PART 13: THE SECOND OVERTURN

  Chapter 048

  IX – Heir Anointed

  Everything felt empty. The air itself felt hollow. At this altitude, Vynelor could barely breathe without his head growing light. Curled up with his hands covering his miserable face, he waited—for nothing to call out to him. Beneath the desperate tears, he whispered for a father he could no longer see, and he didn’t know why. Why couldn’t he see him? Where was he?

  The last place he expected to be was hovering just beneath the clouds, with barely the height of a house between him and open sky. The wind was fierce up here. His hair pulled sideways as the cold pressed against him, keeping him curled inward. But he knew he couldn’t stay. More than that, it had been long enough for him to believe he was the only one left. Surely, he was alone.

  He opened his eyes and found the ledge only a few meters away. There was no ground—only the far horizon. He could even spot a distant mountain, its summit curving like a fishing hook.

  When he stood and approached the edge, he looked down.

  He gasped and scrambled backward, having finally grasped the sky-soaring height he was standing at. The air itself seemed to pull at him. He wanted to see his father again, just one more day. But jumping would mean death.

  “Maybe there’s another way,” he said, turning and peeking around the corner, searching the vast emptiness of what had once been a normal street lined with houses. Instead, there was only a flattened plain, with occasional jagged remnants jutting upward. A stretch of land lay ahead that he didn’t recognize at all. The uncertainty unsettled him. Every second mattered. He had to move.

  He walked carefully, as if expecting someone to ambush him from behind. The untouched homes could only do so much to hide him. The massive spire had crushed nearly everything, leaving him no choice but to cross the open.

  He passed a large slab of stone without noticing.

  Behind it, a pool of blood flowed in the opposite direction of his path. And there, lying still, was Donnor. Unresponsive.

  Every pebble and uneven stone made him stumble. Hands clasped tightly together, Vynelor looked around as he entered a new stretch of land, one shaped by unfamiliar terrain. Debris and ash lay everywhere. Stones were piled messily, as if shoved aside in haste. Wood and straw followed. Fabric, marble, shattered runestones—he could name them all, yet could not understand why they lay broken.

  He walked until he reached a vast plain that once held grass, fountains, and the great Armiton HQ. Now it was flat. Unnaturally so. Even the stone embedded in the floating land showed no deformation. The gray field stared back at him, as though a fierce battle had taken place. He wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Dark streaks ran through it, veins he couldn’t quite identify. He moved closer.

  Standing over the strange markings, he knelt and looked carefully. They weren’t patterns at all.

  They were liquid.

  Dark red. Metallic.

  His heart began to pound.

  “You’re alive,” said a voice.

  Vynelor snapped his head up. His eyes locked onto the source. The voice was feminine, but broken—gurgling. Despite the distortion, it sounded familiar, though he couldn’t understand why. Following the trail of blood across the field, he saw Luminar lying beside a pile of stone. Her dress was ruined, the fabric soaked scarlet. Her hair was matted red, her body barely recognizable. Yet even in that state, she reached out a hand and grinned with absolute certainty.

  “My god is alive. Come here.”

  The boy hesitated, confused and afraid. A god? Her brutal condition made his heart race. Blood was everywhere. The sight alone forced him to step back.

  “Who…” he said, his voice trembling. “Who are you…?”

  “I am Luminar Thallion,” she replied. “Your servant.”

  More questions flooded his mind, but he didn’t know where to begin. All he wanted was to get down from this height and return to his father. To see if he was alive. To feel his presence again. The memory was blurred, but he remembered being chased by a soldier, remembered terror, and then nothing. Vynelor had collapsed somewhere in the chaos. He hoped it meant fleeing into the wilderness was all it would take for them to reunite.

  After all, Wallan was always there.

  “Come,” she said again. “Come to me and let me see your…”

  Her head turned sharply to the side. Her lips went still.

  Vynelor didn’t know what she saw that made her tense. Nervous, he turned as well.

  And then she screamed, sudden and raw.

  “Run—!”

  “I got you.”

  TROTTO

  HP: 19 / 656

  Trotto lunged at Vynelor and slammed into him. His ruined legs failed, and both crashed to the ground, the boy pinned beneath the broken man.

