Chapter 37: To The Golden Age
Seris Vritra
The salt-kissed breeze from the Vritra's Maw Sea whispered through the open window of my study, carrying with it the distant, rhythmic crash of waves against the jagged cliffs below.
It was a familiar, comforting sound, one that had been the backdrop to my life for decades. From this villa, perched on the edge of Sehz-Clar, I could almost pretend the world was at peace.
The air was clean, scented with brine and the subtle, floral fragrance of the night-blooming cereus that climbed the villa's pale stone walls.
But the view from my window told a different story. My gaze was drawn east, across the vast, churning expanse of the sea, toward a continent I could not see but whose shadow loomed large in my mind. Dicathen.
A land of ancient forests and soaring mountains, now scarred by the boots of our legions, its rivers running red with a conflict it never asked for. My own retainer, Cylrit would soon be stepping onto those blood-soaked shores with the latest wave of our navy.
A new phase of the war was beginning.
And I, Scythe Seris Vritra, was utterly unprepared.
The plan, my grand, desperate design for salvation, felt like a house of cards built on a trembling table. Rally the disaffected Unnamed, the ambitious Named, the powerful Highbloods who chafed under the Vritra's absolute rule.
Unite them not under a banner of conquest, but of secession. Place the entire Dominion of Sehz-Clar, my home, under an Asuran-grade shield, a barrier that would declare our independence in the most definitive way possible.
The cornerstone of this insane ambition? Deceive and trap a Sovereign. Use Sovereign Orlaeth Vritra himself, the indolent, paranoid god king of Sehz-Clar, as a living battery for the shield.
The sheer audacity of it was enough to make me laugh, a dry, hollow sound that died in my throat as soon as I felt the stimulus.
I had spent decades perfecting the art of deception, playing the loyal, ambitious Scythe in the High Sovereign's court, my every word and action a carefully crafted performance.
I was confident I could manipulate Orlaeth. His vanity and dissatisfaction towards the High Sovereign were weapons I could wield against him.
But power… that was what I truly lacked. Not political influence—I had that in spades. My fellow Scythes respected me, feared me, or both. But the raw, world-altering power needed to shatter the foundational myth of Alacrya?
The power needed to defy the gods?
The power needed to destroy the unshakeable belief that the Vritra were invincible, omniscient gods? That kind of power was not won through diplomacy or intrigue. It required an unprecedented force of nature. A symbol of power, of unity, of hope and freedom.
And if, by some miracle, the shield was raised and then failed? My fail-safe was a retreat into annihilation. Destroy every Ascension portal linking the Second Level of the Relictombs to Alacrya, sealing my people in a tomb of my own making.
Relictombs City wasn't self-sufficient and while vast it wasn't enough for the amount of people that I needed to shepherd.
A final, desperate act to deny the monster who took everything from me—Agrona—his victory. It was a plan born of hopeful revenge, but its finality tasted of ash and despair.
I stood up from my desk, the polished obsidian surface reflecting a sliver of the moon hanging over the sea. I walked to the window, leaning against the cool stone frame. Sehz-Clar was beautiful in the moonlight.
In the distance stark, rocky shores, the resilient scrubland, the rural towns built into the cliffsides like clusters of stubborn barnacles—it was a harsh beauty, but it was ours. My gaze fell on the shoreline far below, towards Aedelgard, and a memory, unbidden and surprisingly tender, surfaced.
A young girl with hair the color of moonlight, her skirts held up as she picked her way across the wet rocks, collecting shells. Not for any purpose, not for their mineral content or magical potential.
She collected them because they were "goofy-looking."
Seris Briand. The foster child of Highblood Briand, a name given to a Vritra Blood of unknown origin, a blank slate to be written upon. For a few, short years, that name had been a shield, a semblance of a normal life.
The Briands had been kind, in their distant way and I missed my parents and relatives so, so much. They were all gone now, most of our line extinguished in the pointless, brutal border conflicts with Vechor.
The irony was a bitter pill. The most prominent member of the nearly extinct Highblood Briand was now a demigod who wasn't even one of us—Iskander.
Agrona's failed experiment. The living weapon that had gone missing. For eighteen months, there had been no sign of him. A part of me—the pragmatic, coldly calculating Scythe—had written him off.
