As twilight descended, the army reconvened within the walls of the fortress city of Bastominad. Once hailed as the luminous gem amid encroaching shadows, the city had transformed into a formidable bastion against the malevolent forces that lurked beyond the continent.
No longer fueled by its own ancient spirit, Bastominad thrived on the renewed commitment to repel the encroaching darkness. It had become the stronghold for the united forces holding Xerxecia at bay. However, this metamorphosis came at a cost—the city had sacrificed its distinctive personality in the process.
City banners no longer bore only the insignia of the imperial army but also proudly displayed emblems from the diverse kingdoms that had sent reinforcements to aid the Empire in its current plight. This convergence of cultures had turned Bastominad into a cosmopolitan hub, embodying the essence of the entire continent.
For Glaivel, this transformation was a fleeting spectacle. Having witnessed similar metamorphoses in the past, he regarded it as a transient event, a mere blink of an eye. Yet, as a Sulinhawi of this world, he understood that they could not remain passive spectators as the world crumbled around them.
The cityscape was marked by numerous forges, tirelessly working to maintain top-notch weaponry. The armor, meticulously cared for, stood ready for the impending battles that could erupt at a moment’s notice. Despite the lively taverns, bustling inns, and carefree soldiers reveling in the prospect of another shot at life, he harbored an ominous certainty that not all would fare well in the impending trials.
Advancing towards the Army Headquarters, he couldn’t shake the premonition that Shardon’s veil was yet to be fully unveiled. The city’s secrets were gradually being unraveled, and the recent encounter weighed heavily on his mind. To him, it felt like a specter from the past, a haunting nightmare resurfacing to cast its ominous shadow over the present.
Shortly after, he arrived, swiftly removing his cape and weapons before taking a seat. In the room, the Crown Regent, Tamiron, and General Sevidon were already present, their attention drawn to his entrance.
“How are you doing?” Tamiron inquired curiously, his eyes probing for any signs of distress.
“I’m doing fine,” he replied, striding towards the table where they examined the recovered blade and armor. “So, do we have an answer?”
Tamiron, with a hint of gravity in his voice, conveyed, “Our resident kra’en confirmed that this is indeed mencraft. What I can’t understand is why do we need their confirmation when you can identify them yourself?"
A deep breath escaped him. He harbored a desperate wish to be wrong about his intuition. The possibility seemed unfathomable, and he struggled to comprehend how it could be a reality. “This is unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath.
Tamiron, sensing the weight of the situation, questioned Sevidon, “What’s with him?” Sevidon, arms crossed, responded, “It would be better if it came from him. He is responsible, after all.”
A glare from him towards Sevidon held a mix of frustration and acknowledgment. Grasping the weight of the responsibility, he clenched his fists and ground his teeth. “They have forged armory and weapons—those things I expected already,” he explained. “But this changes everything, Tamiron.” He pressed, urged for immediate action.
“Five years have slipped away, and now you choose to reveal that these weapons are mencraft?” Tamiron’s curiosity bore through his confusion, a sentiment shared by those gathered. He questioned whether it was an oversight on his part or a calculated delay that led to this revelation, but the truth now confronted him.
“And you, being a Karinhawi, should have recognized this,” Tamiron directed his inquiry at Sevidon.
Sevidon, exhaling deeply, responded, “Well, they did have a signature of how we forge our blades and weaponry, but it already was blended with the techniques used by the Sulin smiths. So the only way we can really tell them apart is by having a good look at them. It just so happens that I myself did not pay attention to it because I was avoiding trying to get killed.”
Silence enveloped them at that time, “Fair enough,” Tamiron then broke it. “What I still don’t understand is why we should be acting rashly in witnessing mencraft weapons. I know they are fabled weaponry, but still,” he scoffed as he removed his helmet and his cape.
“Tamiron, you don’t understand. Mencraft weapons are the epitome of craftsmanship excellence. The sheer ingenuity of the race of men is precisely what led to their demise,” he explained, much to Tamiron’s dismay.
“And who is responsible for their genocide?” Tamiron posed the question abruptly, cutting through the lingering tension in the room.
His fists clenched, rendering him unable to answer the question. Tamiron, however, continued to scrutinize him intently.
“You know, I have no care anymore about what happened in the past. As long as it stays there,” Tamiron declared.
“Your words disappoint me, pupil,” Sevidon suddenly uttered, but Tamiron simply shook his head.
“Dwelling too much in the past would only result in misery. You should take it from me, teacher,” Tamiron countered. “Tell me more about these mencraft weapons. The books I’ve read in the past may not really do them justice. So it would be better if it came from you, Glaivel,” he added.
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“Mencraft weapons and armor are mass-produced. The only difference is, despite their mass production, the quality is of the highest caliber. They are responsible for the lightest steel we use today. Their architectural marvels persist. Kra’en craftsmanship cannot even compete, and these crafted weapons and armor are the only ones that can match a Sulin or Karin or even a Trasidian made weapons and armors,” He explained.
“Are you saying holenshartz, despite being heavy, will only have an even match against mencraft?” Tamiron sought clarification.
“Yes,” was his concise response.
Tamiron took a deep breath, his fingers gently tapping on the table. It was evident that he was carefully considering every aspect, recognizing the weight of the information he had shared.
“Shadow,” he called, and from behind him emerged one of his spies.
“My liege,” Anathar acknowledged, still covered in black, his face concealed by an iron mask.
“Infiltrate the Shardon Continent and uncover more about these. We may have been going to this offensive blind for years. Any information will be invaluable,” Tamiron commanded before fixing his gaze on him. “Care to add more?”
