The dying embers of daylight cast a yellow-reddish glow over the fortress, the new sanctuary of The Lost Ones. The sun had crawled its way over the horizon, its descent signaling the arrival of a different world, one cloaked in shadows and uncertainty. The air was thick with anticipation, and Oliver found himself a seat amidst the revelry, his food untouched as he absorbed the atmosphere that enveloped him.

Surrounded by a tapestry of brilliant lights, the camaraderie of comrades and friends wrapped around Oliver like a comforting shroud. The tribe they had rescued and welcomed into their fold possessed talents beyond survival—they were musicians, their melodic strains drifting through the air and soothing his weary soul. The exhaustion that clung to him like a relentless specter threatened to claim him, but he resisted, savoring the delicate harmonies woven by skilled hands.

Amidst the merriment, Oliver's ears caught the thwack of wooden swords as the young ones engaged in their make-believe battles, playing at being soldiers and knights. The cheers and laughter that erupted from the card and board games resonated with the spirit of his warriors, their fierce determination visible even in their fleeting smiles—his Terror Troops, his faithful soldiers.

Drawing his blade through the succulent flesh of the hunted boar, Oliver savored the salty tang that danced upon his tongue. The cup of water, clean and cold, bestowed upon him a near euphoric bliss. No more foraging for sustenance, no more laborious journeys in search of life's simplest necessity.

Whispers of plans to plant seeds in the coming days swirled through the air. A practical hope, a strategy to ensure a bountiful rotation of crops and an abundant supply of nourishment. Tomorrow, Oliver mused, he would share knowledge from his world with the Lost Ones—ideas that could elevate their understanding of agriculture, perhaps even coax them into creating an intricate pipe system to harness the life-giving force of water.

Doubts lingered, naturally. Oliver questioned his own capacity to execute such ambitious plans, but he found solace in the brilliance of Rasmus and the steady wisdom of Joseph. Together, they would forge a path beyond the confines of their tribal existence, their hunger for progress insatiable.

A piping-hot shower beckoned to Oliver, an indulgence he craved with a visceral longing. Perhaps he could summon fragments of his old world, transplanting them into the fertile ground of this new tribe, bolstering their strength and fortifying their unity.

Surveying his surroundings, Oliver's eyes sought Lena, Rasmus, Thomas, and Dozia, but they were absent. Rena, meanwhile, reveled in a card game with the warriors, her laughter punctuating the stillness. Yet, in this moment, he relished the silence, the sanctuary of solitude and introspection.

The dawn of this day had marked a stark contrast in the collective countenance of the Lost Ones. Once, they had worn skepticism like a cloak, their hearts tangled in fear and confusion, crippled by past battles and their own perceived weaknesses. But behold them now! While neighboring tribes resided in feeble tents and possessed flimsy defenses, the Lost Ones had forged a true home for themselves, a bastion of strength and resilience.

They had absorbed Oliver's strength, assimilating his teachings with relentless determination. Through their application, they had blossomed into a force to be reckoned with, a tribe poised to reclaim their magic and challenge the corrupt king who had stolen it. Harder times were sure to come, the trials of training, growth, and unyielding battle, but for now, the crescent of their great struggle glimmered with promise, the harbinger of their destiny.

Oliver's triumph over the feral orc had secured their victory, but it came at a great cost. The fallen comrades were mourned, their lives celebrated within the boisterous revelry of the grand feast. Today was a day of jubilation, a respite before the imminent battles that loomed on the horizon. The Lost Ones stood unflinching, ready to confront whatever challenges lay ahead.

To bridge the gap of isolation, Oliver had extended an invitation to the newly assimilated tribe, beckoning them to join him at his table. At first, they had regarded him with wary eyes, feeling out of place amidst the vibrant festivities. But gradually, their apprehension waned, replaced by a sense of belonging. Other members of the tribe gravitated toward them, drawn by shared stories of past glories and anticipation of future trials.

They began to comprehend the truth—they were equals. A collective, a tribe composed of different races and beliefs, united under the banner of the Deus Imperator. Oliver wished for this unity to endure, a bond that would withstand the test of time, connecting the Lost Ones and the Demi Humans in a shared destiny.

Oliver's attention shifted as he spotted Lena, Thomas, Rasmus, and Dozia approaching. The crowd hushed, eyes fixated on their approach. A ripple of anticipation swept through the gathering, even the children drawn to the spectacle unfolding before them.

All eyes converged on Oliver, and Dozia's voice pierced the silence. "Oliver Windsor," she called out, commanding his attention. "Step forward and take your place at the center of the room."

