[Author Note: This is a chapter I'd recommend reading after you finished Volume 1. However, it isn't limited to that. You can essentially read it whenever you'd like. Just read it, though :) ]
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[Several Hundred Years Ago. . .]
Children wish.
Some, for grand wealth. Others, for beauty. Maybe a large home, or the blessed gift of everlasting intelligence.
Aglana wished, too. But hers were not greedy, they were not selfish like the others.
When would the dark, purple galaxies looming above be gone? When would the burning pit of fire cackling below extinguish? When would the vast plane of white suspending her disappear?
Bright-orange handcuffs shackled her. They sizzled, scorching her wrists red. The pain was excruciating.
Aglana longed for home.
She was dressed in a torn, thin, bland tunic. Her ribs showed through the shirt, and she opened an unfed mouth to call for help. No sound escaped.
Why was she silenced? Why did Contrivance hate her so much?
Aglana remembered waking up to her father and brother, smiling joyfully. She remembered eating with them and sleeping alongside them under the bright moon.
"Pitiful, Aglana. So pitiful."
An omnipresent, deep male voice rang through the universe, jolting Aglana from her yearning. Behind the mask of the void, he sneered. Aglana could feel it.
"This can all be fixed with one apology, you know that."
She tried to shift her weight but collapsed. The handcuffs went deeper, past the skin and reaching the bone—jarring. Aglana didn't scream; why should she? Screaming brought no help, only strain.
"Silence, hm? Heh, you're right. I'm not forgiving you with just an apology; you know what you need to do."
Despite Aglana's internal refusal, her mouth opened. "I can't."
". . ."
"It's all because of him. The ideas he put inside your head, the lies he fed you, the pain he put you through. Aglana, wake up! Julius never loved you—he conquered you. Like every single one of the 300,000 women he wed, and like every speck of the Cradles under his name."
Aglana didn't respond; she felt no need. The voice would never understand. True love, she believed, prevailed even in the face of adversity.
"Listen, you're a lone girl who won't be loved by anyone but me. Please, just do this. Then I'll let you go and you can see His tomb for yourself."
Will he stop? she thought. "Julius Bersebus will save me."
"The man left you without a trace. Poof! If your only bet is for Julius to save you, I would stop before your hope is gone."
Aglana's look changed. Her coarse black hair fluttered in the robust winds—Anger. "You don't know him or the reason why he left."
"I don't need to. All that matters is he's gone. Now I can be infinity—the true Almighty has returned."
Aglana's lusterless blue pupils looked down. "Julius will come. He will free me, and we will be together. In love and harmoney."
"Hahaha, I like that passion. Keep it for your continued enslavement. And not just to me, but to the world itself."
The voice cheekily added, "Long Live the glorious Crown, right?"
. . . .
[Years Later, but before the rise of the Fourth Great Era of Sacrifice. . .]
Creak!
Perched on an island off the charts, the massive, black walls of a regal castle groaned with irritable mumbles.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
Twelve men, adorned in long white ceremonial bone-coats, cautiously entered a dimly lit room with solemn expressions.
Hanging just below their hips, dainty longswords in sheaths of white and gold buzzed excitedly. The men lined up in an orderly fashion.
Thick, milky-white shoes strapped their feet, complementing the complex symbols covering their jackets. Below every breast, the symbol of an obsidian claymore piercing a golden crown presented itself.
A man spoke. "Palatial Vizier Aulus ordered key focus. Do not let your guard down, men, even in the Bersebus Empire's castle!"
Some scanned the area. To the left, black tarp covered a sizable window, letting through bits of light. A brown carpet featuring unruly patterns lay beneath them.
Then high on the wall, a portrait was vividly mounted. It showed a man with a genial smile, radiating warmth as if he were the sun. He had dignified copper eyes and slicked-back brown hair. Clean, composed. A single thin black line ran down his cheek like a fading tear.
Bedecking a monarch's outfit—gold embellishments emblazoning his elaborate cape—the figure held a sword identical to the one the men held. He exuded order. Dozens of military badges and awards decorated his jacket.
Sitting on a simple black throne, he rested both hands on the handles. Underneath it, where the floor should be, lay a globe. It featured specks of oceans, continents of land, and people.
Worshippers.
Yet, no crown enriched his head. It left those who witnessed this image to wonder: Was this man a king, or just a facade?
Irises shrank as the white-clad gazed at the portrait. Some stumbled back, others gasped.
Mice scurried in the corners of the room, their little footsteps echoing like distant raindrops. The atmosphere felt heavy, as if the chamber itself demanded those present must leave.
After reluctant focus, the white-clad looked up and met the eyes of the photo. It was a horrible mistake. Indescribable darkness targeted the very marrow of their bones. The chamber suffocated. All men tensed and plummeted into prostration.
Quiet droplets of sweat dotted the brown carpet. Heavy breathing bounced from one man to the next. Dust got into the nose of a prostrator. "Achoo!"