  Vynelor stared up as drops of blood trickled onto his face. The man above him was streaked in red, his skin blotched black and purple. He coughed up fluid as his fractured fingers curled through the pain and closed around the boy’s throat. Red-stained hands squeezed with the last strength he had.

  “You are the one,” Trotto gurgled wetly. “You are the one the fiend worships. Kill you, and she is powerless. Die. You deserve to die. You made me like this filthy! YOU!”

  With every grinding clench of his teeth, the man forced more of his weight down, suffocating him. Vynelor’s eyes bulged, pressure flooding his head as blood compacted behind his vision. He thrashed desperately, twisting his body in a frantic attempt to break free.

  Luminar forced her upper body up and raised a trembling hand, sending an IM toward Trotto in desperation.

  A barricade erupted from the ground. A wall of stone rose instantly to block her weakened magic. The flames burst apart and vanished into the air. Turning her head, she saw Kallanor stepping in once more. Growling, she began to crawl toward them.

  But would she make it in time?

  Vynelor locked eyes with the king. Murder burned there—red veins coiling around the pupils, twisted and unnatural. He kicked again and again until, at last, the grip loosened. The king rolled off him, then rolled again, his legs completely useless.

  The child sat upright, trying to stand but failing. His body trembled, adrenaline surging faster than he could endure.

  Trotto lunged again, using the exposed flesh of his knees to hurl himself forward. He closed the gap and collapsed onto Vynelor’s lap. His hands immediately went for the boy’s throat.

  “You are not getting away,” he said, unwavering. “Die.”

  Vynelor wheezed, breath spiraling out of control. He shook his head violently, shoving at the man’s chest. “No!” he screamed. “Please, no! Get away! Get away!”

  The king did not respond. He did not stop. He seized the boy by the collar, smearing him with blood.

  “Stop!”

  Vynelor kicked desperately, trying to crawl backward. It was useless.

  “I don’t want this!”

  He slapped Trotto, but the king pressed on, reaching for his neck again.

  “I don’t want to die!”

  He kicked Trotto in the face, sending him tumbling aside. But the man’s hand remained clenched in the boy’s trousers. He dragged himself back on top of him.

  “Please!”

  Trotto did not listen.

  Vynelor shoved at the king’s face. His palm pressed forward—

  and began to glow.

  “PLEASE—!”

  Incantation Magic ? Lv. 21

  A beam erupted from his palm.

  A sharp pop followed.

  Vynelor’s eyes were squeezed shut. The pressure vanished. When he opened them, white smoke curled from his hand. He pulled it back slowly, staring in disbelief. Then his gaze fell to the king.

  TROTTO

  HP: 0 / 656

  Trotto’s face was burned through. Holes punched across every inch of skin. The body collapsed forward, lifeless and heavy, crushing Vynelor beneath it. Blood spilled freely onto the boy’s face, neck, and chest. He froze in horror, lungs unable to draw air as shock closed in. His vision tunneled.

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  And then—

  His system screen flared into existence. Glyphs shifted. Numbers reacted.

  ● System Update ●

  Destruction to the body. Destruction to the soul. Construction to the system.

  Strength Capacity Threshold — Fulfilled

  Endurance Capacity Threshold — Fulfilled

  Temperament Slate is Shifting…

  Paincallused ? Lv. 4 → 5

  Adaptation Path is Shifting…

  Telekinetic Magic ? Lv. 26 → 30

  Incantation Magic ? Lv. 21 → 25

  ● System Update ●

  Fifty-one imprints. A devastating cost.

  Threshold Met — Eightfold Sharpening Triggered

  Vynelor – Lv. 38 → 46

  But he couldn’t read the numbers. With a corpse sprawled over him, soaked in its own blood from head to toe, the only thought left in him was to escape.

  “No…” he cried. “Please… make this stop…”

  Vynelor shoved the body off and wiped his face with his sleeve, only smearing more crimson across his skin. The stench clung to him. He tried to run, but his legs felt overloaded—too much sensation, too many signals at once—his nervous system on the verge of collapse. He ran without direction. A jutting rock caught his foot, and he pitched forward, his face striking the ground. He scrambled up again and kept running, arms dragging, tears spilling without end.

  “I don’t want this…” he sobbed. “Stop this…”

  Then he was caught.

