In the opulent halls of the Haval Estate, Count Jaynor Haval presided over his aristocratic domain with a stern yet regal demeanor. Madame Lana Haval, his elegant wife, moved gracefully through the grandeur of their ancestral home, overseeing the intricate details of daily life.
One morning, Count Jaynor addressed his only son, Lanor, with a tone that carried the weight of family expectations. "Lanor, my boy, the legacy of Haval Estate rests upon your shoulders. Ensure its prosperity for generations to come."
Lanor, a young man with a mix of determination and uncertainty, replied, "Father, I shall uphold the honor of our name."
Meanwhile, the estate echoed with the laughter and whispers of Haval's several sisters and cousins, each with their unique charm and ambitions. The air buzzed with the constant hum of activity, from the meticulous maids arranging the grand ballroom for the evening's festivities to the distant murmur of family secrets exchanged in hidden alcoves.
Madame Lana, in the midst of overseeing the household affairs, engaged in conversation with the head maid, discussing the upcoming social events. "Ensure everything is in order, Elara. The soirée must be flawless; our family's reputation is at stake."
Elara, a trusted confidante, nodded in understanding. "Rest assured, Madame. Haval Estate will shine brighter than ever."
As evening fell, the estate came alive with the rhythmic melodies of a grand piano and the soft rustle of silk gowns sweeping across the marble floors. Count Jaynor, resplendent in his formal attire, greeted guests with a dignified smile. Lanor, now attired as the heir apparent, moved through the crowd, exchanging pleasantries and subtle nods with potential allies.
At the heart of the celebration, Madame Lana observed with a discerning eye, ensuring that every detail adhered to the standards befitting the Haval name. "Our family's reputation endures through these gatherings, Lana," Count Jaynor remarked with pride.
Madame Lana replied, "Indeed, my love. The legacy of Haval Estate is not just in its grandeur but in the grace with which we navigate these social intricacies."
Lanor, a golden-haired boy of seven, possessed a brightness that mirrored the sun dappling through the stained glass windows of Haval Estate. His days were a blend of youthful exuberance and the weight of a destiny preordained. Under the watchful eye of his father, Count Jaynor Haval, and a cadre of mentors handpicked for him, Lanor embarked on the arduous journey of becoming the next Count.
In the grand study, where the air bore the fragrance of aged leather-bound books, Lanor sat beside his father. Count Jaynor, a stoic figure in the dimly lit room, imparted lessons that transcended mere academics. "To lead is not only to govern but to understand the hearts that beat within these walls," the Count would say, his voice carrying the weight of generations past.
Bright-eyed and vibrant, Lanor absorbed the teachings with a hunger for knowledge that belied his tender age. His tutors, each a master in their field, sculpted his mind like an artist crafting a masterpiece. Conversations echoed in the halls, a symphony of wisdom and legacy passed down from one Haval to the next.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Lanor's studies continued. He delved into the intricacies of governance, diplomacy, and the delicate art of maintaining alliances. Yet, amidst the stern lessons, there were pockets of warmth. Madame Lana, Lanor's mother, would often steal moments to share stories of the family's history, instilling in him a sense of pride in his lineage.
Bravery became a companion to Lanor, woven into the fabric of his character. Whether facing the challenges of court etiquette or exploring the vast estate grounds, he approached each task with a resilience that hinted at the Count he was destined to become.
On a somber day, raindrops tapped against the windows of Haval Estate, creating a melancholic melody that echoed Lanor's inner turmoil. Seeking solace, he found his father, Count Jaynor Haval, in the same grand study where lessons of leadership unfolded.
"Father," Lanor began, his voice carrying the innocence of a child's dreams, "I want to be a Knight. I dream of valor and gallantry, protecting the realm with a sword in hand."
Count Jaynor, his expression unmoved, regarded his son with a mix of sternness and paternal concern. "Lanor, our bloodline has been entrusted with the mantle of leadership. As the heir, your duty lies in stewardship, not the pursuits of a knight errant."
Undeterred, Lanor's eyes shimmered with fervor. "But father, I want to make a difference, to defend our people with honor."
The Count sighed, his gaze fixed on the rain-kissed window. "Your dreams are noble, my son, but the burden of our house rests upon your shoulders. A Knight's path is not for those born to rule. It is a life of sacrifice, yes, but in service to a different calling."
Raindrops continued their gentle descent, a poignant backdrop to the clash of dreams and duty within the walls of Haval Estate.
