The late Lord Koleson, a man whose name echoed through the ages, a hero forged in the fires of the devastating Voidborne Wars, stood as an anomaly amongst his noble peers. Despite holding the seemingly insignificant title of Lord of Kerrasuk, a region nestled within the vast expanse of the Aquiloran Empire, he was bestowed a Great Needle - an artifact of immeasurable power, a symbol of authority typically reserved for the most esteemed figures in the Empire.
These towering structures, marvels of ancient technology imbued with the collective belief of the populace, served as the cornerstones of civilization. They cleansed the land, purging it of the lingering contamination from bygone wars, ensuring a stable climate and fertile ground for generations to come.
They etched the Emperor's laws into the very fabric of reality, maintaining order and justice throughout the realm. And perhaps most remarkably, they wove an intricate network across the vast expanse of the Empire, facilitating instantaneous communication, access to the boundless knowledge of the Index Network, and even the seemingly impossible feat of spatial travel.
But the true power of a Great Needle lay not just in its technological prowess, but in its ability to amplify the will of its wielder, granting them near-omnipotence within their domain. This power, however, was contingent on a crucial factor: belief. The stronger the faith and awe a ruler inspired in their people, the more potent their Needle became, its power surging in direct proportion to the collective conviction it commanded.
Lord Koleson, a man of formidable presence, understood this principle intrinsically. He cultivated an aura of both reverence and fear, a potent combination that ensured the unwavering belief of his subjects, and in turn, the unyielding strength of his Needle. His very name invoked images of a stern, unyielding figure, a beacon of strength in a world often teetering on the brink of chaos.
However, Koleson's unexpected demise years ago shattered this delicate balance, plunging the Whydit family and their dominion into a slow decline. His children, consumed by their own ambitions and petty squabbles, neglected to nurture the legacy of their father, allowing the flame of belief to dwindle into a mere ember.
The Great Needle, starved of the faith that once fueled its might, fell into a state of dormancy, its power waning with each passing day, its once vibrant hum fading into an almost imperceptible whisper.
Galvas Heltrin Whydit, the current patriarch of the family, a man of sharp intellect and quiet determination, refused to let his lineage fade into obscurity. He recognized the urgent need to reawaken the slumbering power of their Great Needle, to restore the Whydit family to their former glory, to reclaim their place amongst the esteemed figures of the Empire.
His gaze fell upon the Ranking Festival, a time-honored tradition and grand spectacle that once drew crowds from across the realm to the heart of their domain. He envisioned the Festival as a catalyst, a vibrant display of skill and strength that would reignite the flames of belief and awe, breathing life back into their dormant Needle.
The roar of the crowds, the clash of steel, the awe-inspiring displays of power - all would serve to remind the people of the strength that lay dormant within their land, within their Needle, within the Whydit family.
At the heart of Kerrasuk's dominion lay its true center—a place of power and influence known as the Hearth, or by its formal name, Ile-Kerrasuk. This capital wasn't a single city but a vast archipelago, a collection of islands woven together by the sapphire waters of the surrounding sea.
Each island hosted a bustling port city, its harbors alive with activity. Ships of every size, from sleek merchant vessels to imposing warships, their sails billowing in the wind, crowded the grand piers of polished marble, their decks laden with goods from every corner of the Empire.
The air buzzed with the sounds of trade—merchants haggling in a dozen different languages, sailors shouting orders in gruff voices, the creak of wooden decks and the clang of loading chains—all mingling with the sharp, salty tang of the ocean, a constant reminder of the maritime commerce that sustained the realm.
From above, the islands presented a breathtaking view. Stone towers, adorned with intricate carvings and topped with gleaming spires, soared into the sky, their shadows dancing across the bustling streets below.
Ornate Korindts, their stained glass windows shimmering in the sunlight, offered respite from the clamor of the city, their serene interiors echoing with the soft murmur of prayers.
Grand arenas, their walls adorned with banners and trophies of past victories, echoed with the cheers of crowds, where skilled warriors and rankers clashed in tests of strength and skill.
Cradles, where the knowledge of weaving dreams and reflections where taught, stood like sentinels of learning, their halls filled with the eager minds of students, their libraries overflowing with knowledge.
