed in from all sides, their movements like an endless tide.
The first bite came as a faint itch against his scales, almost imperceptible. Then another, and another, until the sensation grew into a maddening swarm of invisible teeth gnawing at him. Jannet snarled, twisting and rolling to dislodge the swarm, but the beetles were ethereal, their bites sapping not his flesh but his mana.
For the first time since arriving in this world, Jannet felt truly helpless. His mana dropped rapidly, the swarm’s attacks draining it at an alarming rate. He had never needed to rely on his mana before; his sheer physical strength and Sovereign authority had always been enough. But now, as the swarm fed on him with impunity, he realized how unprepared he was for an enemy that defied the rules he understood.
The black tendrils of the swarm wrapped around his limbs, their movements fluid and insidious. Jannet roared, his claws raking at the ground as he tried to break free, but the swarm was too coordinated, too persistent. His mana ticked to zero, and with it came a sense of dread he had never experienced before.
And then the system pinged.
System Notification: Level Decrease.
Level 13 → Level 12.
Jannet froze, his golden eyes widening in shock. De-leveling. The concept was almost unthinkable, a reversal of the progression that defined life in this system-bound world. He felt the loss immediately, an intangible weakening that sent his thoughts spiraling. What would happen if he reached level 1? Or worse—if he hit zero?
Another ping.
System Notification: Level Decrease.
Level 12 → Level 11.
The swarm intensified, their ethereal bites driving deeper into his essence as the level drain continued. Jannet’s mind raced, his instincts screaming at him to retreat, but the swarm was relentless. They clung to him like a living shadow, their presence an all-consuming force that left no room for escape.
He thrashed wildly, his claws carving deep furrows into the ground as he fought against the tide. His tail lashed out, smashing into the pagoda with enough force to crack its grotesque surface, but even that wasn’t enough to stem the swarm. The beetles swirled around him, reforming as quickly as he could destroy them, their dark bodies a mockery of his strength.
Jannet’s breath came in ragged gasps, his golden eyes darting toward the glowing bowl at the center of the pagoda. It pulsed with a malevolent energy, its contents shimmering with an unnatural light that seemed to grow brighter with every passing moment. The bowl was the key—he could feel it. But getting to it was impossible with the swarm tearing him apart.
Another ping.
System Notification: Level Decrease.
Level 11 → Level 10.
The realization hit him like a thunderclap. He was losing. For the first time since becoming a Sovereign, Jannet faced the stark reality of his own mortality. He had grown overconfident in his youth. This was a force that cared nothing for his strength, his authority, or his Sovereign pride.
He roared again, a sound of pure defiance that echoed across the withering plains. His claws struck out blindly, tearing through the swarm even as it reformed around him. The black smoke seemed to laugh at his efforts, its tendrils tightening like a noose
He had miscalculated. For the first time, his Sovereign instincts had led him astray. And now, the cost of his arrogance loomed before him like the maw of the abyss.
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The party ran as fast as their legs could carry them across the endless expanse of the plains, the golden grasses whipping at their boots as they struggled to keep Jannet in sight. The Sovereign had bolted without warning, his massive, muscled frame disappearing into the distance with a speed none of them could match. It wasn’t like him to leave them behind—not without a word, not without a plan. And that worried them more than anything.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“He’s never done this before,” Toren muttered between breaths, his twin daggers bouncing against his thighs as he kept pace with Gerrin. “What’s gotten into him?”
“Maybe he saw something,” Gerrin replied, his voice tight with exertion. “Something big enough to make even him panic.”
“That’s not panic,” Leth interjected from just behind them, her breath hitching as she struggled to keep up. “It’s Jannet. He doesn’t panic. He’s… protective. This has to be about something dangerous, something that could hurt us—or worse, someone else? He has done alot of work to endure himself to us recently why abandon the work now. And what's this about a quest?”
Fialla, running just ahead, clenched her staff tightly, her face set in determination. “That’s why we can’t waste time speculating. If The Sovereign is doing this, it’s for a reason. And we need to catch up before he gets himself into trouble.”
The group fell silent, their shared worry spurring them onward despite the growing ache in their muscles and the burn in their lungs. Fialla’s gaze flicked ahead, catching the faint silhouette of Jannet’s massive form as it darted over a distant rise. Her mind raced alongside her pounding heart. She had always respected the Sovereign’s restraint; for all his immense power, he had never used it to bully or dominate. His confidence had a purpose—it was always tied to the safety of others. And now, that same confidence had driven him to act alone.
