Several hours had passed since my encounter with the mysterious man, yet his words lingered in my mind.
I kept thinking about what he’d said: magical predators don’t breathe, don’t have heartbeats, and don’t cast shadows. It sounded absurd, but something about the way he spoke made me take him seriously. I wasn’t sure if I believed everything, but it felt like I’d stumbled upon a valuable piece of information.
Still, the unease gnawed at me, so I decided to distract myself. I’d spotted a library not far from where we were staying and figured it would be a good place to clear my mind—or at least keep it occupied. Luckily, my parents agreed to let me go, though they warned me to be careful and not wander too far.
As I approached, the sign above the building caught my eye.
“Prism...Archive,” I muttered under my breath, reading the elegant lettering carved into the wood.
I hadn’t planned to spend my time in a library. My original idea was to explore more of the capital, but since that wasn’t an option, this library caught my attention. Curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to see what it had to offer.
Inside, I was greeted by the librarian, a woman with a warm, welcoming demeanor.
“Hello,” I said with a polite smile.
She returned the smile but raised an eyebrow. “What’s a kid like you doing here? Planning to read?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Well,” she said, her tone light and friendly, “I can help you find something. What kind of books are you looking for? Children’s books? Bedtime stories?”
No, definitely not. But I understood why she’d assume that. It made sense, though I wasn’t here for any specific book. Honestly, I just wanted to browse, maybe stumble upon something interesting.
“Can I just take a look around?” I asked.
“Of course,” she replied, her voice warm. “Would you like a guide?”
“No, thank you,” I said, keeping my polite smile.
The library was vast, though not overwhelming, with rows of bookshelves neatly arranged. There were plenty of tables scattered around for reading, but only a few people occupied them.
Books about magic.
Books about swordsmanship.
History.
Languages.
And… art.
An art section? That was unexpected. I’d assumed this world didn’t place much value on artists. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check it out.
“Hm,” I muttered, scanning the titles in one row.
The shelves were spotless, and the wooden supports gleamed as though polished regularly. Clearly, this library was well cared for. The art section was divided into categories: Sculpture, Music and Theater, Architecture, Dance, Crafting and Practical Arts, and finally, Painting.
Out of all the categories, Painting had the fewest books—just five titles, each with a single extra copy.
Portraits of the Forgotten Kings
The Art of War: Painted Histories
The Portrait
The Seven Wonders: Masterpieces of the Ancients
The Language of the Brush
I couldn’t help but notice the imbalance. Painting seemed to hold the least importance among the arts in this world. But I wasn’t ready to jump to conclusions yet. There was still much to learn about how painting fit into this society.
Without hesitation, I grabbed the first book my hand brushed against: Portraits of the Forgotten Kings.
The book focused on the portraits of rulers lost to time—kings of Dunvaris. I didn’t know what to expect, but as I flipped through the pages, I realized something.
This was my first real look at the painting style of this world.
As I flipped through the pages of Portraits of the Forgotten Kings, I noticed something peculiar. I had expected a vastly different style of painting from what I was familiar with in my previous life, but it was surprisingly similar. The difference lay in the execution—these portraits lacked the advanced techniques I was accustomed to. They felt basic, almost elementary.
Was this why Harlan, our late landowner, had been so captivated by my painting? The thought lingered in my mind. If this world had yet to develop advanced painting methods, then it made sense why my work stood out.
In my previous life, I had mastered a variety of techniques:
Basic Techniques: Layering, Blending, Dry Brushing and more.
Textural Techniques: Impasto, Sgraffito and more
Color and Light Techniques: Underpainting, Chiaroscuro and more.
Brush Techniques: Hatching, Cross-Hatching, Feathering etc.
Advanced Techniques: Alla Prima (Wet-on-Wet), Atmospheric Perspective and more.
Here, these techniques were nonexistent, or at least undiscovered.
I moved on to the next book, The Art of War. This one chronicled historical conflicts: the rise of swordsmanship against mages, the subsequent dominance of mages over swordsmen, and even the infamous Demonic War. The paintings in this book leaned heavily into realism, depicting battles with sharp detail and vivid imagery.
Yet, as with the portraits, these works lacked the finesse of advanced techniques. They relied on basic methods, missing the depth and sophistication that modern techniques could provide.
Curious, I skimmed through the remaining books: The Portrait, The Seven Wonders: Masterpieces of the Ancients, and The Language of the Brush. They all followed the same pattern—basic methods, a lack of innovation, and an absence of the advanced artistry I had taken for granted.
