The Memory Unearthed
As Charlemagne lay beneath the unfamiliar canopy of stars, his new lungs breathing the rich air of an alien world, another sensation overtook him—not of the body, nor of this mysterious place, but of memory.
Painful, piercing memory.
It began as a whisper in the back of his consciousness. A soft tremor, like footsteps echoing down a long, locked corridor. But then the flood came—images, voices, emotions not his own surging like a tidal wave, dragging him beneath. It was as if the soul that had once lived in this body was clawing its way to the surface, demanding to be seen, to be heard… to be mourned.
And Charles, now Charlemagne, had no choice but to remember.
The vision began on a gentle afternoon.
Sunlight filtered through the golden canopy above the Ziglar estate's old hunting woods, casting mosaic shadows on the mossy path. The trees whispered secrets as the wind passed through their leaves. Birds sang a melody that harmonized with the laughter beside him, soft, clear, radiant.
Amelia.
She walked hand in hand with him, her fingers warm and delicate in his grasp. She wore a pale lavender gown that danced with the breeze, the hem trailing like mist over the earth. Her auburn curls shimmered in the dappled light, bouncing with every playful step. Her eyes, those spring water-blue eyes, sparkled with tenderness—or so he thought.
He had been so certain of that look.
He had shared with her his dreams as they wandered deeper into the trees, farther from the estate than they had ever dared to go alone. His voice trembled with hope as he spoke of the Embersteel Academy, of finally breaking through the barriers of his feeble health and ridicule. A year ago, he had opened his Qi core through sheer will and dedication, an accomplishment few thought he'd live to attempt. Though only a level two warrior, he had defied expectations.
She had turned to him, smiling, her eyes soft.
"I believe in you, Charlemagne," she had said. Her voice, like velvet and spring rain, curled around his heart.
Then, her lips met his cheek. A second passed. Then another kiss, this time on his lips. Light. Uncertain. Pure.
Their first.
He had closed his eyes. In that instant, the world had stopped. There was no pain, no shame, no lineage to prove, no burden to carry—only that kiss. That moment. That promise.
But when he opened his eyes again, the dream shattered.
Pain, sharp, incandescent, erupted just below his navel. His breath caught in his throat. His knees buckled.
A strike. Precise and brutal. A devastating blow directly to his Qi core by Amelia.
His hands shot to his abdomen as if to hold the agony in. But it spilled from him like smoke, his nascent Qi scattering into the air, invisible but felt. The spiritual tether he had worked so hard to forge unraveled.
He stumbled backward, eyes wide with disbelief, heart pounding with confusion and horror.
Amelia stood before him.
Her expression was no longer tender. Her lips, still glistening from their kiss, curled into a sneer. Her stance shifted—balanced, dangerous. Qi shimmered around her, controlled and commanding.
A level five warrior. The prodigy of House Gayle. Beloved only daughter of Baron Arnold Gayle. Beautiful. And cold.
"W-Why…?" His voice trembled, ragged with pain and betrayal.
She raised her hand, wiped her mouth like she had tasted something bitter.
"I never loved you, Charlemagne."
The words crushed something fragile in his chest.
From the shadows behind her, another presence stepped into view. The sound of boots on moss rang louder than it should have—measured, smug.
Marcus.
His best friend. The one who had trained with him, laughed with him, defended him when others mocked him. The one who had promised they would enter Embersteel Academy together.
Now, he stood beside Amelia, his arm slipping around her waist like he had always belonged there.
"Why?" Charlemagne choked, his voice barely a whisper. "Why, Marcus?"
Marcus tilted his head, flashing that same charismatic grin that once inspired trust. Now it felt like a mask—hollow and mocking.
"Why? Because you were born into a world that doesn't want you," he said smoothly. "You're a weakling clinging to a fading title. You were always just a footnote."
Amelia's gaze turned to Marcus, glowing with admiration. She rested her hand on his chest, and Charlemagne's heart broke anew.
"You were a tool," she added. "A means to secure House Gayle's alliance with House Ziglar. But I'm not here to carry dead weight. I need a partner who will elevate me, not a pitiful romantic with no spine."
Charlemagne collapsed to his knees.
His Qi core pulsed one last time, then cracked. A spiritual rupture echoed through his core. The Qi he had fought so hard to gather scattered to the wind, lost. His cultivation—destroyed.
"I loved you…" he whispered.
Neither of them flinched.