“I have an idea,” Fialla said abruptly, her voice cutting through the sound of their footfalls. She slowed her pace slightly, allowing the others to draw closer. “It’s risky, but it might help us catch up.”
“What is it?” Gerrin asked, his greatsword clinking against his back as he ran.
Fialla held up her staff, its faintly glowing crystal tip sparking with potential energy. “I picked up a new spell after our last hunt. It’s a haste enchantment. If I channel my mana into it, I can boost our speed. But it won’t last forever—maybe an hour, hour and a half if I push myself.”
Leth looked at her, concern flashing across her face. “And what about you? If you burn through your mana, you’ll be defenseless when we get there.”
Fialla shrugged, her expression resolute. “It won’t matter if we don’t get there in time. The Sovereign is strong, but if he’s rushed off like this, it means he’s fighting something he doesn’t think he can handle alone.”
The group exchanged glances, their shared worry tipping the scales of the decision.
“Do it,” Gerrin said, his voice steady. “We’ll deal with the consequences later.”
Fialla nodded, planting her staff into the ground as she slowed her stride to a halt. The crystal tip flared with a brilliant light as she began to chant, her words resonating with arcane power. A ripple of energy spread outward, enveloping the group in a shimmering aura that tingled against their skin. Almost immediately, they felt the effects—muscles lightened, strides lengthened, and their pace quickened to an almost supernatural speed.
“Go!” Fialla shouted, her voice strained with the effort of maintaining the spell. The group surged forward, the plains blurring around them as they raced to close the distance.
Nearly an hour later, the party crested a rise and came to an abrupt halt, their collective breaths catching in their throats at the sight before them.
Jannet stood at the center of a withering field, his massive frame battered and gaunt, his scales duller than they had ever seen. He moved sluggishly compared to his usual fluid grace, his tail whipping out to knock away an encroaching wave of black beetles. The air around him shimmered with an unnatural haze, and the ground at his feet was riddled with writhing, pulsing growths that seemed to sap the very life from the earth.
“Gods,” Toren whispered, his usual bravado replaced with stunned awe. “What the hell is happening?”
The beetles swarmed Jannet relentlessly, their dark forms reforming from black smoke each time he struck them down. His claws raked through the swarm, but it was clear he was losing ground. For every beetle he crushed, another took its place, and his once-imposing figure looked dangerously close to collapsing.
“We have to help him!” Leth cried, breaking into a run toward the embattled Sovereign.
“Wait—Leth!” Gerrin shouted, but the healer didn’t stop. She sprinted into the fray, her hands glowing with radiant light as she chanted a prayer to the gods.
A brilliant aura erupted around her as she reached Jannet, the light flaring outward in a wave that sent the beetles scattering. The swarm hissed and recoiled, their dark forms writhing as the holy light bathed the area in its cleansing glow. Leth fell to her knees beside Jannet, her face pale with exertion as she continued her chant, the aura of light flickering as she strained to maintain it.
Jannet turned his golden eyes toward her, his voice a hoarse rumble. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“We’re not leaving you!” Leth shot back, her tone fierce despite her obvious exhaustion. “We can do this—together.”
The rest of the party joined them moments later, weapons drawn and expressions grim. Gerrin planted himself beside Jannet, his greatsword at the ready, while Toren flitted around the edges of the swarm, his daggers flashing as he tested their defenses. Fialla stood at the rear, her staff glowing as she prepared another spell.
“Whatever this is,” Gerrin growled, his eyes narrowing at the grotesque growths spreading across the field, “we have to end it now.”
Jannet straightened, his massive frame trembling but steadying as he drew on the last reserves of his strength. “That,” he said, nodding toward the grotesque pagoda rising from the corpse of the bison, “is the source. We destroy it, or this spreads.”
Leth’s voice wavered as she glanced at him, her chant faltering for a moment. “I—I can hold them back,” she said, her tone uncertain. “But not for long.”
Jannet met her gaze, his expression grim. “Then hold as long as you can. We end this here.”
The group exchanged determined nods, their bond solidified in the face of the growing nightmare. Together, they turned their focus to the grotesque structure, its pulsing, writhing form a blight against the horizon. The fight was far from over, but for the first time, Jannet felt a flicker of hope.
