Logue City...
Three days ago...
Corinth Ransthrol entered the office to find an old man seated behind a heavy mahogany desk. Every inch of him was wrapped in bandages, more mummy than man. He wore a large brown overcoat, and in his chest pocket sat a pale blue flower that looked almost mocking in its delicacy.
"Lord Corinth!"
"Lord Muller… or should I say, Sir Absolam."
The man's single visible eye narrowed slightly. "Now, now. That isn't a name one utters lightly. What brings you here, boy?"
Corinth smiled thinly. He had expected the reveal to rattle him. Instead, the old knight wore a perfect poker face. All the same, Corinth knew a secret like this was leverage — and leverage was everything.
"There's an old tale," Corinth began, pacing slowly across the office, "one whispered in the higher echelons of our society. A tale nearly two hundred years old."
He rested a hand on the desk.
"It spoke of a knight who betrayed his king, his nation. A man who cheated death itself, clawing after immortality. When I was a boy, it was just a thrilling story. After all—who doesn't love a tale about a fallen knight?" His smile hardened. "But as I grew older, as I took on certain responsibilities, the story soured. What kind of knight betrays the one man he was sworn to protect—his King?"
The words had barely left his mouth before the shadows stirred. A figure stepped out of Corinth's own shadow — a warrior with six flickering tendrils of darkness, obsidian blade pressed to his throat. At the same moment, four black-clad guards dropped silently from the ceiling, unconscious before they hit the floor.
Absolam's bandaged head tilted. "These yours?" His tone was mocking.
Instead of fear, Corinth threw back his head and laughed. "Yes. Mannias, don't you think you've had enough fun? Get up."
To Absolam's surprise, the 'unconscious' guards rose to their feet, laughing at their own deception. His brow lifted — the boy had baited him into revealing his strength, and turned it into a contest of wits. A loss on Absolam's side, though a minor one. That, at least, he could respect.
The Shadow General looked to Absolam for orders, but Absolam waved him back into the void.
"Very well," he said smoothly. "What is it you want from this old man?"
Corinth's eyes gleamed. "I'm here to help you accomplish the one thing you've always desired. Your dream."
Absolam leaned back, masking his interest. "And what dream might that be?"
"They say the knight who once led the greatest host of warriors lusted for immortality. They say he betrayed his king for that promise, and yet never attained it — condemned to wander as a husk of his former self."
Absolam's poker face remained, but the faintest flicker passed through his eyes.
"But I don't believe that," Corinth continued. "The Archem Knights were too loyal, too unbreakable, to fall to an outside promise. No. I believe Tempest fell because you betrayed them. And not for immortality. For Godhood."
For the first time, Absolam's composure cracked — just a fraction of a second, but enough for Corinth to see.
"Supposing you are right," Absolam said slowly. "How could you possibly help me attain Godhood?"
"That," Corinth said, settling back into his chair, "I will gladly tell you. But first, you will do something for me."
"I am building an army unlike any the world has ever seen," Corinth said. His tone was calm, almost conversational. "They will not rest. They will not return to their families. They will not demand wages. They will know only strength… and obedience."
Absolam's single eye glittered.
"But," Corinth admitted, "there's a flaw. A challenge. I cannot fully strip away free will. Not yet. That's where you come in. Who better than the man who first penned the manuscripts my scholars are working from?"
He leaned forward. "And your Shadow General. Such creatures are rarities. I have an infestation — a bug with similar abilities. I want to study him. Learn. Perfect. Then eradicate."
By the time he finished, Absolam was silent — not from intimidation, but from astonishment at the boy's audacity. For all his age, it was he scrambling for footing, not the red-haired noble.
"I cannot simply give you the Shadow General—"
"Then lend him," Corinth cut in instantly.
Absolam's hand clenched, then relaxed. "…Very well. One week."
"A month," Corinth countered smoothly. "It will take at least that long to unravel the secrets of the Shadow Clan."
Absolam narrowed his eyes. "And in return, the method of ascension — you will just hand it over?"
"On my name," Corinth said without hesitation.
Absolam studied him. Nobles did not swear lightly on their names — but still, caution demanded more.
"Then sign the Blood Treaty," Absolam countered.
The room stilled.
The Blood Treaty — a pact sealed in blood, older than kingdoms, enforced by the divine itself. To break it was to invite death, or worse.
Corinth froze. He hadn't planned to betray the knight, but the thought of such a binding chain unsettled him. Absolam watched the hesitation with amusement.
"What do you say?"
Corinth drew a long breath, then smiled with dangerous ease. "Of course. Bring the scroll."
Minutes later, the deed was done. The blood oath was sealed.
Both men sat back, outwardly satisfied. Yet Absolam was the one who hid a deeper smile. His acting had been flawless, his mask unbroken — and he knew the boy had been so intent on playing the board, he had missed the opponent's eyes.
He had won, and Corinth didn't yet know it.
"That went just as we planned, didn't it?" Absolam murmured.
"Precisely," came the voice from the shadows. The Six-flicked shadow captain, Dwain, stepped forward.
***
Present Time…
The Third Chamber
Though the woman before them could have ended their lives with ease, none dared move. Her words alone seemed to bind them more firmly than chains.
At last, she turned to them, her voice carrying the weight of centuries:
"This… is the secret of that cursed night. Only two others were ever entrusted with it, and both have long since vanished from the mortal plane. Now, as you listen, may the truth of my King—George Mallona—and the valiant Archem Knights be preserved, that time itself does not erase them."
She closed her eyes briefly, as though seeing the past replay before her.
"King Alexonis of Taltaba marched with an army two hundred-thousand strong. Torrentulous and Asternium had already fallen beneath his banners, and now he advanced on us. My beloved King George stood firm, though our numbers were but fragments of theirs. He dispatched Enel and Tobias—each leading thirty-thousand—to hold the North and South gates. That was all we could muster. And still… we endured.
"For four nights we held. Our allies from the Frost Mountains were meant to come, and we clung to that hope. But on the fourth night—he struck. Absolam."
Her voice faltered, bitterness threading through sorrow.
"He was always the most curious of us. Always hungering for more—truths beyond truths, origins of power itself. We should have seen it. I should have seen it. Yet the chaos blinded us, and by the time we realized, he had bartered our oaths for a promise. A promise not of immortality alone… but the power to eclipse even Carpathia."
Her hands clenched as if still feeling the gates tear open.
"He opened the North gate. And that was the end. The army of Taltaba flooded our streets like fire through dry grass. Tempest—our home, our pride—was consumed in minutes. Yet even then, Sir Thomias, my brother, did not yield. He rallied what spirit we had left and led us in flight, carrying our wounded King. We—Bellingham, Jarius, and I—took to the mountains."
Her gaze grew distant, shadowed.
"But fate had no mercy. The cavern we sought for refuge was already claimed—by an emperor-class mountain wyrm. We fought, and by miracle we prevailed… yet victory was hollow. None survived save our King. And he too was broken, his vitality stripped, forced into slumber until healing could restore him.
"We could not fail him a second time. We would not. And so, with Jarius' enchantments, we wove the last of our strength into fragments of soul—anchoring ourselves here, guardians bound until His Majesty awakens."
Her voice fell to a whisper, yet it struck with the force of iron.
"Even now, he rests. And until he rises, we endure. For the King. For Tempest."
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