Caught off guard, both Tamiron and Sevidon directed their unwavering attention towards him. He took a deep breath, feeling his heart racing. “Find out the race of those who crafted this.”
“The race, Sire?” Anathar sought clarification.
“Yes, I want to be sure that I’m wrong. I want to be wrong. But I need you to confirm it,” he said, his voice trembling with uncertainty.
Tamiron and Anathar exchanged a meaningful glance, a silent understanding passing between them. Anathar then crouched and disappeared once more into the shadows, leaving an uneasy silence in his wake.
As the spy vanished, the room was shrouded in silence. Tamiron stared into the distance, his mind racing with possibilities, while Sevidon remained stoic, his gaze unwavering.
Tamiron broke the silence, saying, “If my suspicions are true, the implications are far-reaching. The Shardon Continent has remained an enigma for centuries, and now, it holds the key to the mysteries we’ve sought to unravel."
Sevidon nodded, acknowledging the gravity of the situation. It was indeed a troublesome predicament. If it proved true that the race of men somehow survived the harshness of Shardon, then he knew he either failed—or succeeded?
At that moment, confusion clouded his thoughts about how he might appear in this situation. However, his fervent wish was to be proven wrong. In Xerxecian hands, those mencraft weapons were far deadlier than in the past.
“Is this guilt I sense in you, Glaivel?” Tamiron suddenly asked, catching him off guard.
His eyes flickered, a fleeting lapse of composure revealing the inner turmoil. He hesitated before responding, the weight of unspoken thoughts pressing down on him. “I... I really don’t know,” was all he could utter, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability.
Tamiron leaned back in his ornate chair, as if studying him. The air in the room thickened with unspoken tension, as if the walls themselves were privy to the uncharted depths of his conscience. It marked a rare moment of vulnerability for the usually stoic warrior, a crack in the facade that Tamiron couldn’t ignore.
“You’ve been a loyal companion in these short five years, Glaivel. I know it may be brief for you, but it was long enough for me,” Tamiron began, his tone measured. “We may have started as adversaries, but I’ve come to trust you as one of my closest advisers. What weighs on your conscience now?”
He sighed, shoulders sagging under the invisible burden. “There are choices I’ve made, paths I’ve walked, that haunt me, Tamiron. The echoes of the past cling to me like a relentless shadow.”
Tamiron nodded, understanding the gravity of his confession. “In times of conflict, we are often forced to make decisions that linger like ghosts in the depths of our minds. Judging by your demeanor, I sense you are not ready. Trust, however, that I am here for you whenever you are.”
Tamiron approached him, leaning forward with eyes reflecting profound understanding. “The past is a realm we cannot change, Glaivel. However, the present offers us the chance for redemption. We are defined not solely by our mistakes but by the actions we take in their aftermath. Together, let us navigate the path ahead, seeking solace and forging a future free from the shackles of remorse.”
As he washed his hands, Tamiron added, “Look, if this becomes a problem, we may have to call back the others. We need to ensure we can deal with this effectively and efficiently.”
Glancing at Sevidon, who was studying the sword and armor seriously, Tamiron continued, “For now, take your leave as I check on how best to approach this. You two should do the same for now.” He put on his robe, bowed, and shortly after, Sevidon did the same before leaving the room.
Walking through the corridors of the headquarters, he couldn’t help but notice Sevidon’s unusual silence. He sensed that something was amiss.
“Hey, are you alright?” he asked, but Sevidon did not respond. Annoyed, he stepped in front of him and inquired again, “Hey, I worry about you. You need to tell me how—”
All he received was a stare of disgust from Sevidon. Coldness gripped him as if all strength had left his body. His visible concern dissipated upon witnessing the anger in Sevidon’s eyes.
“You have no right to ask me that. No right,” Sevidon said with a stern voice, leaving intentionally by bumping into him.
He remembered this anger very well — well, at least part of it. As Sevidon walked away, leaving the castle, Tamiron couldn’t escape the haunting memories that clenched at his heart. After all these years, the pain was still fresh, a wound that refused to fully heal. He looked down at his hands, the same hands that had made decisions on that fateful day, decisions that had consequences echoing through time. They trembled, betraying the inner turmoil he sought to bury.
A deep breath escaped him as he endeavored to shake off the weight of the past. He turned away from the receding figure of Sevidon and directed his gaze out of the window. The view unveiled ominous dark clouds stretching across the Shardon Continent, casting an eerie atmosphere over the landscape that mirrored the darkness still lingering within him.
The hatred and malice he perceived in those clouds resonated with the emotions he once harbored in eons past. The bitterness of ancient conflicts, the scars of battles fought, and the regrets of choices made all converged in his mind. It served as a stark reminder that time had not entirely healed the wounds, and the ghosts of the past were relentless in their persistence.
The surrounding castle appeared to echo with the whispers of history, a silent witness to the tumultuous emotions still raging within him. Tamiron clenched his fists in a futile attempt to suppress the surging tide of memories. The room felt suffocating, as if the air itself carried the weight of centuries-old grievances.
He closed his eyes, permitting the darkness of the past to envelop him momentarily. The echoes of ancient conflicts reverberated through his consciousness, and he acknowledged the stark truth — the past, with its shadows of hatred and malice, had left an indelible mark on his soul. As he reopened his eyes, he confronted the storm within, realizing that the only way to dispel the lingering darkness was to face it head-on, even if it meant revisiting the painful chapters of his history with Sevidon.
End of Chapter II