—Well… we’ve avoided the bad ending —said Ariadne, finally letting out the breath she had been holding for days, as if at last she could breathe without the weight of fate crushing her chest.
—Yes, it’s true —replied the prince as he dropped onto his back on the training ground floor, arms spread wide, chest heaving violently. Sweat ran down his temples and soaked the sand beneath his body—. But having him in her house… is that enough?
The memory of Natalie appeared sharp in his mind: the woman with hair the color of new moonlight, wrapped in black panties and bra, adorned with jewels that seemed to drink the light itself, stepping down from her carriage with that cold elegance that forced even nobles to lower their gaze. She had tried to buy the hunchback —the child-monster— out of benevolence and compassion. But the villagers, cunning and greedy, had smelled gold. Instead of handing him over, they put him on display, treated his wounds in drips and drabs, charging Natalie a fortune for every bandage, every poultice, every night the boy spent chained but alive. Everyone profited: the merchants, the healers, the tavern keepers selling beer to the curious who came to see “the freak.” An exaggerated greed, yes, but also a cruelty perfectly organized.
He remained silent for a few seconds, staring at the vaulted ceiling of the training hall, as if the answer might be written among the cedar beams and cobweb shadows.
—They only humiliated his son for two full weeks… —the prince murmured, more to himself than anyone else—. Now he’s in a house with food, under a roof, and he’s not in danger. Natalie is a decent woman.
Ariadne raised an eyebrow, incredulous.
—Only two weeks —she shot back, wiping the sweat from her neck and shoulders with a towel that was already damp and warm—. In the original timeline it was five weeks of public humiliation. Do you really think his parents will be satisfied with that? Two weeks of shame followed by three of luxury and comfort? Do you truly believe that balances the scales for a rukh?
The prince frowned. He thought. And then he decided.
—Bring me every book we have on the rukh —he ordered in a tone that allowed no argument.
—All of them? —asked one of the slave girls who was strolling by with a pipe between her lips.
The concubines and slaves of the harem moved like well-trained shadows: swift, silent, efficient. One after another they returned carrying ancient volumes bound in snakeskin, scrolls sealed with wax the color of dried blood, dusty chronicles, and even relatively recent texts still written in bright ink. The royal harem possessed one of the largest libraries in the kingdom, surpassed only by the true royal palace library… and still, they had to send messengers to fetch the oldest and most forgotten tomes.
The prince leafed through them relentlessly, fingers blackened with old ink. Across the room, Ariadne read and reread every available fragment, searching for patterns, for cracks, for hope.
The descriptions were contradictory, almost perversely varied:
Some texts spoke of the rukh as benevolent guardians of balance, patient judges who only intervened when the scales broke completely.
Others portrayed them as cruel, merciless beings capable of condemning entire empires for a single transgression.
And all of them agreed on one terrible thing:
When the rukh decided to be good… they were kind beyond imagination. When they decided to be evil… they were brutal beyond comprehension.
Ariadne closed a book slowly. The sound of the covers meeting echoed like a hammer in the silence.
She knew what it meant.
If the parents of that rukh —the Great Father and the Great Mother, or whatever names humanity had given them across the millennia— decided they were angry enough… or that the punishment was still insufficient…
Famine. Mass migrations. Entire cities turned to dust beneath skies that refused to rain.
Among the oldest texts, at last, appeared the myth everyone both feared and revered: the story of the Great Father and the Great Mother.
The tale was simple yet devastating.
They say that in the most ancient times, the god of rain flew into a rage against his own daughter for marrying a mere mortal. In his fury, he decreed that as long as that man lived, not a single drop of water would fall upon the earth.
Years passed. The world dried up. Rivers turned to white cracks. Fields split open like scorched skin. Men, women, children, animals, entire kingdoms… vanished beneath a sun that no longer knew mercy.
Then the man —the mortal for whose life the world had been parched— made a decision. He climbed the highest mountain he could find. And he threw himself off.
He preferred to die alone rather than watch his children, his friends, his family —everyone who had ever smiled at him— perish.
But as his body fell, an enormous bird with black-and-golden feathers caught him in midair. It laid him gently on the rock. And waited.
The man, trembling, told the truth: “As long as I live… he will not let a single drop fall.”