They would fight. Together. And they would win—or die trying.
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Rys reclined in his private quarters within the adventurer’s guild, an enigmatic smile playing on his lips. The dim light from an enchanted crystal cast flickering shadows across the room, reflecting the eerie void-like blackness that seemed to shimmer in his eyes whenever he concentrated on his magic. His plan was proceeding perfectly, a dance of manipulation and precision that even the most cynical of Cathain’s officials would have struggled to detect.
Humans were so eager to embrace a "good Void Mage" when it suited their needs. The use of void-based spatial magic for storage items, teleportation arrays, and the occasional planar stabilization was too valuable to dismiss outright. Void Mages like Rys were rare, but they were not entirely unheard of. Those who dabbled in the void walked a fine line between utility and destruction, always teetering on the edge of what society deemed acceptable. Rys had mastered the art of appearing trustworthy, even heroic. His affiliations with the cult—the Voidbound, as his people called themselves—remained buried beneath layers of subterfuge.
But the truth was much darker.
The Cult of the Unbound Void, or the Systembreakers as the rare outsider might call them, had been active for centuries. They operated in shadows, orchestrating their long game across the continent. Rys had been born into this life, his bloodline tracing directly to the northern elders of the Voidbound. His mother, a high-ranking member of the clan, had ensured he understood his duty from a young age. His task was a vital piece of the greater plan: to take the cult’s “great work” and spread it. The reward for his efforts would be a Font of Destruction Essence, a resource so potent that it could allow him to cultivate his system-breaking abilities to their apex.
His assignment had brought him south, far from the northern strongholds of the cult. Here, amidst the sprawling lands of Cathain and its human kingdoms, he had carefully inserted himself into a team of heroes. It had been surprisingly easy. The team, desperate for a spatial mage to assist with their quests, had welcomed him with open arms, too focused on their immediate needs to question his background deeply.
That naivety had allowed Rys to introduce a seedling of the great work. The one transported on the back of the great beast they had “felled” months before.
The bull had been his masterpiece. A massive Stoneplate Bison, formidable even by the standards of plains beasts, had been the perfect vessel for the cult’s seed. The work needed a living host—something with strength, resilience, and the capacity to carry it far. Rys had tricked the Cathain heroes into engaging the bison, allowing him to infuse the seed during the chaos of battle. The essence of void magic and corruption had taken root within the creature, weaving through its system, twisting its form, and binding it to the cult’s design.
The bull, now a carrier of the work, had charged off as Rys had planned. The work would compel it toward a leyline font, a critical node of power beneath the plains that would allow the seed to root itself and grow. Once anchored, the font would begin to cultivate destruction essence, a slow but unstoppable process that would spread the Voidbound’s influence across the region. This was only the first step. Rys planned to introduce more seeds in other key locations, each one drawing strength from the system’s leyline network until the work reached critical mass.
Rys leaned back in his chair, his fingers tracing lazy patterns in the air as he summoned a small wisp of void energy. The inky tendril writhed and twisted, obeying his silent commands. His connection to the void was growing stronger with every success, his reward tantalizingly close.
He thought back to the battle with the bison, how easily the heroes had fallen into his trap they had not even noticed Rys weaving his magic. The others had been equally oblivious, too preoccupied with surviving the winter than to deal with the consequences of a rampaging bull.
It had been laughably easy to explain the bull’s strange behavior afterward. “The void is unpredictable,” he had said, feigning concern as the bison fled into the distance. “Perhaps its connection to the leyline font made it more attuned to void magic. We’ll need to investigate further.”
The heroes had accepted his explanation without question. Why wouldn’t they? Rys had spent months cultivating their trust, playing the role of the selfless mage who only wanted to help. They saw him as an asset, a reliable comrade. They never suspected that every word he spoke was a carefully constructed lie.
As far as Rys knew, the seed was well on its way to anchoring itself. The bull would have reached the leyline by now, its corrupted system feeding the growth of the font. Soon, the great work would begin to transform the area, spreading its influence like a creeping shadow. Rys imagined the chaos it would unleash: the withering of the land, the mutation of creatures, the destabilization of the system itself. And amidst the destruction, he would stand triumphant, the harbinger of a new era.