Another part, a smaller, more fragile part I rarely acknowledged, the same part that mourned the death of Lady Sylvia, had been genuinely saddened. He had looked at me not with the fear or reverence due a Scythe, but with a clear, assessing gaze.
He saw the chains, both visible and invisible, just like Lady Sylvia had when she freed me from Agrona's horrible spells.
He had power, a strange, awe-inspiring affinity with aether that defied all understanding. And more than that, he had a morality, a stubborn, innate sense of justice that I believed could be shaped, could be the compass for the new world I was trying to build.
Yet, he was too free-spirited. He saw my offer as an exchange of masters. He thought I wanted to be his Agrona. I hadn't argued.
How could I prove otherwise? My entire existence was a lie.
To all of Alacrya, I was the epitome of Vritra loyalty, second only to Agrona's personal henchman. Only Cylrit knew the truth of my heart. And now, through Iskander's brief, chaotic appearance, the Denoir siblings had been pulled into the periphery of my secret more openly.
His loss was a double-edged sword. Without him, my revolution lacked its most potent symbol. But his absence also meant Agrona was denied a weapon of unimaginable potential.
The Legacy was problem enough; a creature who could wield aether as Iskander did would have been an unstoppable force in the High Sovereign's hands.
"What a cruel world we live in." I murmured, naturally repressing the urge to sigh.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of frantic, yet disciplined, footsteps approaching my door. The rhythm was familiar—one of the villa's attendants, trained to move with efficiency but schooled to never show outright panic.
"Enter," I said, my voice calm and carrying, cutting off the knock before it could begin.
The door opened to reveal a young woman, her uniform impeccable, her face pale but composed. She bowed deeply, her eyes fixed on the floor.
"Lady Scythe. Forgive the intrusion. Someone has appeared from the Descension Chamber in the basement." She paused, swallowing. "They identified themselves as Iskander Briand."
A silence stretched in the room, broken only by the sigh of the sea wind.
A slow, genuine smile touched my lips, a rare and true expression I allowed myself.
"Oh," I murmured, turning fully from the window to face the messenger. "The troublemaker is alive. And he has chosen, after all this time, to seek me out."
Iskander
What a warm and kind welcome, I thought, the sarcasm a dry, brittle shield against the sudden tension.
The room beyond the Descension Chamber's platform was not the sterile, bureaucratic hall of the Ascenders' Association I'd expected.
It was a cellar, cool and dry, with walls of old, neatly fitted stone, devoid of the wine barrels that would have made it cozy.
Instead, it was filled with the cold glint of polished steel and the palpable anxiety of a dozen fully armored guards, their weapons—a mix of halberds and mana-charged staves—raised and pointed directly at my chest.
'Child, you've appeared in what looks more like a private home than an official chamber!' Sylvia's mental voice was a sharp whisper of alarm, cutting through the lingering emotional static between us.
The sheer incongruity of the situation had startled her into speaking again. We still needed to talk, a conversation I was both dreading and desperately needed. But first, I had to avoid being skewered by jumpy house guards.
"Hey, listen, I'm a friend," I said, raising my hands in what I hoped was a universal gesture of peace. I tried to arrange my features into something approachable, but I knew what they saw.
A figure clad in ornate, dragon-scale armor that glimmered with pale gold and silver, his skin the grey of a storm cloud, with two sharp horns curling from his forehead.
I was a living, breathing Vritra stereotype, and my sudden, explosive arrival from a private Descension Chamber in their basement was hardly reassuring.
"My name is Iskander. Iskander Briand," I continued, keeping my voice level and calm. "I would like to speak with Scythe Seris, if that's possible."
The name 'Briand' acted like a spell. A visible ripple went through the ranks of guards. The tense silence broke into a hushed, frantic whispering.
Weapons wavered, then were hastily lowered. As one, they bowed, a synchronized motion of deference and apology that was almost comical in its suddenness.
"We are deeply ashamed, Highlord Briand!" they chorused, their voices echoing off the stone walls.
Highlord? The title hit me like a lightning in a bright day. Sylvia, do you have any idea what they're talking about?
'None, Child,' she replied, her presence in my core a wary hum. 'But I would surmise that something significant has occurred within Highblood Briand during our… extended absence.'