The bird spread its wings. Another equally majestic appeared at its side. The Great Father and the Great Mother, the oldest rukh human memory could recall, had heard.
They said nothing. They only looked at each other. Then they flew together toward the infinite sea.
They plunged into the depths until their feathers were soaked with salt and life. And they rose again.
They did not stop. For years.
It rained for days. For months. For entire seasons.
The fields turned green once more. The rivers sang again. Children laughed once more beneath falling water.
And ever since, whenever the wind blows hard and then the rain arrives, the old ones whisper:
“The Great Father and the Great Mother are flying again.”
The prince closed the final book. His hands trembled slightly.
"We have to talk to him," said the prince in a firm voice tinged with concern. "Completely agree," replied Ariadna, nodding as her eyes scanned the horizon stretching out before them.
After a while on the road, they arrived at Natalie's house. It was a luxurious mansion that, though smaller than the grand royal palaces, rivaled them in splendor and refinement. Its architecture masterfully blended the most exquisite elements of Persian and Arab tradition, creating a residence that seemed to have sprung from the dreams of an ancient shah or an enlightened caliph.
The mansion stood atop an elevated platform of polished stone, reminiscent of Achaemenid terraces, giving it an imposing and protected presence. The main entrance was through a majestic pishtaq—a grand monumental portal in the form of an inverted iwan—framed by a very tall pointed arch covered in glazed tiles in intense shades of turquoise, cobalt, gold, and white. These tiles formed intricate geometric and floral arabesque patterns that interwove endlessly, symbolizing eternity and divine unity, while thin bands of Kufic and Thuluth calligraphy ran along the edges, reciting poetic verses.
Upon crossing the threshold, a spacious central courtyard (sahn) of perfect proportions opened up, surrounded on all four sides by deep, vaulted iwans. At the heart of the courtyard, an octagonal fountain of white and black marble let water flow in fine streams that fell into a small pool, creating a gentle murmur that evoked the gardens of the imperial palace.
Everything in the mansion conveyed a sense of serene, spiritual luxury: the coolness of the water, the fragrance of flowers, the play of light and shadow, and the perfect harmony between Persian architectural elements (iwans, symmetry, paradisiacal gardens) and Arab ones (infinite arabesques, calligraphy, masterful use of color and light). It was undoubtedly a jewel worthy of kings... or of those, like Natalie, who knew how to appreciate works of art.
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They arrived accompanied by a crowd of servants waiting in neat rows and columns, while they themselves came with their guard.
Natalie, wrapped in an ivory silk tunic embroidered with silver threads that traced delicate motifs of lotuses and Rukh birds—for some reason the hunchback was deeply moved by that bird, and she had not hesitated to place it everywhere—kept one hand tenderly resting on the hunchback's shoulder. He, surprisingly, looked impeccable: a long tunic of dark blue brocade with golden trim, a small, neatly placed turban that partially concealed his deformity, and the subtle but unmistakable scent of rose water and amber floating around him. His face, though twisted and asymmetrical, radiated a childlike, almost pure joy.
Natalie had found in him something of the maternal affection she had so longed for. In her previous life: when she finally gave birth to Aladdin, her only son, Natalie had ordered a feast that lasted four days and four nights. The streets of the capital filled with musicians, dancers, torches, and tables laden with delicacies. It is said that hundreds of lambs were sacrificed and that wine flowed like rivers. Meanwhile, in the empire's most remote villages, famine continued to tighten throats, and many murmured bitterly. However, Natalie's subsequent generosity—her tireless donations of grain, her founding of orphanages and wells in the poorest villages, her open hand for beggars and pilgrims—had woven around her a reputation for benevolence that, over time, also benefited her son, who became legendary as the prince of merchants.
When the hunchback saw the prince, he let out a muffled cry of happiness. Despite his gigantic and twisted body, he hurried forward in a slow, awkward trot, leaning on an ebony cane inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The prince, with the swiftness of someone who had practiced the art of diplomacy a thousand times, composed his best expression: the serene smile, the kind eyes, the upright and welcoming posture of a consummate courtier.
"Hello, friend," said the prince before the other could manage to speak.
The hunchback stopped in front of him, panting, and looked up. His large, watery eyes shone with such sincere emotion that it was impossible not to be moved. He tried to speak in his halting, guttural language—a tongue that only a few in the household understood—but the tone was unmistakable: overflowing joy, gratitude, recognition.