Bewildered, Oliver complied, rising to his full height as the weight of their collective gaze bore down upon him. Lena's gaze locked with his, and she coughed into her fist before speaking.

"Oliver Windsor," she repeated, her voice rising in volume. "You have achieved great feats within this tribe. Despite your human origins, you have proven yourself time and again."

Lena gestured toward James. "Your skill in hunting, your dedication to training, and your acts of bravery have not only saved me, but also the other members of this council. Your accomplishments have led us to our final home."

James, the conflict etched upon his face, added his own words. His fingers grazed the hilt of his new sword, his gaze never leaving Oliver's. He struggled to come to terms with what Oliver represented.

"You have earned your due, Oliver," he said, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "We now ask you, what tribute do you desire?"

Oliver surveyed the expectant faces around him, his shoulders shrugging in response. "Tribute?" he echoed, momentarily taken aback. "What can I possibly request? You've already bestowed upon me the room and the weapons..."

Dozia shook her head, cutting him off. "No, those are mere trappings," she interjected. "We're speaking of special privileges, unique gifts. These are reserved for those who have gone above and beyond."

A heavy silence settled upon them. All eyes remained fixed on Oliver, lips parting in anticipation. Hastily, he sought to clarify his stance. "I have no desire for personal luxuries," he hurriedly explained. "I am your equal, and I do not seek to elevate myself above the council, living like a king."

The words hung in the air, a weighty confession that stirred a collective murmur among the council members. Oliver felt compelled to further justify his position, to solidify his commitment to the cause.

"I offer this: let the room be granted to the council," he proclaimed, his voice carrying across the room. "Let it serve as a sanctuary, a space where collective wisdom and decision-making flourish. I am but one piece of this grand tapestry, and it is unity that shall fuel our endeavors, not personal gain."

"If that is your wish," Oliver replied, his hand absently rubbing the back of his neck, a gesture of uncertainty etched upon his features. The weight of the moment settled upon him, comprehension slowly dawning. The concept of tribute began to take shape in his mind—an enduring authority granted within the tribe, a symbol of respect earned through great feats. But Oliver found himself shaking his head, unable to fathom the full implications.

"Do I have to decide now?" he asked, seeking clarity amidst the swirling emotions.

Rasmus shook his head, a sage expression on his face. "No, it's best to mull it over, Oliver. You can even decline the tribute if you so choose. But be wary of squandering it on trivial desires or fleeting pleasures."

"Think carefully, Oliver," Dozia added, her voice carrying a note of seriousness.

And so, Oliver nodded slowly, opting to tuck the notion of tribute away for further contemplation. In the days to come, its potential value might reveal itself, offering a valuable asset in the challenges that lay ahead.

A subtle cough from Dozia signaled a shift in the proceedings. Rising from her seat, she cast her gaze over the assembled Lost Ones, her voice reaching out to captivate their attention. "Lost Ones," she called out, the weight of her words hanging in the air. "You have borne witness to the grand tales and heroic deeds of Oliver Windsor. The human boy, the slayer of slavers, the vanquisher of orcs. He wielded not only battle plans and training, but also the courage to confront the forces that once instilled fear in our hearts."

The Lost Ones stared back, their anticipation palpable, a wellspring of suppressed fervor. Dozia continued, her words carrying a sense of urgency. "But our tribe is growing, and with that growth comes the inevitable escalation of threats from the outside. These stone walls, this fortress we now call home, will draw attention. Monsters, rival tribes, and slaver armies will surely come."

She turned her gaze toward Oliver, her arm extended, a commanding presence. "We Lost Ones were always weak, hiding and running, merely surviving in this unforgiving world. Oliver Windsor has shown us how to fight back against these malevolent forces that seek to consume us."

Dozia's eyes bore into Oliver's, her fiery red hair framing her determined face as beads of sweat glistened upon her skin. Her outstretched hand seemed almost poised for him to grasp it. "The world is changing, and we must change with it," she declared, her voice resolute as she swept her gaze across the crowd, ultimately fixing it upon Oliver once more. "He has been molded by his father's teachings, and we have witnessed the power that they have bestowed upon him. There is only one solution now, for our survival in this harsh world. The Lost Ones must evolve, they must transcend their limitations."

Her extended hand transformed into a pointed finger, her eyes never wavering from Oliver's. A smirk played at the corner of her lips. "The council has decided, and there can be only one resolution," she announced with conviction. "Oliver Windsor, no longer a mere human boy lost in another realm. No, he shall be known as Oliver Windsor, Warlord of The Lost Ones."