The conclusion was clear. Art in this world had yet to evolve. The knowledge of advanced painting techniques I possessed wasn’t just rare—it was revolutionary.
Harlan’s fascination with my painting now made sense. It wasn’t just the subject or the composition; it was the technique itself. He had likely never seen anything like it.
image [https://static.vecteezy.com/system/resources/thumbnails/034/487/740/small/gold-frame-page-divider-free-png.png]
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
After that day, I slept peacefully—well, mostly. The man’s warning lingered at the edges of my thoughts, like a mosquito buzzing just out of reach. Annoying, but not enough to ruin a good night’s rest.
The next morning marked the first day of the Days of Renewal—a five-day celebration that kicked off the new year. On Earth, we’d call it December transitioning into January, but here? It was all about Devrin giving way to something fresh. The capital was expected to be brimming with people, the streets more crowded than usual, and the festivities were just getting started. It was the whole reason we’d come all this way, after all.
Even the academy gave students a break—five whole days off. Not that they had much choice; even the stiffest professors couldn’t expect anyone to study with a festival happening right outside their doors. That meant Clarisse could join us in the capital as planned. After the celebrations, life would return to normal. Or as normal as life could be for me these days.
“Ready to start the first day of the celebration?” Mother asked, her tone as chipper as always. I was barely awake, still tangled up in my blanket cocoon.
“Hm. Yup.” My reply was more of a grunt than actual words. I stretched, feeling my joints pop and my brain gradually re-enter the land of the living.
Creak.
“You two better head out—the parade’s starting soon,” Father said, cracking the door open just enough to remind us of his presence before disappearing down the hall.
And just like that, the day’s schedule clicked into place in my head. First up: the parade. A grand procession featuring mages, swordsmen, and even a member of the famous group of magic swordsmen, Zero Order. The streets would be packed, no doubt, with people jostling to catch a glimpse of the magic swordsman. Then there was the king’s speech—an obligatory affair. I wasn’t opposed to listening, but let’s be real: if it turned into a long-winded lecture, I might just fake a stomachache until my parents dragged me out.
After that? A duel event. A showcase of raw power and skill, perfect for whipping the crowd into a frenzy. The rest of the day’s itinerary was a bit fuzzy, but those first few events were enough to keep things interesting. For now, at least.
Ba-dum!
Ba-dum!
As I stepped out of the room, the first thing that hit me—besides the sunlight—was the sound. Loud, rhythmic, and impossible to ignore. Drums. Lots of them. The kind of sound that shakes you awake faster than any cup of coffee ever could. Not that I needed much help waking up; I was already half-dragged out of bed by the noise alone.
Outside, the streets were alive. People lined both sides of the road, split neatly into left and right by a wide open space where the parade would soon make its grand entrance. The buzz of anticipation hung in the air, and honestly? It was kind of contagious.
Stamp!
Ba-dum!
The drums boomed again, followed by the unmistakable clatter of armored boots hitting cobblestone. It was official—the parade was starting.
“It’s starting, see?” Father said, his voice brimming with excitement as he pointed toward the marching knights at the far end of the street. He was like a kid who’d just spotted the candy vendor.
“Where’s your mother?” he asked, his eyes scanning the crowd like he expected her to materialize out of thin air.
“She’s fixing something,” I replied, stifling a yawn. “She said she’ll catch up.”
“Well, she better hurry,” he muttered, though his tone was far from impatient. If anything, he was too distracted by the procession to really care. The sparkle in his eyes said it all—he was enjoying this way more than he’d probably admit.
I couldn’t help but smirk. My father was practically bouncing on his heels. It was moments like these that reminded me how much people could surprise you. And honestly? Seeing him like this made the whole thing feel a little more exciting.
“Hey, did the parade start yet?” Mother appeared beside me, her hurried expression making it clear she was in a race against time.
“Not yet, Mother,” I replied, keeping my tone casual. There was no need to add to her panic.
Victor, always the excitable one, grabbed Eleanor by the shoulders and pointed toward the knights leading the parade. “Look at that armor! It’s terrifyingly huge!” he exclaimed, his voice practically vibrating with enthusiasm.