With a measured tone, Count Jaynor continued, "To be a lord is a privilege and a responsibility. You must learn the intricacies of governance, uphold our traditions, and safeguard our lineage. The dreams you chase may be unattainable, but your duty is not. Embrace it, for the future of our house, depends on your commitment."
Lanor, though disheartened, nodded with a sense of reluctant understanding. His dreams of knighthood faded like distant thunder, replaced by the weighty realization that his destiny, like the rain-soaked earth beneath Haval Estate, was bound to the roots of a noble lineage.
As the rain outside intensified, a sudden tumult disrupted the tranquility of Haval Estate. Screams reverberated through the halls, their echoes carrying an ominous weight that gripped the very air. Panic ensued as the household was thrust into chaos.
Lanor, wide-eyed and bewildered, sought his father amidst the disarray. Count Jaynor's face, usually a mask of authority, now bore a look of urgency and concern. "Lanor," he said, his voice low and hurried, "we are under attack. Follow me."
In haste, they navigated a labyrinth of hidden corridors until they reached a concealed doorway. With a solemn gaze, the Count instructed, "Stay here, Lanor. Do not make a sound. I will return for you when it is safe."
Lanor, trembling with a mixture of fear and curiosity, nodded as his father gently pushed him into the secret passageway. The hidden refuge enveloped him in darkness, the damp scent of earth and stone clinging to the air.
From his concealed vantage point, Lanor could hear the muffled sounds of conflict. His father's voice, firm and commanding, echoed through the hidden passageway as he directed the defense of their ancestral home.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly in that confined space, the distant clash of steel and the haunting cries of battle creating a disconcerting symphony. Lanor clutched the hilt of a dagger he found in the passage, a silent promise to himself to emerge unscathed.
Amidst the metallic cacophony, cries of anguish and despair intertwined with bursts of laughter and indignant shouts. The emotional tempest outside mirrored the storm within Lanor's young heart. Fear and curiosity battled for dominance, and he clutched the dagger tighter, its cool metal grounding him in the surreal reality of the moment."You mercenaries!" His father's voice, a thunderous declaration of defiance, sliced through the tumult.
Frustration and impatience clawed at Lanor's resolve within the hidden passageway. Unable to bear the echoes of conflict any longer, he succumbed to the tempest of emotions and disobeyed his father's stern directive. Quietly, he emerged into the chaos that had enveloped Haval Estate.
As Lanor cautiously navigated the shadows, the scenes unfolding before him were a cruel tableau of tragedy. The once-grand halls, now stained with the aftermath of battle, bore witness to the clash of wills. A chilling silence hung in the air, broken only by the distant sounds of skirmish and the steady drumming of rain.
Stealthily, Lanor approached a threshold where the dim light revealed a grim reality. His father lay lifeless on the cold stone floor, a stark contrast to the figure standing above him. The intruder exuded a casual air as if the life he had taken held no weight.
A surge of anger and grief swelled within Lanor as he beheld the scene. His fists clenched around the dagger he had wielded as a mere symbol of courage, now a potential instrument of justice.
The murderer, a sinister figure cloaked in the armor of malevolence, stood tall amidst the aftermath of his grim handiwork. His long, black hair framed a face marked by the rugged lines of a life steeped in darkness. The steel plate armor, a menacing exoskeleton, covered his chest and descended to shield his legs.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
In his right hand, a long sword gleamed ominously, a weapon stained with bloodshed. The blade, a manifestation of his cruel intent, whispered a sinister melody as it cut through the air, leaving the lingering scent of tragedy in its wake. As the man swung the blood-drenched sword, a crimson crescent colored the wall.
Adorning his hand was a striking ring, an artifact that seemed out of place in the somber tableau of death. Memorable designs adorned it — intricate vines coiled around runes, etched with a malevolent elegance. The ring, a macabre embellishment, captured the eye with its dark allure, hinting at the twisted depths of the man who wore it.
Lanor's eyes widened with a mix of recognition and dread as he deciphered the meaning of the runes etched in the striking ring. "End of Men," he whispered, the weight of those words settling heavily upon him. The truth unraveled before him like an ancient scroll, revealing the association of the man before him with the symbolic embodiment of evil — the Enderman.
As the rain continued its relentless descent, Lanor's gaze locked with the malevolent figure that had desecrated his home. The wicked grin on the person's face, now seen through the lens of the world's equivalent of the devil— the most hated and feared among the divines— the Damned One himself, fueled Lanor's sense of urgency and trepidation.