The sleek, blue-hued buildings of modern architecture, adorned with intricate carvings and powered by the humming energy of the Great Needle, contrasted starkly with the weathered alabaster columns of ancient ruins scattered across the landscape, whispering stories of a long-lost age, a reminder of the ebb and flow of civilizations.
The deep blue waters encircling these islands acted as a mirror, enhancing the vibrant colors of the cities and casting a shimmering glow on their structures.
Among these islands, one stood larger and more imposing than the rest, its silhouette dominating the horizon. Cities lined its coasts, their lights, casting a warm glow across the water.
At its center lay a magnificent metropolis, its harbor a marvel of engineering, a testament to the skill and ambition of its people. Mighty piers of ancient alabaster, worn smooth by centuries of wind and wave, extended from the shore to the city's heart, forming a grand entryway for countless ships seeking refuge or trade.
Affectionately called the Hearth by its inhabitants, its actual name was Kolezeal.
Dominating the harbor, a colossal needle reached towards the sky, its surface glowing with an ethereal light that bathed the city below in a ghostly radiance.
This was the Wayfinder Needle, one of Emperor Hayazaki's many gifts to civilization, a beacon of technological advancement that connected Kerrasuk to the vast network of the Empire.
A marvel of ancient technology, it allowed for instantaneous travel through the Emperor's "mass consensus" system, a network of interconnected Needles that spanned the realm, facilitating trade, communication, and the movement of people and goods with unparalleled speed and efficiency.
Unlike any other structure in the archipelago, the needle stood tall—a spire of gleaming metal that seemed to hum with a low, resonant energy, a subtle vibration that permeated the very air around it.
Its surface shimmered with an unearthly glow, pulsing in rhythm with the heartbeat of the city.
In the great hangar facing the needle, Galvas Heltrin Whydit stood waiting with silent expectation, his posture radiating an air of authority and calm. Tall and commanding, his olive-toned skin seemed kissed by the sun, his features sharp and defined, his eyes concealed behind dark, circular shades, lending him an air of mystery and intrigue.
His face, marked by discipline and control, exuded a sense of ease, as though he were completely at home within his authority, a man accustomed to command and responsibility.
Beside him stood Quentin Fullbright, a young man with long black hair flowing past his shoulders, his youthful appearance belying a sharp intellect and a surprisingly cunning mind.
He wore a sleek, tailored suit, its dark fabric contrasting with his pale skin, and on his right breast pocket was a pin—a symbol of an eye with a flame above it—denoting his status as a distinguished pupil from one of the elite classrooms.
His expression was sharp, his lips curled into a smirk.
Galvas turned slightly toward Quentin, his voice low and steady, "Is the Wayfinder Needle ready for transport?" he inquired.
Quentin's response was immediate, his tone laced with sarcasm, "Oh, absolutely," he replied, his voice dripping with a subtle mockery, "Because the Whydit family would never hire someone who couldn't handle something as trivial as Wayfinder coordinates."
Several attendants bristled at Quentin's tone, exchanging uneasy glances, their discomfort palpable. They suspected his arrogance stemmed from his Fullbright lineage—a family notorious for their intelligence with a shadow of arrogance often accompanying it.
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But Galvas, who had known Quentin for some time, understood that this edge in his demeanor was intrinsic to who he was, noble birth or not.
Taking Quentin's sarcasm as confirmation, Galvas nodded, his expression unchanging, "Very well. The High Lord's arrival is imminent." His gaze shifted towards the massive hangar doors, his eyes fixed on the shimmering horizon, where the faint outlines of approaching airships began to materialize against the fading light.
A rift opened before the great Wayfinder Needle—a brilliant tear in the fabric of reality that shimmered like molten glass, its edges crackling with raw energy.
Through this portal emerged a procession of fliers, their sleek metallic forms reflecting the ambient light as they slipped from the void. The High Lord's party had arrived.
The armada of fliers, moving with the precision of hunting air beasts, descended in perfect formation, their engines humming with a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated through the very structure of the hangar.
They glided gracefully toward the Hanging Bay, a vast open-air docking structure perched over the sprawling city below.
The Hanging Bay was a sight to behold, its towering columns of black stone, weathered by centuries of wind and rain, supporting a ceiling of reinforced crystal that offered a panoramic view of the skyline, a breathtaking vista of shimmering towers and bustling streets.