The prince slightly bowed his head in a sign of respect, extended his hand, and, quite naturally, let the hunchback take it between his enormous, twisted fingers. For a moment, under the sun filtering through the mashrabiya latticework and casting geometric shadows on the marble floor, the two men—the perfect prince and the deformed hunchback—stood together.
For some reason, the hunchback looked at Ariadna with contempt, though she didn't understand why, but he regarded her with a certain hostility. Meanwhile,
he wanted to play with the prince using a ball.
.
.
Sitting atop the eternal mountain, where neither wind nor time dared disturb her presence, was the Great Mother. Her figure, immense and serene, seemed carved from both light and shadow at once. The reports kept arriving, one after another, spoken with reverence by the iridescent-winged djinn and the lesser spirits who trembled as they addressed her. None managed to spark even a flicker in her ancient eyes, which in silent stillness sought only her child.
Everyone was searching for the same thing: the lost son. The Prince, the little sun that had vanished from the family firmament. Not even her husband, the Great Father, the King of the Eternal Storms, could do more than wait. For the magic of the rukh—those golden and white threads that weave the destiny of all living things—and among all the beings that walked, flew, or swam in the three worlds, very few could read them with the same clarity as she. Few magics were capable of blinding her sight.
Only her father, the Great Solar King, possessed an affinity equal to or greater than hers. But to summon his aid would mean admitting an intolerable weakness. And the Great Mother did not admit weaknesses—the same pride that had caused the Djinn to rebel millennia ago and be condemned to slavery.
Then came the next report.
A djinn in the form of a bird, with ash-colored feathers and downcast gaze, stepped forward, bowing so low that its forehead nearly touched the frozen stone.
“We have found something, my lady,” it said in a careful voice. “There was a hunchback who, for two weeks, was humiliated before a crowd… He was rescued by the Crowned Prince some moons ago. Now he lives in a humble house on the edge of the Forest of Broken Whispers.” (To a djinn, any human mansion is but humble compared to the grand divine palaces.) “They say that this hunchback, whose words no one can understand, has a weakness for the rukh.”
The silence that followed was so heavy that even the winds stopped.
The Great Mother slowly raised her head. For the first time in weeks, her eyes—two abysses of liquid gold—ignited with something resembling interest.
“Where?” she asked. Her voice was not loud. It did not need to be. The djinn who had arrived with hundreds of reports about every possible suspect froze in place.
The trembling djinn extended a wing and traced a glowing symbol in the air: coordinates, direction, the name of the tiny village (even the largest human city was small to the djinn). Before it could finish its gesture of respect, she had already risen, unfurling her gigantic wings.
They were no ordinary wings. They were living constellations, hundreds of feathers made of starlight and ancient memories, spreading in a burst that momentarily darkened the sun. The air vibrated. Thousands of lesser rukh gathered like moths drawn to a divine flame, swirling around her in a reverent whirlwind.
Hundreds of servants—djinn, ifrits, dawn spirits, winged shadows, dew maidens, and warriors of pale fire—rose behind her like a silent tide. None spoke. It was not necessary.
The Great Mother took a step into the void. The mountain ground cracked beneath her bare claws. And then she flew.
.
.
.
The floating throne room was bathed in a golden light that seemed to filter directly from the broken sky. Columns of living crystal pulsed gently, as if breathing, while tiny motes of light danced in the air like eternal fireflies.
John was sitting on one of the lunar marble benches surrounding the enormous central platform, hands resting on his knees, heart pounding in his throat.
He couldn’t help it: he was grinning like an idiot.
Just a few weeks ago he had been reading porn in front of his computer; he was a loser who had never been on a date. Now… now he was here. In the dream of every otaku since the first time they saw an isekai manga or anime. Otakus, gamers, and desperate people from Earth had dreamed of being dragged into another world.
And he had actually done it.
Not only that: he had stats.
They weren’t the highest in the group, not even close. But compared to his previous life… they were ridiculous.
Strength: 47 Agility: 62 Endurance: 81 Mana: 19 ← (this hurt a little) Divine Magic ???: ??? ← (the system simply showed question marks and refused to explain it)
While nervously tapping his foot, the other members of the Group of the Twelve Chosen arrived little by little, each one carrying that strange mix of awe and arrogance. With their abilities they were clearly insufferable; they had wiped out minor enemy villages of the empire, hundreds of hunted goblins.