The Enderman belonged to the realm of stories, whispered in hushed tones to scare children into obedience and caution. It was a spectral presence woven into the fabric of cautionary tales, a symbolic manifestation of the worst facets of humanity, and a chilling reminder of what people could become if they allowed the seed of malevolence to flourish within them.
In a surge of impulsive courage, Lanor drew the dagger that had been a constant companion at his side. The cold steel gleamed in the dim light, a desperate glint in his eyes as he launched an unwavering assault on the man adorned with the ominous ring.
The man, seemingly unfazed by the sudden aggression, finally turned his attention to Lanor. With an eerie calm, he effortlessly parried each desperate thrust of the dagger, as if swatting away an insect. In a swift and calculated movement, he stepped with brutal precision, his boot finding a perch on Lanor's stomach, forcing him to the cold stone floor.
Lanor winced, the air expelled from his lungs as he lay immobilized beneath the weight of the malevolent figure. The dagger, now rendered useless, clattered to the ground, echoing the futility of his impulsive act. The Enderman, or the man associated with the ominous symbol, loomed over him with a cold indifference, as if punishing a child for a reckless transgression.
The rain outside continued its relentless percussion, a stark contrast to the tense silence that enveloped the once-grand halls of Haval Estate. Lanor, pinned and defeated, met the unyielding gaze of his adversary.
The Enderman, his boot still pressing down on Lanor's stomach, chuckled with cruel amusement. "Wow, a kid! So brave! You could make a fine mercenary, someday!"
Lanor, defiant despite his vulnerable position, retorted with a fire in his eyes. "I am not just some kid! I am Lanor! Of House Haval! I shall get the respect I deserve!"
The Enderman, seemingly amused by Lanor's spirited response, remarked, "And eloquent too!" His tone carried a mocking edge.
More men gathered behind the Enderman, gaining amusement from watching the young noble heir getting bullied.
"Hahaha!"
"The boss is merciless!"
"Yeah, as expected, he can even kill a child!"
"Shut up, I saw you kill more children than me!"
"You shut up, if I didn't kill them, one or two of you fools would have raped them!"
"Honor?"
"Hahaha!"
"Blathering fools, we are mercenaries!"
"Boss, tell this man, it ain't wrong to kill a child!"
Lanor, his bravado strained by tears, still tried to project resilience. "Kill me!"
The Enderman, infuriated by the discord among his mercenaries, barked, "Shut up, you fucking fools!" His command reverberated through the chamber, momentarily silencing the rowdy banter.
His cold gaze shifted back to Lanor, and with a savage grin, he declared, "And you, I won't kill you. Not because I am kind, it is because I am fucking petty." The admission carried a chilling weight, an acknowledgment that sparing Lanor was not an act of mercy but a deliberate choice born from a darker motive.
Lanor, a mix of relief and defiance in his voice, retorted, "You won't kill me?! You will regret it, you bastard!"
The Enderman, unaffected by Lanor's threats, revealed the sinister purpose behind his actions. "The job bestowed to me is to end the Haval House, and make sure to end their line... also, I want you to remember, it is the Mundar King who is our client." His wicked grin underscored the treacherous alliances that fueled the impending tragedy.
Lanor blanched, their own King, their House Haval who was honorable was betrayed of all people, by their own King!
The Enderman then took out a dagger and proceeded to bloody castrate Lanor. It was a gruesome sight that even the watching mercenaries blanched. There was no hesitation or mercy in the way the Enderman moved. And traces of any emotion had left him... There was no wicked grin, bloodlust, or of any sort. He was just mechanically and bloodily doing his job.
As dawn broke, Lanor's consciousness emerged from the dream's grip, his eyes fluttering open to the soft glow of morning light. The familiar surroundings of a tent enveloped him, a stark contrast to the grandeur of the Haval Estate. The scent of canvas, the distant rustle of leaves, and the comforting warmth of a bedroll beneath him grounded him in the present.
Gone were the trappings of childhood, replaced by the maturation of time. Lanor, no longer a boy, felt the weight of years in the subtle shifts of muscle and the contours of his face. The dream, with its tumultuous scenes, now lingered as a phantom memory, gradually dissipating like morning mist.
As he rose from his makeshift bed, Lanor's thoughts lingered on the dream's residue—the stark reminder of a past that, though haunting, remained confined to the realms of the subconscious.
As Lanor stirred from his tent, memories of the journey with a company of soldiers flooded his waking thoughts. The night had been a respite, a brief interlude in their relentless march. The camp, once shrouded in darkness, now stirred with the soft glow of dawn.