He wasn’t wrong. Even from this distance, the knights' armor looked colossal, the kind of imposing craftsmanship that made you appreciate the art of intimidation. I couldn’t help but think of Brandt, my swordsmanship mentor. Those knights reminded me of him—tall, stoic, and larger-than-life. Brandt had shaped so much of who I was today, and yet I hadn’t seen him in ages. Something was keeping him away, though I had no idea what. The thought made me feel strangely… hollow. Not enough to ruin the moment, but enough to linger at the back of my mind.
“Can you see them, Vonn?” Mother asked, her voice cutting through my thoughts.
“Yes, Mother, barely,” I admitted. In truth, my view wasn’t great. I could only catch glimpses of the knights through the spaces between the crowd. My height didn’t exactly help matters. Sure, being on the shorter side had its occasional advantages, like slipping through tight spaces or avoiding notice, but right now? It was nothing but a glaring disadvantage.
Still, I wasn’t about to whine about it. Complaining wouldn’t make me taller, and besides, there was a certain charm in seeing the world this way—piecemeal, like catching snatches of a story through a keyhole. It was frustrating, sure, but it also made the moments of clarity all the more rewarding.
TOOOOOT! BA-DUM!
“THE KNIGHTS OF DUNVARIS ARE NOW MARCHING!”
The announcer’s voice boomed over the crowd, loud enough to rattle bones. If the knights weren’t intimidating enough from afar, seeing them up close sealed the deal. Their presence was commanding, like a wall of steel brought to life. The closer they came, the more details stood out—the intricate craftsmanship of their armor, the faint glint of polish under the sunlight. Even their swords, positioned upright at the center of their bodies with the sharp edge pointing skyward, seemed to radiate authority. These weren’t mere weapons; they were symbols.
As they marched, the crowd erupted in applause, hands raised in unison. “Long live the knights of Dunvaris!” they chanted, their voices harmonizing as if they’d rehearsed it. They hadn’t, of course, but the enthusiasm was contagious. Even my father joined in, his voice blending with the chorus.
And I couldn’t help but smile.
BA-DUM!
“THE SWORDSMEN OF DUNVARIS ARE MARCHING!”
Next in line were the swordsmen, and for a moment, the crowd’s energy seemed to swell. I watched as they marched in perfect rhythm, their movements sharp and disciplined.
I wasn’t a full-fledged swordsman—not yet, anyway. My weapon was still made of wood, and my skills were a work in progress. But seeing the crowd cheer for them, hearing the pride in their voices as they praised these warriors, sent a shiver down my spine. It wasn’t fear, though. It was something else entirely.
Pride.
Goosebumps prickled along my arms as I stood there, absorbing the scene. It wasn’t just the swordsmen who were being celebrated; it was the idea of them, the discipline, the dedication, the strength they represented. It made me want to work harder, to prove that I could stand where they were someday, receiving that same applause.
For now, though, I clapped along with the crowd, letting their energy wash over me.
Unexpectedly, my father turned toward me, a grin splitting his face as he hugged my mother. Before I could piece together what he was doing, he hoisted me up onto his shoulders.
“Whoa—hey!” I blurted out, more startled than anything.
And just like that, I had a front-row view of the parade. The entire scene spread out before me, vivid and clear. For a moment, I forgot why I was up there. I forgot to feel embarrassed, too. Being perched on my father’s shoulders felt… oddly nice.
“THE MAGES OF DUNVARIS ARE HERE!”
The announcer’s booming voice snapped me out of my thoughts, and the crowd erupted into a deafening cheer. The air buzzed with excitement. If there was one thing the people of Dunvaris treasured, it was their mages.
And honestly? I got it. Mages were the frontliners, the ones who ventured into the wilds to hunt down predators and threats most of us wouldn’t dare to face. They were the kingdom’s protectors, its saviors. But the truth wasn’t as shiny as the image. People celebrated the victories—the mages who returned alive—but rarely spoke of the countless lives lost in the process. Sacrifices that didn’t make it into the cheers or the songs.
Now, from my vantage point, I could see them clearly as they marched down the pathway. Their robes fluttered in time with their deliberate steps, their staffs glinting under the sun. But their expressions? They didn’t match the festive energy around them.
Sure, some of them smiled—small, polite smiles meant to keep up appearances. But behind those smiles was something more heavier.
Still, the crowd didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe they did, and they chose to cheer louder in defiance of the unspoken truths. “Long live the mages! Saviors of the kingdom!” they roared, their voices a tidal wave of gratitude and hope.
