Beneath the sprawling branches of a willow tree, the narrator, her short hair and professional attire lending her a modest appearance, observed the unfolding scene with her characteristic concise storytelling style. As she rose from her seat, the rustling leaves and the gentle scent of the willow accompanied her gaze, adding an atmospheric touch to the mysterious surroundings. Three groups of guards and a lone troop poised ready to engage in a fierce battle—the new king of Rothurd taking on numerous opponents. The heavily armored King, adorned in a masterpiece of Rothurdian armor, swiftly proclaimed his noble intention not to spill blood but to incapacitate the guards and horsemen.
The guards and cavalrymen, sensing the King's commitment to a bloodless confrontation, couldn't resist the opportunity to provoke him further. Their voices rose in a cacophony of mocking jeers and taunts, reverberating across the battlefield like discordant music. Each mocking word seemed to hang in the air, a challenge to the King's noble intention.
Their laughter, echoed through the valley, adding a sinister undertone to the confrontation. The very air seemed charged with tension as the guards and cavalrymen sought to break the King's resolve with their derisive mirth. The King's eyes, focused and unyielding, met the gaze of his challengers. A silent determination radiated from him, drowning out the mockery with an aura of regal authority. The more they goaded, the more resolute he became, ready to transform the battlefield into a stage where his commitment to a bloodless resolution would become a captivating performance.
“So be it.” The Rothurdian King stated. Undeterred by the orchestrated mockery, the King moved with a grace that mirrored the dance of leaves caught in a gentle breeze. The taunts and jeers became mere background noise as he weaved through their attacks, his movements an intricate display of calculated precision.
The armor he wore, forged from the finest materials found in Rothurd's mountainous regions, bore etchings depicting the rich history of the kingdom. Enchanted runes adorned the edges, protecting the King from assaults of all kinds. Its surface bore etchings depicting the rich history and values of the kingdom, telling tales of heroic deeds and noble conquests of each elected king, starting with the Eternal King, and including all five of his returns. As the King moved with purpose and precision, his regal attire became a living testament to Rothurd's commitment to a code of honor.
The King's choice of weapons complemented the regal armor. A sheathed sword, intricately detailed and inscribed with ancient runes, hung at his side, exuding an aura of power even when sheathed. In a display of unwavering conviction, the King moved across the battlefield with unprecedented speed, incapacitating his opponents with a series of rapid, sheathed strikes. His every step was deliberate, each motion a testament to his unwavering dedication to the path of non-lethal incapacitation.
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His sword, sheathed but potent, became an extension of his will, deflecting strikes and parrying blows with an effortless fluidity. The guards and cavalrymen, initially amused by their own audacity, now found themselves caught in a mesmerizing display of martial artistry. He blurred around them to the point where they could no longer see him.
As the King continued his calculated dance through the chaotic clash of arms, a hush began to settle over the onlookers. The guards and cavalrymen, realizing their attempts to break his resolve were in vain, faltered in their jeers. The once vibrant echoes of laughter now lingered as a fading memory, leaving the King's unwavering resolve as the indelible impression on the minds of all who witnessed the spectacle. In one silent moment all who stood before him, now lay on the ground behind him. Either unconsciousness or minor injury prevented them from standing.
As the battlefield fell silent, and the King addressed the citizens of Iverst, shadows began to consume the scene. While noting the extreme speed at which the newer king was moving on the battlefield, darkness enveloped the narrator, leaving an eerie silence in its wake, and the memory transitioned seamlessly into Alistair's contemplation in New Iverst.
Alistair sank back into his chair, the flickering candlelight casting shadows on the walls, creating an atmosphere of contemplation. The memory contained within the stolen pages lingered in his thoughts like a haunting specter. At the time he had no idea he could still see narrators, let alone act against them. Alistair had once apologized for his actions, though the victim lay unconscious, but the weight of keeping this information concealed from Nat for thirty years bore heavily on his conscience. Recent encounters with Nat had reignited a dormant unease within him. As he leaned forward, the aging crown atop his head slid slightly, a subtle metaphor for the burdens he carried. His eyes fixated on the prophecy etched onto the desk before him, its ancient symbols whispering secrets of a future he feared.
“I do hate harming narrators, but it seems she forgot about the incident,” he mused, his voice a low murmur that filled the quiet room. As the reigning king, Alistair's concern for the world ran deep. "Nat, I need you to witness the true Arvendon, my birthplace. Erik Tiller learned too late for me to extend a helping hand. Perhaps this Auctian will stir you into action. Sevas should not be trusted; his movements and the use of these soulstones are unnatural.”
The Sun and Lightning will strike the Earth. Thus, to the Eternal King’s rebirth. The ancient prophecy reverberated ominously in Alistair's mind, its weight pressing down on him like a premonition of impending doom. For the first time in ten thousand years, the specter of the Eternal King's return loomed. Alistair grappled with the potential dire consequences that could cascade upon the world of Luminastra. The foreboding realization tightened its grip, leaving an almost suffocating tension lingering in the air of the dimly lit chamber.