"You're a disgrace," Marcus said. "You think the academy would waste a slot on someone who can barely stand?"
He leaned closer, eyes narrowing with cruel amusement.
Amelia stepped forward, her silhouette bathed in fractured sunlight, casting a long shadow over the broken boy before her. Her boot, polished and cruel, nudged Charlemagne's chin upward, forcing him to meet her gaze.
"You thought I'd marry you?" she scoffed, voice dripping with disdain. "You can't even stand straight without coughing blood."
Charlemagne tried to speak, to ask why, to plead—not for his life, but for the truth. But the moment he opened his mouth, a violent cough tore through him. Blood splattered across his lips, warm and coppery, running down his chin. He swayed on his knees, barely holding himself up, trembling from the devastation in his core.
And she looked at him like he was filth.
Then Marcus stepped forward, the dappled light flashing across the jewels on his coat. His smirk had faded now, replaced by a cold calm. His footsteps were slow and deliberate, echoing louder than they should have in the hushed woods, as if the forest itself recoiled from what was about to happen.
"This is mercy, Charlemagne," Marcus said softly, almost kindly. "Be grateful we're giving you an end."
There was no hesitation. No pause. No guilt.
Marcus unsheathed his sword in one fluid motion, the polished steel catching the sun like a gleaming arc of judgment. But then, he reversed it.
Not the edge.
The hilt.
For a brief second, Charlemagne's eyes widened in confusion. And then the darkness struck.
A sharp crack shattered the silence of the woods as the sheathed blade slammed into the side of his skull. Pain flared like a flash of lightning, sharp, white-hot—then vanished, swallowed by oblivion.
His body crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut. Limbs fell limp. His vision split in two, then dissolved into shadow. But even as consciousness slipped through his fingers, his eyes remained open long enough to see Marcus standing over him.
And what he saw in those eyes wasn't pity.
It was satisfaction.
Whispers in the Manor
The Ziglar estate sat on a northern cliffside, wrapped in morning fog and the hush of nobility too proud to grieve. High towers loomed like vigilant sentinels, their banners stiff in the breeze, crimson and obsidian snapping in a rhythm that spoke more of war than family.
Within the east wing—forgotten, quiet, unused for years—Charlemagne Ziglar lay beneath layers of silk and linen, his frame dwarfed by a bed carved from dark northern oak. His breaths were shallow, his chest rising and falling like the last embers of a dying fire.
No physician attended to him. No family members watched over him.
Only an old servant remained.
Mistress Anya, the once-proud head maid of the Ziglar household, sat vigil. Her hands, calloused by decades of labor, gently wrung a bloodstained cloth as she watched over the boy. His pale face twitched in sleep—pained, restless, as if locked in battle even now.
She had found him.
At the forest's edge, abandoned, gasping like a fish washed ashore.
No one believed he would survive the night. When she had dragged his limp body into the back gates, the guards had turned away. The steward had wrung his hands and muttered about disgrace, about not upsetting the Duke. Even the physicians had refused to come, citing orders from the main house.
"Let the weak die in peace," someone had said.
But Anya had not obeyed.
She had cleaned the wounds with herbs from the old greenhouse. Had warmed his body with the last coal in her hearth. Had fed him water drop by drop through cracked lips. And now, three nights later, the boy stirred—not healed, but was living.
"Your lordship…" she whispered. "You came back."
She touched his cheek and blinked back tears. "Don't die a second time. Please."
Outside, the hallways of the manor echoed with silence. The Ziglar House, once known for its valor and pride, had long since turned inward—caring only for power and war, not for forgotten sons or quiet betrayals.
Further down the hall, in a private chamber overlooking the sea, the Duke of Ziglar stood alone.
Duke Alaric Ziglar—tall, broad-shouldered, a man carved from the same granite that formed the northern cliffs—watched the gray waves crash against the stone far below. His eyes were hard, unreadable, shadowed by years of command.
He had not spoken of Charlemagne.
Not since the boy's body was dragged in like a half-dead animal.
But he had ordered no burial either.
A knock echoed once.
"Enter," Alaric said, not turning from the window.
A young warrior stepped in—lean, armored, and breathless.
"My lord, the hunting party… it returned. No sign of Baron Gayle's daughter or the Drekor boy. Their servants claim they've already traveled back to their estates."
The Duke's lips pressed into a hard line.
"And the rumors?"