The tribe erupted in a cacophony of jubilant cheers, their voices merging into a deafening chorus that threatened to overwhelm Oliver's senses. He stood there, an ethereal figure, the weight of the title "Warlord" settling upon him. He turned his gaze toward Dozia, who met his bewildered stare with a smile and applause.

But his eyes remained fixed on her. As the echoes of the tumultuous applause began to fade, he leaned toward her, his voice a whisper. "Why me?" he inquired, a hint of vulnerability seeping through his words.

Laughter, faint yet unmistakable, bubbled up from the crowd, only to be quickly hushed into a conspiratorial silence. Among the murmurs and shifting bodies, Rena made her way through the throng, her gaze fixed on Oliver. "Because you are Oliver, the one who saved us," she proclaimed, her voice carrying the weight of conviction.

Oliver turned to face Dozia, seeking answers in her eyes. "Who was the last Warlord?" he inquired, his voice tinged with curiosity and uncertainty.

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The council members remained silent, their heads shaking in unison. Rasmus, finally finding his voice, parted his lips to explain. "There never was one," he confessed. "We spent our days merely surviving, living on the edge, and engaging in battles we were certain to win." A faint smile graced his friend's face. "But you showed us, Oliver. You bestowed upon us strength and power. Embrace this, and accept it..."

"Accept it?" Oliver repeated, his hand instinctively reaching for his head, as if trying to grasp the enormity of it all.

Memories of the graveyard flooded his mind, intertwining with Dozia's words, reminding him of the impending dangers that loomed on the horizon. They needed to be prepared. But did he possess the strength to bear the weight of such a burden? Could he lead children scarcely older than himself into battles where they would face their demise?

Yet, in the depths of his being, he found resolve. Thoughts of his father, his grandfather, coursed through his veins. They were his people, and he would never forsake them. He had discovered what his grandfather had spoken of—a steadfast purpose that resonated within his soul.

He would do whatever it took, exhausting every ounce of his being, to forge a true sanctuary for those lost in this unforgiving world. The enslaved, the weak, the displaced—they would find solace within the embrace of the Lost Ones. And he, Oliver Windsor, would be the beacon that guided them.

His eyes shimmered with determination, an incandescent flame kindled within. The crowd, sensing the fervor that emanated from him, held their breath, their emotions swirling as they fixated on his resolute form.

"I accept it. I am your warlord," Oliver declared, his words piercing the air, resonating with unwavering conviction.

Cheers erupted, weapons and hands raised in jubilation. The room swelled with congratulations and the anticipation of a brighter, more prosperous future. Smiles and embraces engulfed Oliver, as he stood at the epicenter of the celebration.

He may have been human, but he was a Lost One—a lost soul rediscovered within the embrace of his tribe. The cheers reverberated through the night, serving as a testament to his newfound purpose. In the company of loyal comrades, the afternoon transformed into a tapestry of friendship, dreams for a brighter tomorrow, and the unwavering belief that what was once lost could be found again.

Oliver settled into a chair on the balcony, his jacket pulled tightly around him, warding off the biting cold of the night air. His breath materialized in front of him, a visible reminder of the frigid temperatures that crept along his wounded arm. Yet, he paid little heed to the discomfort, simply wrapping his coat snugly around his form.

The balcony belonged to what he now considered his own—a part of the newly designated council meeting room. Previously, he had entertained doubts about spending his nights within these walls. But now, perhaps because he had relinquished his claim to it, he found solace in the prospect of slumbering here.

In this moment, as he gazed out over the balcony, he couldn't help but marvel at the beauty of this world. His gaze lifted skyward, the setting sun casting a warm glow on the horizon, painting a breathtaking sunset. The heavens were adorned with stars, scattered like precious gems across the canvas of the dark, bluish expanse.

The sheer vastness of it all filled him with wonder and a sense of awe. How small he felt in comparison to the grandeur of the universe, yet how privileged to witness such splendor. The stars sparkled, distant beacons of light, whispering secrets of the cosmos.

Oliver sat there, enveloped in the stillness of the night, allowing the celestial display to wash over him. In this quiet moment, he found solace and a connection to something greater, something beyond the confines of his own existence.

What a day it had been. Oliver's mind still spun with the whirlwind of events, his head swimming with the sheer exhilaration of it all. The revelry, the camaraderie, and the intoxicating feeling of being at the center of attention—it was a strange sensation, but one that he relished with every fiber of his being.

The applause echoed in his ears, the warmth of embraces lingering on his skin, and the look of admiration in everyone's eyes. In school, he had grown accustomed to fading into the background, invisible and forgotten. His interactions limited to Aiden, while Hunter and the others would torment him mercilessly. But now, he found himself surrounded by people who genuinely liked him, who wanted to be his friends.