Blue energy conduits ran along the walls, pulsating with steady light, filling the bay with a low, almost musical hum that resonated with the thrum of the approaching fliers. At the far end, automated cranes moved with mechanical grace, their movements precise and efficient, assisting in the docking process with an almost balletic elegance.
Galvas stood on the loading pier, his posture confident yet relaxed. Behind him stood his delegation—a group of Whydit retainers and attendants.
As the High Lord's flier docked, a great black banner unfurled above it, emblazoned with the emblem of House Blackthorn - a stylized depiction of a thorny vine, its branches reaching outwards. Woven from reflective material, the banner shimmered in the dim light, its jagged thorn symbol appearing almost alive.
Inside the flier, Eadric Blackthorn, High Lord of the Eastern Southern Region of Aquilora, sat in a high-backed chair, his sharp blue eyes focused on the viewscreen displaying the scene outside, his expression unreadable.
"Koleson is dead," Eadric murmured, his voice barely audible, as if still grappling with the reality of the statement.
Though he was the High Lord of the Kerrasuk region—the lord above Koleson—it was no secret that Koleson had been a Lancer, a warrior of unparalleled skill and ferocity, a hero of the Voidborne Wars, wielding a Great Needle of his own, a symbol of power that rivaled even that of the High Lord himself.
A minor noble in the Realm of Men receiving a Great Needle was almost unheard of, a testament to Koleson's extraordinary abilities and the respect he commanded. But then again, Koleson was an enigma, a man shrouded in mystery. Even his death was strange—sudden, abrupt, and peaceful, a stark contrast to the violence and chaos that had defined his life.
Eadric couldn't help but recall the few times he'd met the man, the memories vivid and unsettling. People had often warned him, "Watch out for Koleson; he might usurp you one day," but whenever he was with Koleson, it seemed the man was always looking elsewhere, his gaze wandered as if he were in search of something beyond reach.
The younger Koleson was didderent though. He had been filled with anger, a burning rage that fueled his every action, caring for nothing more than waging war in the South—a pursuit Eadric had gladly permitted, seeing it as a way to channel Koleson's destructive tendencies away from the heart of the Empire.
When Eadric had become High Lord, he was assigned two particularly difficult regions: the Kerrasuk region in addition to the Scorchlands which his family laid claim to for generations, both plagued by unrest and instability.
What should have been a momentous occasion, a symbol of his rise to power, had sounded like doom to his ears, a burden he was reluctant to bear.
But then Koleson had appeared—a stoic young man, speaking little but simmering with rage, his eyes burning with a fiery intensity. He had unleashed terror across the Southern region, his military prowess was unmatched, his strategic mind a weapon of its own, he ended up making it his hold—for Eadric, of course, securing the region and consolidating the High Lord's power.
Over time, Koleson's anger had given way to silence, his fiery passion replaced by a stoic calm that was even more unsettling. Eadric never knew what he was thinking.
Despite what others believed, he never felt threatened by Koleson, nor did he fear or hate him. His discontent stemmed from not understanding the man, from being unable to penetrate the wall of silence that surrounded him.
Koleson always seemed so alone. And even in death, Eadric realized—perhaps embarrassingly—that he was one of the few who would mourn him, who would truly feel the loss of this enigmatic figure.
Not even Koleson's children spared a flower upon hearing of his passing, their grief overshadowed by their ambitions, their minds already focused on securing their own positions of power.
They were shocked, then they moved on, their father's legacy a mere footnote in their own personal narratives.
A voice pulled Eadric from his thoughts, breaking the silence that had enveloped him.
"He may be dead, Father," said Borisil Blackthorn, his son seated beside him, his voice laced with concern, "but he left many children, some of whom are rankers nearly as strong as he was. Doesn't that pose a problem?" His words hung in the air.
Eadric nodded thoughtfully, his fingers tapping lightly against the armrest of his chair. The name Eadric Blackthorn carried weight, honoring the original patriarch of their family who had cleansed parts of the Scorchlands and transformed them into fertile land where House Blackthorn now thrived, their roots firmly planted in the soil of the small region he had purified.
His hearth city, the seat of his power, lay within those borders, marked by the great black needle awarded for that deed, a symbol of their family's legacy and their unwavering commitment to the Empire.