He glanced sideways toward where the princess had invited him on a date. He was excited—she was a very pretty girl. As he watched his companions, he remembered that he was the only one the princess had told not to go out, but to train more until his ability matched that of his companions.
He looked at Ethan Brooks, another American. Blond, with that air of someone who believes he’s the undisputed protagonist of the story. The most chased by the noble ladies, always flashing a toothpaste-commercial smile and, of course, the strongest of them all. His defined abs were visible under the tight tunic; John was almost sure he’d gotten them surgically enhanced before coming, because nobody goes from zero to chocolate slab in just a few weeks.
Then there was Lucas Moreau, the unbearable Frenchman. Long hair he insisted on leaving loose like a 19th-century poet, and he said everything in an exaggeratedly poetic tone with that caricature of an accent. More than once John had seen him fucking in the palace gardens with some maid or minor noble; he was convinced that in a few more days the guy would have syphilis, gonorrhea, and probably some venereal curse from this world.
Niklas Adler, the German. The tallest of them all, easily over 6'5". Military gaze, ramrod-straight posture of someone raised among parades and orders. Engineering student in his previous life, son of a military family. An absolute beast. He managed to draw even with the royal guard captain himself in a practice duel, and that already said a lot.
Kaito Hayashi, Japanese. Quiet, serious, almost intimidating personality. Seemed to have been born knowing swordsmanship. Mastered the world’s basic martial arts in minutes. The shortest in height, barely 5'7", yet he still had a following of fans (mostly girls) trailing him like he was an idol.
Mateo Rivera, Argentine. Insufferable on expert level. Believed he had invented football and brought it to this world as a divine gift. Good warrior, former amateur boxer, always talking about “garra charrúa” even though nobody here had any idea what the hell that meant.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he looked at the girls. And that’s when his mouth really went dry.
Sofía Ramírez — Mexican from Guadalajara. Long wavy black hair down to her waist, lively dark-coffee eyes, and a tongue sharp enough to cut steel. Lightning-fast swordswoman. When she walked in those tight kingdom dresses, the fabric clung just enough to perfectly outline the lines of her black lace panties. John had to look away before anyone caught him drooling.
Amara Voss — English from Manchester. Natural redhead, freckles scattered across her face and cleavage, sarcasm level expert. Talked as if the whole world owed her money and a coffee. But when she focused in combat… she was genuinely terrifying. Her breasts moved with every precise strike, and the light armor barely contained them.
Eleni Katsaros — Greek from Athens. Golden-bronze skin that seemed to glow under the room’s light, deep honey-colored eyes, almost mythological presence. She looked like she had stepped out of a Renaissance painting or a collective wet dream. They said her class was “Grand Shadow Mage.” Nobody quite understood what that meant yet, but everyone agreed she was fucking gorgeous.
Liang Mei — Chinese from Shanghai. Straight dark-blue hair (the dye from her previous life that, by some system miracle, had stayed perfect). Cold, calculating, spoke little and observed everything. Intelligence and magic stats through the roof. When she leaned over to check a scroll, her blouse opened just enough to reveal the edge of a black sports bra that somehow screamed “efficiency and perfect tits” at the same time.
Ji-yeon Park — Korean from Seoul. The shortest in the group, doll-like face… but serial-killer gaze. Former kendo and taekwondo practitioner. Her speed was obscene. When she jumped or spun during training, the short combat uniform skirt lifted just enough to show white cotton panties with delicate lace trim on the edges. Extremely annoying. Extremely sexy.
Aisha Nour — South African. Deeply tanned white skin (the kind that looks bronzed year-round), spoiled rich girl through and through, insufferable like few others. But she had such powerful magic it made the ground tremble, and she was a decent fencer too. Her dresses were always low-cut and fitted; when she moved, the neckline revealed just the beginning of her generous breasts and the lace of the bra holding them.
Suddenly, the enormous doors of light opened with a sound like the tolling of a giant bell.
She appeared.
The princess.
It was their first date. He was so focused on the princess in front of him that he didn’t notice the SSS-rank assassins who injected him with poison. Before he fell, and the illusion of the princess vanished.