As he watched the sun slowly sink below the horizon, casting its final rays upon the world, he couldn't help but feel a profound sense of gratitude. From his vantage point, he could see it all—the lush, dark green of the trees beyond the fortress, the majestic cliffs where the dwarven tribes resided, and even the distant ridges of the land.

And then, a faint sound reached his ears, drawing his attention away from the fading light. Dozia appeared by his side, pushing open the door and making her way toward him. Oliver's eyes caught sight of the parchment she carried, assuming it to be another weapon, perhaps a sword.

"Nice sword," he remarked, his voice tinged with genuine admiration.

But Dozia shook her head slowly, her expression serious. She handed the parchment to Oliver, who accepted it with both hands, his curiosity piqued.

Dozia's eyes widened as she glanced at him, her concern evident. She reached out and grasped his injured arm, causing him to wince in pain. "What are you doing?" she chided.

Oliver shrugged off her grip, a hint of defiance in his voice. "What am I doing? I got rid of the cast. It was fine, Dozia," he explained. "It only hurt when I moved or put pressure on it."

Dozia observed the way he looked at his arm, doubting her own eyes. She could have sworn it had been a clean break, a significant fracture at the very least. Yet Oliver seemed to move it without difficulty, healing rapidly. She sighed deeply, shaking her head.

"When the doctor tells you to keep it on for a month, Oliver, you listen to the doctor," she admonished.

"Thanks, Mom," he retorted, dismissing the annoyance etched across her features. His attention shifted to the parchment, tearing through it eagerly.

His eyes widened in astonishment as he beheld the sword within his hands. Dozia's hand rested on his shoulder as she bent down slightly, catching a glimpse of the small smile that graced his face.

"Woah," he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper, as he examined the blade, scabbard, and guard. Dozia inquired, "You like it?"

Oliver's eyes remained fixated on the weapon as he replied, "Yeah, where did you..."

"The sword was in that crate in the armory. Joseph and Rasmus crafted the scabbard specifically for you. They even conducted routine repairs to ensure the blade would serve you well," Dozia explained.

Oliver's gratitude swelled within him, appreciation coursing through his veins. He had been handed not only a gift, but also a symbol of trust and respect. As he tightened his grip around the hilt, a surge of determination filled his being.

The scabbard boasted solid wood, its surface adorned with clean, goldish-bronze metal etchings that snaked along the length. Curious carvings graced the wood, depicting figures that seemed vaguely familiar—humans bound by chains, menacing werewolves, and fearsome orcs.

Rasmus and Joseph had meticulously chronicled his journey on this sword scabbard, their craftsmanship eliciting a silent astonishment and joy within Oliver. Inhaling deeply, he drew the blade from its sheath, cradling it with both hands. The weight and feel of the weapon surpassed that of the slaver's old sword, instilling a sense of comfort and confidence within him.

"A Jian, a fine sword from the eastern island nations," Dozia's voice resonated in his ears, humming with admiration.

Indeed, the sword adhered to the standard design of a Jian, but with a notable distinction. The guard was wider, more substantial, while the handle allowed for a comfortable two-handed grip. Yet, it exuded an air of regality. The handle, not fashioned from leather or wood, consisted of a dark metallic substance, mirroring the material in the blade's guard. Golden inscriptions, nearly imperceptible to Oliver's eyes, adorned the handle, lending an air of mystery.

The blade possessed strength and resilience, devoid of enchantments or magical properties, yet vibrating with power that resonated through Oliver's being. Unlike the guard and handle, it boasted a different metal—a lustrous cyan-silver hue.

With a satisfying click, he re-sheathed the blade, acknowledging both the exceptional craftsmanship and the invaluable assistance of his friends. Yet, Dozia's presence lingered at his side.

"You deserve this, Oliver," she uttered, her hand finding its way to his shoulder. A faint smile danced upon her face, but there was something more—a glimmer of understanding, perhaps.

"Dozia, I want you to know that I am not your Deus Imperator," he confessed, his gaze fixed straight ahead, hopeful that a flicker of realization might illuminate her features. He had been called the Deus Imperator at times, foolish and naive as those moments were. But Dozia was his friend, his closest ally. If anyone could comprehend that he was not a deity, messiah, or prophet, it would be her.

But there was no flash of understanding in her eyes, no transformation in her expression. Only the reassuring pressure of her fingers on his shoulder. "That's what someone burdened with responsibility says," she murmured under her breath. "I know who you truly are... our savior, Oliver. You may not believe it, but I do."

With those parting words, Dozia bestowed another gentle tap on his shoulder, the touch radiating reassurance as she moved away. Oliver's eyes remained fixed ahead, transfixed by the setting sun that bathed the surroundings in the ethereal glow of twilight.