Dong! Dong! Dong!
Clamorous rings shook them.
The kneeler closest to the picture, donning a broken gold crown, struggled. His lips quivered, his eyes trembled, and his jaw clenched and released uncontrollably.
He heaved an exhale, revealing a blood-soaked, bitten tongue. "Greatness. We succumb to the greatness that you, the Conqueror of Aglana, bestow."
The rest of the men coughed. Blood splattered everywhere.
"Forgive us, our Liege. Forgive our lackluster defense. Forgive our failing will. Forgive us for letting your blessed children die at the hands of the Hierarchs."
Fear and guilt riddled his tone.
Streaming tears fell from his subordinates' faces; the ability to wipe them gone. Only rigid prostration remained.
The leader continued, "And you went out of your way to privilege us, for nothing. Unworthy servants sullying the power you dictate. We deplore you, Liege."
More crimson liquid tainted the carpet. Each man bit his tongue and staggered to feet.
One of them whimpered. "We were lost, with no purpose but to mold away in Contrivance's Era. But the Liege guided us. He showed us a path of glory, despite this world being ruined with the blood of our siblings—your children. I. . . I can't fathom a world where this persecution still exists; it's blasphemy!"
Mausi Creal: a man with many regrets. He brushed long bangs out of the way and looked down, unable to lift his head. The image in front of him was a blinding light.
Adding to Mausi's sudden outburst, another voice lamented, "Contrivance's orders were cruel, and we couldn't do anything but watch. We are weak, unlike the Filigrees, Garnitures, or the Pendilia. Contrivance can bend us to any behest. A simple death for them is not enough. It can't be."
Frederick Foyle: member of Vizier Squad 12 for thirteen years. Contrivance murdered his family in cold blood and left him hopeless. His gold eyes seethed with calm rage.
Their Vizier, Iberis Tetrarch, whose hazel eyes silently mourned, unsheathed his buzzing claymore and announced imperiously, "My Brothers, by the will of the Liege, our enemies will scour. The children will find safety. The Bersebus Empire's glory will return. Fear is nonexistent within us—only hope."
He added mightily, "Lest we forget the deaths of our kin!"
Enthusiastic affirmations rose in unison. "Aye! Our fallen brothers and sisters will find peace! Long Live the Crown! Hail Emperor!"
All swords unsheathed. Coils of dark, foggy magic spun around their blades, twisting and convulsing like a serpent squeezing its prey.
Gusts rustled the splintered wood. The smell of metal stung the nose. "Call to action," Iberis said. "Seize and destroy the Chronicles."
The squad faced Iberis as his voice commanded. "This is not the Preole Grye we know. Palatial Vizier Aulus is aware. He sensed hints of Chronicle usage here, and so we were sent."
Iberis knew Vizier Squad 12 held no strength in comparison to the others. But that didn't mean surrender. Fight until the last breath. Fight until death.
"This remnant castle of the Bersebus Empire will be the base. If you find any clues, report back here, to me."
The squad nodded. Then a faint presence made its way around the ancient castle, eliciting a mix of reactions. Ears pricked; temples beaded with sweat.
"Vizier Iberis…" a confidant called. "I sense… Someone."
Iberis signaled with his head. "I'm aware." He swung his night-black weapon and positioned it in front of his body.
Tick. Tock.
The archaic clock slowed time—at least, it felt that way to Iberis. He was scared. But the squad couldn't know. If they saw their Vizier collapse in the face of hardship, their wills would deplete instantly.
He massaged his temples. "Get ready."
Afflicting silence loomed over the room, urging the men to move.
Iberis's pupils constricted. "Underneath you!" The obsidian claymore in his hand pointed to the foundation at their feet. It was too late.
The floor gave in. The men plummeted. Not to the level beneath this one, no, but into a never-ending abyss. Walls of foggy black and white surrounded them.
As the Vizier Squad fell, the walls morphed, turning and altering. Mouths. . . The walls were turning into mouths.
Iberis's blood dropped. He knew what, or who, could cause this.
"Contrivance!"
"Hahaha!" Wicked, vile laughter erupted from the fragmented wall-mouths. Some of the men fainted, others cried. They knew their fate was decided, and that fighting back was useless. Dying pointless deaths was a fear for all humans.
Whoosh!
They reappeared in front of the colossal castle. Gasps and confusion muffled the quiet air. Had the Angel of Death not come for their souls?
Step. Step. Step.
Precise footsteps reverberated. Heads jerked faster than light. No, it cannot be, Iberis thought. Why is he here? Contrivance, was this a game to you?
The walking silhouette's hand extended outward, his wrist swaying side-to-side.
He waved.
Iberis shuddered, followed by the rest. He spat a hiss devoid of emotion, "What are you doing here, Sixth Servant of Contrivance?"
The figure did not answer. Iberis yelled this time. "I said: What are you doing here, Icas?!"