  Not by stone.

  By magic.

  A thread lashed out and snagged his collar from behind. He fell hard onto his back. Turning, he saw the magic pooled on the ground, thin and exhausted, yet still gripping him. Tracing it back, he found her.

  Luminar.

  Her eyes were wide, glassy, tears spilling freely. A flickering smile fought against a rigid, empty expression. Her breathing lurched between calm and frantic gasps. Her brows twitched—furrowing, relaxing, then tightening again.

  “You killed him,” she said, her voice sliding from calm into manic delight. “You—! You. My god. Absolutely splendid. That is you—”

  Without warning, her head snapped toward the next king ahead.

  Tyllidan.

  Her expression froze, then twisted into something sharper, more deranged. Luminar changed.

  “They ruined me,” she said, her voice climbing higher. “They must die. Kill them. Destroy them. Remove them. Kill them.”

  She repeated the words over and over as her magic dragged the boy across the ground. She no longer had the strength to lift her own thread, her body near collapse. But she didn’t care. Her eyes were locked on the next man, the reason for this Second Overturn already forgotten. All that remained was the need to kill.

  With the child in tow, she dragged him toward the second king.

  “What…?” Vynelor could barely think anymore. He looked at Tyllidan, and their eyes met. The man lay broken, his hands out of sight, his legs shattered. Blood coated him. “No… stop… get away…”

  Luminar kept pulling until Vynelor was right in front of him.

  Tyllidan’s eyes narrowed as he saw the child. Gritting his teeth, he began crawling forward, dragging himself with his shoulders.

  Vynelor kicked desperately at the stones beneath him, trying to push away. His body shook too violently to obey. Luminar’s voice echoed in his head—kill, kill, kill.

  “Stop!” he screamed, twisting to look back at her.

  She didn’t hear him.

  Panicked, he aimed his palm at the ground beneath her and fired. The blast sent rock and debris bursting upward, throwing Luminar aside. Her body tumbled across the ground until she landed flat, staring at the sky.

  The magical thread vanished.

  “No! Get back!”

  Vynelor crawled away as fast as he could, his limbs numb and uncooperative. He wanted to run, but his blurred vision and trembling body allowed only a slow retreat. He backed into a broken section of Armiton’s wall. Stone pressed against his spine.

  There was nowhere left to go.

  Tyllidan kept crawling.

  Vynelor cried out, hoarse and broken, begging him to stop, to stay back. But the blood-smeared face with hollow eyes never wavered. The man continued forward.

  So the child raised his palm.

  “Get back!”

  He fired at the ground near Tyllidan. The man ducked his head. It wasn’t enough. Vynelor fired again. The blast sent Tyllidan rolling away, but he crawled back regardless.

  “Stop!” Vynelor screamed. He aimed his palm directly at him. “If you don’t stop, I—I… I’m going to kill you! I will!”

  Tyllidan did not stop.

  He was only a few meters away.

  The light in Vynelor’s hand grew brighter.

  “ENOUGH!”

  The beam fired.

  A loud pop followed.

  TYLLIDAN

  HP: 0 / 670

  Vynelor watched the magic strike this time—fully, helplessly. He saw the flames scorch the man’s face in an instant. The body collapsed and bled without life.

  And then his system flared again.

  Numbers rose. Nothing else.

  His heart sank. His face went cold.

  He drew his legs up to his chest, hands shaking uncontrollably. His eyes squeezed shut, refusing the world. He rocked back and forth, whispering whatever words came to him. Every thought he’d buried surged to the surface, and the pain clawed at him without release.

  “Dad…” Vynelor cried, his voice barely a sound. “Dad, I want to see you. I should’ve listened to you. I shouldn’t have used magic. Magic is dangerous. Magic isn’t good. I’ve been a bad son. Please… come back. Save me.”

  Kallanor still lived. With what little magic he had left, he focused on keeping Luminar at bay. He lay there, his once-quiet composure breaking as tears spilled freely while the other kings lay dead.

  “My friends,” he said, devastated. “They are…”

  Then he faced the boy. His face changed, tears and blood soaking his gritting teeth, rage unheld.

  “You…”

  And like them, he began to crawl toward Vynelor.

  The child didn’t react.

