The world shifted.
Not violently—no jarring cut, no tearing sensation—but with a smooth inevitability, like reality itself had decided it was time to take control. Amelia felt her body slow, her awareness pulled outward, as if invisible hands were gently repositioning her perspective.
"…Oh," she murmured. "A cutscene."
The tavern noise faded into a muted hum as the scene drew her forward.
She stood now in a grand hall.
Stone pillars rose toward a vaulted ceiling, banners hanging proudly between them. At the far end of the room sat the King—broad, armored, unmistakably important—resting on a throne carved with symbols she didn't recognize but somehow understood. Power radiated from him, not aggressively, but steadily.
And beside him—
The Magic Crystal.
It hovered above a pedestal, glowing with soft, pulsing light. Not blinding. Not overwhelming. It felt… foundational. Like a heartbeat. Mana flowed from it in invisible currents, threading through the room, into the walls, the floor, the people.
Amelia felt it hum in her chest.
So this is it, she thought. The source.
She didn't need a tutorial pop-up to know its importance. This thing trained knights. Empowered them. Sustained the kingdom.
And then—
The doors slammed open.
The sound echoed like a war drum.
Figures stormed in, cloaked and masked, their movements sharp and deliberate. At their head walked a man—or something close enough—draped in dark robes, his presence sucking warmth from the room.
The Evil Cult Leader.
His eyes glowed faintly beneath his hood, fixed not on the King—but on the Crystal.
The knights moved instantly, weapons raised.
Too late.
The Cult Leader raised one hand.
Dark magic surged.
Knights were flung aside like dolls, armor clanging as bodies struck stone. The King rose from his throne, roaring something Amelia couldn't quite hear, but the sound was swallowed by the hum of power gathering around the Crystal.
The Cult Leader reached out.
The Magic Crystal shuddered.
Then tore free from its pedestal.
The light dimmed. Mana screamed—yes, screamed—as the Crystal was ripped from its place, clutched in gloved hands.
"No—!" the King bellowed.
The Cult Leader laughed.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic.
It was confident.
And then he was gone.
The world snapped back into motion.
Amelia gasped as control returned to her body.
The hall erupted into chaos.
Knights scrambled. Orders were shouted. The King pointed toward the exit the Cult Leader had taken, fury etched into every line of his armored frame.
"After him!" someone yelled.
Amelia didn't hesitate.
She ran.
---
The transition from cutscene to action was seamless.
One moment she was watching history unfold; the next, she was sprinting down stone corridors, lightning crackling faintly around her hands as knights poured past her in a flood of steel and urgency.
This wasn't a guided path.
This was pursuit.
The castle blurred as she moved—torchlight streaking past, banners whipping in the wake of passing bodies. Doors burst open. Shouts echoed. Somewhere ahead, dark magic pulsed like a beacon.
Enemies appeared suddenly—cultists, thieves, creatures she didn't have time to categorize. Instinct took over.
She raised her hand.
Lightning leapt.
A bolt struck one attacker square in the chest, sending him skidding backward into a wall. Another lunged—and she ducked, feeling electricity discharge instinctively, stunning him long enough for a knight to finish the job.
This wasn't clumsy.
It wasn't overwhelming.
It felt right.
A shadow darted past her—a smaller figure, fast and agile.
A thief.
He moved like chaos incarnate, daggers flashing, laughing as he danced through combat. He slid to a stop near her, narrowly avoiding a cultist's strike.
"Hey!" he barked, tossing something her way.
She caught it without thinking.
A bow.
Simple. Lightweight. Functional.
"…Thanks?" she said.
"No problem!" the thief grinned. "Try not to shoot me!"
He vanished back into the fray.
Amelia tested the bow instinctively, drawing and releasing in one smooth motion. Lightning infused the arrow mid-flight, the shaft crackling as it struck an enemy cleanly.
"Oh," she breathed. "…that works."
They burst out of the castle and into open land.
Villages burned in the distance. Fields were trampled under marching boots. The Cult Leader's trail was chaos—panic, destruction, fleeing civilians.
Amelia spotted something jutting out of the ground near a shattered fence.
A pitchfork.
She grabbed it, feeling its weight shift in her hands. The prongs hummed faintly as electricity crawled along the metal.
"…You've got to be kidding me."
She swung.
Lightning arced between the prongs, discharging outward in a crackling burst that stunned multiple enemies at once. It wasn't elegant.
It was effective.
She laughed—once, breathless and exhilarated—before catching herself.
This wasn't funny.
Not really.
Enemies fell. Knights advanced. The chase pressed on.
And then—
A horn sounded.
Deep.
Heavy.
Wrong.
The ground shook.
Amelia barely had time to look up.
A literal battering ram burst through the treeline.
Not carried.
Not pushed.
Charging.
It was massive—reinforced wood bound in iron, driven forward with unstoppable momentum by unseen force. It didn't target the gate.
It targeted her.
"Wait—!"
Impact.
The world exploded into motion.
She was lifted off her feet, lightning scattering uselessly as the ram smashed into her with brutal force. Armor screamed. Air fled her lungs. The ground rushed up to meet her—
Darkness swallowed everything.
The sound of battle faded.
And the chapter ended.