A cold knot of apprehension tightened in my stomach. Using the Briand identity had been a necessity, a cover provided by Seris herself. But this… this suggested it had taken on a life of its own.
Where exactly was I? This was Sehz-Clar, I was sure of the Djinn Slate's destination, but this opulent cellar spoke of private wealth, not public utility.
The guards parted then, forming a perfect corridor, and she appeared.
Seris Vritra stood at the far end of the room, a study in monochrome elegance. She wore a formal dress of stark black and pristine white that pooled on the floor behind her, its simplicity making her seem both severe and regal.
Her long, elegant horns added to her height, giving her an imposing, otherworldly aura even in this domestic setting. Her dark eyes found mine, and for a moment, they were just unreadable pools of obsidian.
I offered a weak, awkward wave. "Long time no see, huh?" The words sounded ridiculously informal, a desperate attempt to normalize a profoundly abnormal situation.
Sylvia, I'm in her home, right? The realization was dawning, bringing with it a fresh wave of social panic.
'I am afraid so,' Sylvia confirmed, and I felt her will-o'-wisp form retreat deeper into my core, a protective instinct.
"I swear, my intentions were just to go to Aedelgard in general… not here, specifically," I blurted out, gesturing vaguely at the lavish cellar.
Seris's only reaction was a slow, deliberate roll of her eyes. It was a surprisingly human gesture, and it subtly shifted the dynamic. This wasn't the icy, untouchable demigoddess I'd met on the manicured lawns of the Denoir estate.
Here, in her own domain, away from the prying eyes of the Sovereigns and her fellow Scythes, there was a different quality to her. A layer of the performative mask had been peeled back, revealing someone who could be… exasperated.
"I find you well," she observed, her voice flat, her gaze doing a quick, analytical sweep of my person. It lingered on the armor. "New attire?"
Yeah, maybe showing up at her house wearing the reforged armor of a genocidal dragon knight was a bit of a show-off, I chided myself.
"It's a very long story," I said, the understatement of the century.
"I have no doubts," she replied, her tone implying she expected to hear every detail. "Follow me."
She turned, the train of her dress whispering against the stone floor, and led the way out without a backward glance. The icy demeanor was still there, a core part of her, but it was less… sharp.
More a natural reserve than a weapon.
I offered another apologetic look to the guards—who were still bowed—and hurried after her, my golden boots sounding too loud in the quiet hallways.
We ascended from the basement into the main body of the villa, and I was struck by its understated opulence. It was austere, clean-lined, but everything spoke of immense wealth and refined taste.
———
Her office was a room of quiet power. One entire wall was a window to the world, framing a breathtaking vista of the sea.
The moon painted a shimmering path across the dark water, and the salt-scented breeze flowed freely through the open pane. Seris took her seat behind a massive desk of polished, dark wood. On it sat a single, strange oil lantern, its flame a steady blue.
The main light came from an ornate candelabrum suspended from the ceiling, casting a warm, flickering glow over the room. The walls were covered in a tasteful, textured wallpaper of grey, brown, and white.
I sank into one of the deep, plush velvet armchairs opposite her desk, and an involuntary groan of pure bliss escaped me. The cushions embraced me, and for the first time in what felt like an eon, my body was not braced for impact, not vibrating with pain or adrenaline.
"I haven't sat down for more than a year!" I exclaimed, stretching my arms over my head, feeling joints pop and realign. The urge to simply close my eyes and let the profound exhaustion claim me was overwhelming.
But two things stopped me: the intense, unreadable gaze of the Scythe across from me, and the inconvenient truth that my aether-saturated body had long since forgotten how to truly sleep.
"The obvious question would be where you have been," Seris began, steepling her fingers. "But by merely looking at you, it is clear you have become… stronger. Infinitely so."
Her eyes didn't just see the armor; they saw the way I moved, the density of my presence, the faint, golden light that seemed to live just beneath my skin.
My whole body was rebuilt, my brain was a supercomputer that self regenerated, my muscles had fibers far, far denser than even my baseline Asuran body and my bones were harder than steel.
"Yeah… about that." I took a deep breath, plunging into the unbelievable truth. "I might have been held captive by an Ancient Mage."
A fraction of a second of silence. "Thinking that loneliness brought you to madness would be preposterous, given the evidence before me," she stated, her logic impeccable. "So I will assume you are telling the truth, however impossible it sounds. Please, continue."