Initially, he might have mourned the loss of a friend and the acquisition of a worshipper—an unhinged devotee of the Deus Imperator. But he would be mistaken in his judgment. Dozia had always been an ardent and fervent follower of the Deus Imperator. That much was unchangeable, but perhaps it wouldn't hurt to make an effort.

Rising from his seat, his fingers curling around the chilly banister, he let his dark blue eyes sweep across his surroundings once more. Memories and experiences flooded his mind, as he delved into the depths of all that he had known.

He cast his mind back to his old world, Earth, and now he found himself in the peculiar realm of Europa, a fantastical land. Thoughts drifted to his former life—the school, his grandparents, and his peers, all swept up in the radiant orbs' enigmatic embrace.

Grandparents—the notion of them felt like an eternity ago since he last laid eyes on them. Yet, deep down, he knew that reunion would never come to pass. There was no return home, no escape from this world devoid of magic. Here, he was destined to remain forever.

His grandparents would forever remain oblivious to his fate. To them, their beloved grandson was likely lost to the horrors of that dreadful cave-in, forever silenced beneath the weight of cold, stifling tunnels.

His thoughts shifted to his mother's grave and the promise he made. The promise to visit again the following week, to bring fresh flowers. But he knew it was an impossible task. He would never set eyes on her again.

"I'm sorry, Mama," he whispered beneath his breath. The frigid grip of loss still clung to his soul, but even now, it felt subdued. Deep within, he understood that the pain of loss no longer lacerated as fiercely as it once did.

His mind wandered to his peers and the visions he had witnessed. Above all, he fixated on the one involving Markus. If that truly was a glimpse of the future, and if his telekinetic gift indeed bestowed foresight, what significance lay within those visions?

He could recall those individuals vividly—the girl, Markus—powerful figures exuding intense emotions. He needed to find more of those altars, to unravel the profound mysteries that encompassed his purpose and the world he now inhabited.

Yet, his thoughts invariably circled back to the vision featuring Markus. In that vision, they were more than mere friends; they were brothers. A peculiar strangeness, yet deep down, he harbored the certainty that they had been scattered far and wide.

Hunter, Aidan, Markus, Bella, Fatima, and the others—they could be strewn across the four corners of this world. Like him, they might have found kindred spirits, like The Lost Ones. Alternatively, they could have fallen victim to manipulation and enslavement.

He bit his lip, recalling Markus's wounds and lost limbs, contemplating the legions that awaited in the future. Blessed with the ability to peer into what lay ahead, he vowed to take whatever measures necessary to prevent the encroaching darkness from enveloping them all.

He inhaled deeply, the chilly night air filling his lungs, while his fingers tangled through his tousled locks. His gaze shifted upward, beholding the fractured moon—an emblem of a world tainted by sorrow, loss, and a stolen greatness. Even in moments like these, it was easy to forget the inherent beauty this world possessed. As the sun descended, casting its final radiant hues over the mountains, darkness cloaked their surroundings.

With a touch, a brush of vibrant light, it bestowed life upon this realm, within this expanse of land. The imminent nightfall painted a tapestry of reds, yellows, and deep purples, an awe-inspiring sight. For an instant, a glimmer of hope ignited within him, whispering that change was possible, that the ceaseless tide of darkness could be halted.

Amidst the bleakness, the brutality, and the chains of enslavement, this place had the potential to transform into a sanctuary for the Lost Ones—a haven where the once lost could find themselves anew, where fresh beginnings were within reach.

Then, it caught his attention. From the corner of his eye, his gaze shifted downward, and he spotted them—the faint figures of the Lost Ones, the warriors who had fought valiantly in the previous battle. Their intoxicated movements carried them along as they marched with playful abandon. Laughter and exuberance echoed through the fortress perimeter.

Oliver saw it—the green and white banners of The Lost Ones, torn and discarded, now adorning the crude stone spear wielded by their leader. He observed as the old banners were cast aside, replaced by new ones. Deep crimson fabric emblazoned with the mark he had shown them—the symbol of the Deus Imperator. The banners fluttered defiantly in the biting wind, proudly brandished by The Lost Ones in homage to their warlord, their Deus Imperator.

Helplessly, Oliver could only bear witness as his people contorted and transformed into beings of unwavering faith and fervor. They had already pledged themselves to follow him, and now his task of de-terrorizing them had become even more arduous. He had to grapple with this new reality.

With a slight shake of his head, weariness coursing through his fatigued limbs, he stared at the new war flags adorned with his mark.

This world, indeed, was cruel.