The warrior hesitated. "Some say the boy challenged Marcus. Others claim it was an accident. The staff believe he tried to take his own life after being rejected."
Alaric turned at last. His gaze could break stone.
"What do you believe?"
The warrior swallowed hard. "I believe… it was no accident, my lord."
For a moment, the Duke said nothing. Then he dismissed the man with a flick of his hand.
Alone once more, Alaric stared into the distant sea.
There had been a time, long ago, when he had watched Charlemagne run through these halls, wooden sword in hand, desperate to be like his older brother Garrick—fierce, indomitable. But illness had stolen that path from him.
And Alaric did not suffer weakness.
Now, the boy clung to life in the old wing, surrounded by silence and shadows.
The Duke's hand tightened behind his back.
"Let him prove he deserves to live," he murmured.
The Spark Beneath the Ashes
Charlemagne woke with a start.
The ceiling above him was carved wood, old and cracked in places, but regal. The scent of pine and dried lavender clung faintly to the linen sheets. His chest ached with every breath, but not from the strike alone—it was something deeper. A throb of loss, of identity ruptured, not merely changed.
He remembered everything now.
Not just Charles Alden Vale's death, nor just Charlemagne Ziglar's betrayal—but both.
Two lives. Two betrayals.
The weight was crushing.
"Water…" His voice rasped, barely audible.
A hand pressed a warm cup to his lips. "Slowly, my lord."
The voice was gentle, unfamiliar but kind. He drank, letting the liquid coat his dry throat, each drop a promise of clarity.
When he managed to open his eyes fully, the woman came into view.
A servant—in her late 40s, with streaks of gray in her dark hair and a weary grace. Her face was worn by years, but her gaze held something fierce beneath the worry. He recognized her from fragmented memories that now surfaced in disjointed waves.
"Anya…" he whispered, surprising himself.
She paused, then smiled faintly. "You remember."
He tried to nod, but pain surged through his neck. He winced instead.
Anya reached for a cloth, dabbing his brow. "I thought we'd lost you, little lord. They all did."
He closed his eyes again. The pressure behind them felt like thunder.
They had left him.
No words from his brothers. Not a flicker of concern from the duke. Only whispers in hallways. Only silence.
"I was attacked," he said at last.
Anya's hand froze.
"I know."
"Do they?"
She hesitated. "They know something happened. But no one speaks of it. Not aloud. You were found with your qi shattered and your body half-dead. But in this house… shame is quieter than murder."
A silence stretched between them.
Then Charlemagne opened his eyes again.
And for the first time, they were not the eyes of a wounded noble boy.
They were sharper.
Older.
"I will remember this," he said quietly.
Anya studied him. "You've changed, my lord."
He didn't respond.
She dipped the cloth into a basin and wrung it slowly. "You were always kind. Too kind. You trusted them. All of them."
Charlemagne's fists clenched beneath the covers.
Not anymore.
Not ever again.
Elsewhere in the manor, whispers swirled like smoke. The servants were the first to notice the change.
The boy in the East Wing lived.
Not only that, but his eyes had lost their former haze. He no longer stammered when spoken to. His steps, though slow and pained, carried something new—an echo of command, quiet and terrifying.
Even Garrick, the eldest son, had paused when passing the East Wing that morning, only to shake his head and mutter, "Ghosts should stay buried."
And Seraphina—sharp-eyed, battle-born Seraphina—watched from the second-floor balcony, arms folded as the wind tugged at her braid.
"That boy isn't dead," she said aloud, to no one in particular. "But something is."
A shadow moved behind her. "You think he'll rise?"
She didn't look back. "If he does, we should worry."
Back in the chamber, Charlemagne forced himself upright. The ache in his core screamed with every motion, his muscles still weak, nerves misfiring—but he endured it.
He had endured worse.
Sigma had taught him discipline beyond flesh.
A thousand executive battles, millions at stake with every breath. A single mistake meant ruin. Here, the stakes were blood and bone—but the game? Still the same.
He was playing again.
"I need paper," he told Anya.
She blinked. "My lord?"
"Paper. Ink. A ledger if possible. And a mirror."
Her brow furrowed, but she bowed and obeyed.
When she returned with the items, Charlemagne—Charles—stared at his reflection once more.
The silver-haired boy stared back, fragile but composed.
"You're a Ziglar," he whispered to himself. "They think you're broken."
He smiled.
"Let them keep thinking that."