I found myself clapping along, though a little slower, a little quieter. These mages—they’d been through things most of us couldn’t even imagine. The same went for the swordsmen and knights. Every single one of them carried scars, visible or otherwise, just to keep this kingdom peaceful.
For a moment, I felt a strange mix of pride and guilt. Pride because I admired their strength and resolve. Guilt because I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be capable of enduring what they had.
“Enjoying the view up there?” Father asked, glancing up at me with a grin.
“Yup,” I replied, keeping it short.
“You’re certainly not embarrassed this time, Vonn,” Mother teased, laughing softly.
To be honest, I wasn’t embarrassed right now. But later? Yeah, future me was probably going to cringe about this. For now, though, the view was too good to care.
“NEXT, HERE ARE THE NOBLES OF DUNVARIS!”
The announcer’s voice rang out, and I blinked in surprise. Nobles? I hadn’t expected them to be part of the parade. And no, they weren’t marching like the knights or mages. That would’ve been a sight. Instead, they rode in open carriages, proudly displaying themselves for everyone to see.
The carriages were decked out in bright colors and intricate designs—symbols of their noble lineages. Seated inside were entire families: parents with their sons and daughters, all looking the part of high society.
Now, I didn’t have grand expectations for nobles. Actually, scratch that—I did have expectations, but they weren’t exactly positive. The truth is, I’d always imagined most of them as people blinded by their own power, weighed down more by greed than by responsibility. Sure, a handful might actually care about the people they were supposed to serve, but in my mind, they were the exceptions, not the rule.
Take the droughts from a few years back. While farmers struggled to keep their families fed, nobles showed up demanding their “owed” supplies. Because apparently, food meant for survival was a debt they could collect. It didn’t sit well with me then, and it still didn’t now.
Looking at the nobles passing by, I wasn’t exactly filled with admiration. Most of them looked… detached, as though they were merely going through the motions of the parade. A few even seemed downright disgusted to be here, like it was beneath them to be paraded around for commoners to gawk at.
It’s not that I hated them—not really. I just couldn’t bring myself to like them either. Respect? That was reserved for people who earned it, not people who inherited it.
Still, I couldn’t deny that this was my first time seeing nobles up close, and despite my opinions, a small part of me was curious. Were they really as useless as I thought? Or was I just projecting my own bias? Time would tell, I supposed. Until then, they’d remain as they were in my mind—people I could respect, but only if they proved themselves worth respecting.
After the nobles passed, the parade reached its main event: a member of the Zero Order. The Zero Order—leaders among mages, slayers of the kingdom's greatest threats, and the stuff of countless legends. Their names alone carried weight, elevated by the widely spread tales of their heroic deeds.
“NOW ENTERING, ONE OF THE ZERO ORDER, SERAPHINE ALLORE!”
I blinked, taken aback. Seraphine? So… she was a she. A female magic swordsman. Not that there was anything inherently odd about that, but I’d unconsciously pictured some burly man wielding a giant sword and radiating gruff energy. Seeing someone like her threw me off-guard, though not for the reasons I’d expected.
Her golden, medium-length hair glinted under the sunlight, swaying gently as she strode forward. Half her face was covered by a cotton wrap, leaving only her piercing eyes visible—calm, yet intense. There was an energy about her, one I couldn’t quite put into words. Not overwhelming, but quietly powerful, like a river current just below the surface.
She looked young, probably not much older than her mid-twenties, though it was hard to tell with half her face obscured. She wasn’t particularly tall—about 5’5”, I’d guess—but something about her presence made her seem larger than life. She was, somehow, both ordinary and extraordinary at the same time.
The crowd’s reaction was… mixed, to say the least. Some people stood frozen, dumbfounded by her appearance. Others shouted things like, “Reveal your face!” which honestly felt a bit rude. Not that their yelling mattered much; those demands were quickly drowned out by the rising chant of:
“LONG LIVE ZERO ORDER! LONG LIVE SERAPHINE!”
The energy around me surged as the crowd roared in unison.
“LONG LIVE KING OF DUNVARIS!”
The voices overlapped, creating a chaotic symphony of admiration and devotion. Even I found myself clapping, though my thoughts were racing.
She was unlike anything I’d imagined. Seraphine Allore, her movements were deliberate, her aura unmistakable. A famous swordsman standing before us, wrapped in mystery yet undeniably human.
And for some reason, that made her even more incredible.