The story poured out of me in a torrent. The ambush by Gawain Indrath, the revelation of his existence as a "Drone," the terrifying intellect and ancient hatred of Al-Hazred, the year-long hell of the Crucible.
I spoke of the relentless torture, the brutal lessons in aether control, the desperate fight for survival. I kept it clinical, focusing on the facts, but the memory of the pain was a ghost haunting every word.
"You are telling me an extinct Ancient Mage has a dragon of the Indrath Clan on a leash?" she asked, her expression never wavering from its neutral mask.
"Multiple, actually," I confirmed. "He claimed to have harvested the Vritra that Agrona sent into the Relictombs centuries ago."
"That is… disturbingly believable," she conceded, leaning back in her chair, one hand coming up to rest against her chin. "And this Al-Hazred? What is his endgame?"
"He's completely, utterly insane," I said, the words feeling inadequate to describe the depth of his fanaticism. "He wants to kill every single Asura. He sees it as justice for the genocide of his people. And he wanted me to be the spearhead of his invasion, starting with Agrona."
I stood up, unable to remain seated, and leaned on her desk, my eyes locking with hers.
"Seris. He is a threat as great as Agrona and Kezess Indrath. And he can track people through the Relictombs. Nowhere is safe from him."
"That is… problematic," she said, and the understatement was so typically Seris it was almost comforting. "But I suspect you are not here merely to inform me of a new apocalyptic threat."
"Obviously not." I straightened up, squaring my shoulders. The resolve that had solidified in the Ice Zone with my friends came back, tempered now by the reality of speaking it aloud to her.
"I will help you, Seris. I grew strong in that hell. I fought Gawain Indrath to a standstill. I can't stand on the sidelines anymore. I want to bring justice to this world. Real justice."
Seris raised a single, elegant eyebrow. A flicker of something—amusement? respect? Both? Even in a more natural context for her she was too hard to read—passed through her dark eyes.
"That is good news. It only took being turned into a laboratory rat for you to understand it." The dry joke was accompanied by the barest hint of a smirk, a crack in the ice that was there and gone in a heartbeat.
"I need to get to Dicathen," I said, the next part of my plan tumbling out. "There's someone I need to meet there."
'Child?!' Sylvia's mental cry was a spike of pure, undiluted worry.
What, Sylvia? The one you gave your Beast Will to, I explained, my thought gentle but firm. They must be helped, especially with their continent being torn apart by war.
And I promised you I would take you to see them. It was a vow I intended to keep, regardless of the personal turmoil between us.
'Oh…' Her voice was small, thick with emotion. 'I thought you were still angry with me…'
Don't worry, I sent back, the words carrying a complexity of feeling I couldn't fully articulate. This is all King Grey's fault. Only his.
The name was a bitter taste, a poison I had to isolate to keep it from infecting everything else.
My focus returned to Seris. "I am going to depart for Dicathen myself," she revealed. "I can facilitate your passage. But on one condition."
Her gaze hardened, becoming the sharp, commanding look of the Scythe I knew. "You will not move independently of me—never. We cannot afford to have the High Sovereign discover your return or your new… capabilities."
"I'm not stupid, Seris," I said, a touch of defensiveness in my voice. I placed the Djinn Slate on her desk. The dark metal and glowing golden lines seemed to draw the light from the room.
"With this Relic, I can camouflage myself perfectly. Far better than that stick insect ever could." The memory of the Vritra's spy was a fresh irritation.
Seris's eyes flicked down to the Djinn Slate, then back to me, a new calculation in their depths. Another question surfaced, one that had been nagging at me since the basement.
"Seris… what was that about 'Highlord Briand'?" I asked.
For the first time, she broke eye contact with me, her gaze shifting to the window and the endless sea beyond. I remembered this from our first meeting; mention of Highblood Briand always seemed to touch a nerve, a rare chink in her armor.
"The former Lord of Highblood Briand—Stephane Briand—passed away a month ago from illness," she explained, her voice devoid of emotion, though I sensed a current of something beneath the surface. "Following the identity I crafted for you, you were the only one remaining in the direct line of succession."
Then, she did something unexpected. She smirked. A real, full smirk. "I will alert you when I depart for Dicathen. Until then… you can get acquainted with your new identity. It will bolster your public image and provide excellent cover from the High Sovereign's gaze."