He glanced at Borisil, noting his son's concern. "You see the Whydits as a potential threat," Eadric observed, "Or competition?”.
Borisil shrugged.
"I wouldn't blame myself. I've never met Koleson. But his children—especially that Vaingrace—they're becoming quite ambitious." He spoke with a hint of disdain.
Eadric offered a faint smile, a flicker of amusement crossing his lips.
"If you had met Koleson, you'd understand. He was... an interesting man. His children, though ambitious, all seem to mirror aspects of him."
He saw in them reflections of Koleson's enigmatic personality, fragments of his strength and ambition, scattered amongst his offspring like shards of a broken mirror.
Borisil furrowed his brow, his confusion evident.
"Why have we descended from the Lordly Realm to Great-Kerrasuk, Father? What business do we have here? Shouldn't we simply claim Lord Koleson's Great Needle and depart, as is your right?" Borrosil would ask.
"The lower realm is vital, Borisil," Eadric replied, "It will be the foundation of all civilization once the contamination and corruption are purged from the land."
His gaze drifted towards the panoramic view of the city beyond the hangar, his eyes filled with a vision of a future where the lower realms flourished, their potential unleashed, their resources harnessed for the benefit of the Empire.
"It must be treated with honor. Or, if you find that challenging, at least pretend to when you arrive."
He gave his son a pointed look, "You'll find the Southern people of the Realm of Men quite interesting."
Borisil chuckled.
Eadric rose from his chair, his dark robes flowing around him, his movements graceful and deliberate, his presence commanding attention. "Galvas is apparently resuming the Ranking Festival games," he remarked, "For the first time in three hundred years."
Borisil looked puzzled, his brow furrowed in confusion. "The last time—wasn't there almost a winner? But something happened, people died I think... Koleson's daughter-in-law was one of them, if I recall correctly."
"Yes, and many years later, his grand-daughter would lose her life also" Eadric affirmed, a trace of sadness in his tone. "She could have changed her family's fate. But they both perished, and the games ended. Now they have resumed, and I intend to command Galvas to conduct them in the Scorchlands, near our own lands."
Borisil raised an eyebrow. "The Scorchlands? I know Brother Semmore was already conducting tests there with the hunters and scholars on the suitability of the region for a fstival. Do you truly believe it's suitable?"
Eadric nodded confidently, "It is ripe for both a festival and a cleansing. You wonder if Galvas will agree?".
"He might have other requests from different lords," Borisil mused. "Surely he's not bound solely to your will."
Eadric waved off his son's concern.
"The Whydit family once had three factions—the Three Serpents they called themselves. The first, Lord Vaingrace, seeks to elevate the family among the fifty major lords, discarding the Whydit name, seeking to forge a new legacy for himself." He spoke with a hint of disdain.
"The second, led by Helfellyn Moore, once sought independence from the Radstadt, dreaming of a new kingdom under his own banner, a rebellion that threatened to destabilize the region.".
Borisil looked intrigued, his curiosity piqued.
"Is an independent kingdom outside the Radstadt even possible?" He questioned the feasibility of such a notion.
"Difficult," Eadric admitted, "but not impossible. With the family's full strength and the Emperor's Needle, it could have been permitted. The Radstadt is merely a council to manage the affairs of lords and nobles. An independently strong kingdom would not be something they would like to trifle with. And Helfellyn's daughter nearly succeeded. She gained great consensus, wielding a Living Armor called 'The Abyss Embrace.' Her death shattered that dream. Grief-stricken, Helfellyn resigned, leaving only Galvas Heltrin Whydit."
"And what of Galvas?"
"Galvas cares little for his siblings' ambitions," Eadric explained, "He prefers the family remain among the small nobility, where they belong. And he has always been loyal to the Blackthorns. He will agree to my request, as he always has. With him hosting the games, he sets the stakes. The other factions are filled with new nobles and fighters gaining consensus, but none pose a real threat. They lack the ambition to challenge our plans."
Borisil seemed unconvinced, but said nothing more as their flier docked. The doors opened, revealing the great expanse of the Hanging Bay .
Eadric stepped out, his dark robes flowing behind him. "The games will proceed, and we will ensure that they do so on our terms," he said, his voice full of quiet confidence. "Kerrasuk will be the stage, but the Scorchlands will be the battleground."