He allowed himself a small smile. The Cathain heroes might call him a friend, but they would soon learn the truth. Rys didn’t care for their petty ideals or their fragile alliances. He served a greater purpose, one that transcended their understanding.
The Voidbound’s elders would be pleased. And Rys? He would bask in the rewards of his success, his name etched into the annals of the cult’s history as the one who brought their work to fruition in the south.
Rys allowed himself to savor the thought as he leaned back, fingers absently tracing patterns in the void energy swirling before him. The void was pure potential, untethered by the constraints of the Divine Mandate—that invisible force that shackled even the gods to the rules of the system. The Voidbound, unlike the rest of the world, saw the system not as a divine gift but as a prison. Rys had grown up hearing tales of what lay beyond, whispered accounts of reality unbound by levels, stats, or classes. A chaotic, limitless expanse where true freedom could be found.
And with the cultivation of destruction essence, Rys would step closer to that freedom.
The Font of Destruction Essence was no mere tool; it was a gateway. When the seed anchored itself and the font fully matured, Rys would gain access to a reservoir of energy that defied system categorization. It would be a power unrecognized by the established rules, slipping through the cracks of the system’s rigid frameworks like water through a sieve. With it, Rys would cultivate abilities the likes of which no mage—no mortal—had ever wielded.
He dreamed of what those abilities might entail. Already, his connection to the void granted him a unique affinity for spatial magic, but the font would amplify that a hundredfold. He imagined himself ripping the very fabric of reality apart, opening pathways to dimensions untouched by mortal eyes. He could sever enemies from existence entirely, casting them into the void where they would be unmade.
And the drain, of course, would become his signature. Draining was the void’s nature: it consumed, absorbed, and repurposed. With the power of the font, Rys could turn the very essence of his enemies into fuel. He envisioned siphoning health, mana, and vitality with a mere touch, reducing even the most formidable foes to withered husks while he grew ever stronger. Why bother with healing magic when he could simply steal the life force of others to mend himself?
But the true prize lay in the system-breaking abilities the font promised to unlock. The Divine Mandate dictated the system’s rules, ensuring balance across all races, classes, and abilities. Even gods were bound by its intricate web, their actions constrained within its parameters. Yet the void operated outside of those bounds, a realm of raw chaos that the system could not fully grasp.
Rys had heard whispers of what system-breaking entailed—abilities that warped reality itself, rewriting the rules of existence to suit the wielder’s will. He imagined wielding cheat skills that bent probability, ensuring every attack landed with devastating precision or deflecting even the deadliest blows. He could rewrite cause and effect, making his enemies’ most powerful abilities backfire catastrophically.
Time and space would become playthings in his hands. With the void as his ally, he could freeze entire battlefields, manipulate gravity, or rewind moments to undo his enemies’ victories. The system would not recognize him as an anomaly—it would struggle to recognize him at all.
Yet Rys also knew the risks. The cult spoke of system-breaking with reverence and caution. The Divine Mandate was not merely a set of rules; it was a force of balance. To break it was to invite chaos, and chaos often carried unforeseen consequences. What would happen when the system no longer recognized him? Would it erase him, unable to categorize his existence? Or would he ascend beyond mortality entirely, becoming something the system could not touch?
The thought sent a shiver down his spine, equal parts terror and exhilaration.
For now, those questions were far in the future. The seed had been planted, the font was beginning to take root, and his task was proceeding exactly as planned. The elders would reward him for his success, granting him access to the deeper secrets of the cult. He would learn the rituals to summon additional seeds, spreading the great work across the land. Each seed would cultivate another font, and with each font, his power would grow exponentially.
Rys smiled to himself, his eyes glinting with ambition. The Cathain heroes thought they had recruited an ally, a tool to aid them in their noble quest. In truth, they were pawns in a game far larger than they could comprehend. When the time came, Rys would discard them as easily as a mage dismissing a spent spell. They would be nothing more than fuel for the font, their essence drained to feed his growing power.
And then? Then, he would show the world what it meant to be unbound.
Rys closed his hand, extinguishing the tendril of void energy before him. The shadows in the room seemed to ripple in response, a faint echo of the chaos that awaited. For now, he would play his role, biding his time until the font matured. But the day was coming—he could feel it in his very core—when he would step beyond the system’s reach and take his place as a harbinger of the void.
Let the world cling to its rules, its balance, its fragile illusions of order. Rys would show them what lay beyond.
He would show them freedom.