Her eyes swept over my magnificent, but decidedly conspicuous, armor. "I would suggest a change of clothes."
The implications crashed over me. I was a noble. Not just a fake one with papers, but the actual, recognized head of a Highblood. The irony was so thick I could taste it.
Iskander Hyperion, the bedridden heir who could never claim his title, was now Iskander Briand, Highlord of a powerful Alacryan bloodline.
And more than that… it was the perfect cover story for a superhero. A noble with a secret identity, fighting for justice. A laugh, born of equal parts absurdity and genuine delight, bubbled out of me.
"What are you laughing about?" Seris asked, her head tilting in curiosity.
"Nothing to worry about, Seris," I said, getting to my feet. I extended my hand across the desk to her, not in submission, but in partnership. "To a better future," I declared, the words feeling solid and true in my mouth.
"Let's carve down a path towards a true Golden Age."
Her eyes considered my offered hand for a moment, then met my gaze. After a heartbeat, she reached out and took it.
"To a better future, Highlord Briand."
Vol 1, "The Origins" END.
Arthur Leywin
The cup in my hand was still warm, yet shivers ran down my spine as I looked at Elder Rinia. Tessia, her parents, and Gramps were asleep—knocked out by whatever Elder Rinia had put in their drinks.
I glanced at Virion. Elder Rinia had just revealed the truth about his wife—Tessia's grandmother. She had died because of her divination powers.
"Arthur," Rinia started. "Dicathen is changing. A new era is approaching. And you always seem to be at the center of it."
What? I leaned forward, studying Rinia, trying to grasp her meaning.
"Why... Why me?" I asked.
"Answering that..." Rinia sighed. "It's tricky. Telling you too much might compromise the future. But telling you too little defeats the entire purpose of me telling you this."
"You're sacrificing your own life, Elder Rinia!" I shouted. She had explained how divination magic used her own lifespan as fuel, just as it had with Virion's wife. "There must be something I can do! Wait... does Virion kno—"
Elder Rinia raised her hand, silencing me.
"Why should he?" Rinia asked with a laugh, though her expression quickly turned serious. "I've lived long enough. I might as well do something for a better future, no?"
I didn't argue. I just listened.
"Looking into your future, Arthur, I might have made some rather troublesome enemies," she said. "Hence the hideout we are in right now."
Enemies? Did she do it for me?
As if Rinia could read my thoughts, she spoke softly.
"It was my choice. I just wish I had better news..." She looked down before staring right into my eyes.
"Arthur. You will face many hardships; that is a given, whatever you decide. There will be enemies and obstacles... but through it all, I can only say that you need an anchor. An end goal."
"An end goal?" I muttered, not entirely understanding.
"Let me explain. What do you want to accomplish in your life? That will determine your path," Rinia declared.
What did I want to accomplish in this life? In this second chance I was given? As King Grey... I didn't have a purpose. Revenge soon became just an endless cycle of destruction.
I annihilated Trayden to take my revenge. Then the neighboring country of Eserav tried to retaliate against my regime following the nuclear bombardment of Trayden's capital, Everret.
When the Etharian Council tried to depose me, I eradicated the Noble Houses leading the rebellion: Feller, Justus, Hyperion...
King Grey only destroyed. But in this life, I have been... creating something. I was creating a life worth living, a life Sylvia would be proud of.
"I'll leave you with two things," Rinia eventually said, seeing I was lost in thought. "One: people do good things for bad reasons. So don't take things at surface level."
"And two: often, the most dangerous enemy isn't the one on the throne, leading the forces... but the righteous soldier, unbreakable as diamond."
People do good things for bad reasons? A righteous soldier as unbreakable as diamond? What... what does that mean?
Elder Rinia stood up. "I wish I could tell you more. I really, really wish I could, Arthur," she said. She looked almost... scared.
"What if I don't make the right choices?" I asked, my voice wavering. As King Grey, I never doubted my actions—how could I? I was an absolute ruler without a care in the world for those beneath me. But now... I had so much to lose. I had so many people I could fail.
Rinia gently placed a hand on my shoulder and smiled.
"Sometimes the right choice isn't always the best," she said. "You should rest now. You and Tessia need to return to Xyrus tomorrow, after all."