  He stayed curled in place, wishing everything would stop. Wishing this were only a nightmare—one that felt too real. Maybe if he opened his eyes, cold water would splash over him. Wallan always liked surprising him with a bucket of water. Maybe he was asleep, waiting by the river for a fish to bite. Maybe—just maybe—Wallan had pulled him into the shade, the two of them resting together after harsh training. If only he could see his father again. If only he could tell him he was sorry for the things he’d said. If only—

  “Once upon a time…”

  A woman’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts.

  LUMINAR

  HP: 18 / 514

  Not far away, Luminar spoke, her body still facing the sky. Her head hung over a boulder, upside down. Blood streamed into her scalp and eyes, soaking her red-matted hair as it dripped downward. She looked at Vynelor and spoke as her body failed her. She spoke with unwavering firmness, refusing to stop, though her pupils were tight, her eyes wide and haunting.

  “Once upon a time, in the tale of beginnings, there was a child born to a loving family. The mother loved to caress him, kiss him, and sing lullabies. The father protected the child. It was a family with a promising future. But one day, the three kings declared a decree—ordering the slaughter of infants, fearing a slave rebellion would rise. Desperate, the parents cast him into the river in a basket. A merciless soldier discovered what they had done, and he killed them.”

  Vynelor stopped crying.

  “The child was found by an exiled man, a man unwanted by his homeland. PortThorioh despised him. But he loved the child and swore to protect him. He took him in and raised him in the wilderness as if the baby were his own. The man watched the boy grow, becoming talented, bright, and proud. Beneath every scar, the father felt only pride and quiet joy. Every harsh order, every stern word, wounded him as well, for love always carried a cost. But for the child’s safety, he did what had to be done.”

  Vynelor lowered his hands, revealing his face.

  “And then the day came when the same soldier returned—to finish what he had failed to complete. He chased them down. The man was caught with the child. Luminar intervened and saved the boy, pulling him away from death. But the father stayed behind. And the blade found him. All because of the decree.”

  Vynelor listened.

  “Scars remained in every man who had taken an infant’s life. Trauma settled into the nation itself. Yet the ones who never shed blood were the kings. Trotto. Tyllidan. Kallanor. They ruled with heartless wills, never caring for the children who longed for a family’s love. This child will never feel the embrace of the mother and father who wished to see him grow. He will never spend another day with the exiled man—the father who raised him. All because the kings chose order.”

  Vynelor’s breath caught.

  “The same child has crushed two kings. One remains.”

  Vynelor lifted his head. He looked around—and stopped.

  His eyes locked onto Kallanor.

  “The one who destroyed the child’s family knew the cost, and still chose to act. Now tell me. What will you do for the third?”

  Vynelor stood.

  His body was unnaturally still.

  Kallanor froze as he looked into the boy’s face. Something had changed. That face revealed everything—and nothing. A dark shadow rested upon it. Blood streaked downward like tears. His lips did not tremble, did not part. But his eyes were wide, fixed on the last king alive.

  He began to walk.

  Calm. Undisturbed.

  No rush. No caution.

  Kallanor raised a trembling hand, gathering what little magic he had left. After a moment, he fired a beam at the boy.

  Vynelor sidestepped.

  The beam tore past him and vanished into a distant cloud of dust.

  He did not react.

  And he continued walking.

  There was only one thought left in him now—nothing else. No fear. No anger. No urge to scream or cry. In that moment, only a single lesson echoed clearly, clearer than it ever had before. A lesson taught by the father he had lost.

  Go for the neck or the heart.

  When Vynelor stood before Kallanor, his shadow fell over the king. His tangled hair broke the outline into jagged shapes, forming a crown of spires on the ground. Kallanor’s shadow vanished beneath it. He could only look up—into two pale eyes, pupils steady and unmoved.

  “The neck,” the boy whispered.

  He placed his palm against the back of the man’s nape, fully exposed. Light bloomed from his hand. This was not survival. Not desperation. It was different.

  Vynelor felt nothing.

  The magic erupted.

  It struck the king’s neck.

  KALLANOR

  HP: 0 / 633

  Vynelor watched as the head rolled free and came to rest near his feet. His gaze followed it downward, his expression unchanged.

  On the Throne’s Elect, there was no victory.

  But a new heir had been anointed.