Outside, the soldiers moved with practiced efficiency. Tents, once standing proud in the moonlit shadows, now lay folded and neatly stowed. The air was alive with the murmur of orders, the rhythmic clatter of armor, and the subdued hum of camaraderie.
Lanor's eyes swept across the orderly scene. Each soldier, a cog in the intricate machinery of the company, moved with purpose.
As Lanor moved through the bustling camp, a familiar figure approached him with purposeful strides. Captain Demenes, a seasoned military man with a weathered countenance, emerged as a reliable ally. Middle-aged and marked by the experiences etched into his features, the captain exuded an air of steadfast determination.
"Lanor," Captain Demenes greeted, his voice carrying the weight of both camaraderie and the solemnity of their shared endeavors. His uniform, adorned with the insignia of command, spoke of a disciplined leader accustomed to navigating the complexities of military life.
Captain Demenes, with a discerning gaze, noted Lanor's weary appearance. "How are you doing? You look terrible!"
Lanor, his mind still haunted by the remnants of the night's nightmare, replied, "Nightmare, so how many days until we reach Mundramon City?"
The captain, unfazed by the candid acknowledgment of distress, offered a practical outlook. "A week at maximum, so are you ready to be a Hero? And spearhead this coup?" A casual smile played on Demenes's lips.
"As long as you keep your word..." Lanor's response carried a note of cautious optimism, a reflection of the trust that balanced on the delicate precipice of their alliance.
Demenes nodded affirmatively. "Yes, that I will help you raise House Haval! So, how is your mechanical eye? Your dead left eye will be a great disadvantage to you, so I hope the mechanical eye can help..."
Lanor's left eye, a testament to the perils of wielding magic beyond his capabilities, was a lifeless orb. In its place was a mechanical construct, an artifact, which allowed Lanor to see in his left side again.
Lanor, a sense of marvel in his voice, remarked, "It is impressive, I think my combat power just increased by a fold... This artifact even sees better than my good eye, it traces motion trajectory like a charm... sneak attacks won't be a problem anymore, not to mention arrows or even the Sword Saint."
Demenes, ever pragmatic, teased, "Getting overconfident, huh?"
Lanor chuckled, a gratitude-laden tone in his response. "I have to thank you for that. If not for you providing a Sword Master or an Expert Caster, I would have not seen much improvement in myself." The acknowledgment underscored the symbiotic nature of their alliance.
Captain Demenes, his tone laced with a cautionary edge, advised, "Don't be too overeager, you are our champion, yes, but you are also our 'justification' for this coming civil war. Your Perfect Physique is enough to sway plenty of the Aristocratic Factions, but after you provided them proof of the Mundar King sending mercenaries to the vanished Houses two decades ago, all of Mundar Aristocracy had become furious!"
Lanor, a mix of satisfaction and a sense of responsibility in his voice replied, "Yeah, I am happy that my investigations could be of some use... I only used it to try tracking down the mercenary the King hired."
Demenes, his commitment unwavering, reassured Lanor, "I promise you, Lanor, I will help you hunt the mercenaries who destroyed your House!"
Lanor, his voice carrying a weight of resolve, stated, "I have killed them already."
Demenes, acknowledging Lanor's capabilities with a nod, remarked, "As expected of you, Lanor!"
Lanor's tone shifted, a note of contemplation weaving through his words. "Except one man."
Demenes, ever pragmatic, responded with determination, "Then we'll find him."
Lanor, revealing a facet of mercy in the midst of vengeance, confessed, "I spared him."
Demenes, his tone somber and questioning, asked, "Why?"
Lanor, a heavy admission in his voice, revealed the torment within. "I kept thinking about it now as nightmares of him continued to plague me. I spared him not out of kindness, but pettiness... I let the Enderman in me take control. So I burned his house, stole his gold, and beat him for personal joy. He was now old, frail, very alone, and just a husk of the monster I believed him to be. I wanted him to suffer so I spared him..."
Demenes, understanding the twisted complexities of Lanor's decision, responded with grim resolve, "Good, then I pray the Divines to let him suffer a fate more miserable than his yesterdays."
Lanor, a wry smile playing on his lips, admitted, "But I think, the reason I did not kill him is something else... I did not spare him. It was that I could not muster the courage to kill him..." A shudder ran through him, a raw vulnerability exposed. "I am afraid of him. That's why nightmares of him continue to haunt me." He paused, the weight of the admission hanging in the air. "I am afraid of him... I am afraid of the Enderman."
Demenes, with a reassuring resolve, declared, "Then when you are made King, we will come to him... You have my back, young man!"
"I wish it was that easy," Lanor confessed weakly.