(The fleet marching to restore the cycle)
The call was not born in a single temple.It was born in every place where the gods were worshiped.
The bells began ringing at the same time across the capitals of the known world.
The call of the gods.The choosing of those who would restore the order of the world and crush evil.
Thousands answered the call.And from among them, the gods chose their champions.
The echo passed through walls, markets, and sleeping quarters. Thousands awoke in shock, hearts racing, a strange pressure tightening around their chests.
Something had been judged.
The former Chosen had fallen.
The gods' heroes had been killed.
And the Devil still lived.
Many began praying before they even understood why. Others fell to their knees in muddy streets or on cold stone floors.
Because everyone remembered what had happened. The defeat. The shame.
The day the Devil survived.
And when the first voices rose…
the rest followed as if they had been waiting their entire lives to hear them.
"FOR THE FAITH!"
"FOR ORDER!"
"FOR THE FALL OF THE EVIL ONE!"
The chants erupted with restrained fury.
As though they had remained trapped inside humanity since the death of the first Chosen.
At the ports, thousands knelt as the fleets completed their preparations.
No one asked where they were marching.
There was no need.
Zarhama.
The continent where the Evil One had fled after defeating the first Chosen.
The place where the Devil still hid among monsters and heretics.
Many prayed while the ships slowly departed from the docks.
Others simply watched in silence.
Because even now…
no one could say for certain that this time would be different.
The first Chosen had also departed blessed by the gods.
And still, they died.
That was why faith was necessary.
Not to guarantee victory.
But to contain fear.
The gods had promised to walk beside them this time.
And humanity needed to believe that promise would be enough.
Thousands of ships crossed the ocean beneath sails marked with the sigils of the Eighteen Thrones.
The wind barely seemed to touch them.
Faith drove those vessels more than the sea itself.
The waters slowly parted before the hulls, as though even the ocean recognized divine will.
And at the prows, motionless beneath the gray light of dawn, stood the New Chosen.
Valerius stood atop the flagship, covered in sealed white steel armor even beneath the morning light.
A priest passed near him and immediately lowered his gaze.
No one knew exactly why it happened.
It simply… did.
Men straightened their backs near Valerius. Adjusted their posture. Lowered their voices.
As though the body remembered obedience before the mind could question it.
Aurelius stood several steps behind, silently watching the ocean.
The light surrounding his body did not warm.
It burned.
A sailor held his gaze for only an instant before looking away, pale-faced, as though he had just remembered sins he had not yet committed.
Aurelius said nothing.
He never tried to comfort anyone.
Guilt was more useful than comfort.
Voren crossed the deck without escort or banner.
Conversations died as he passed.
Even prayers stopped midway.
Caelum watched the cloud-covered sky from the prow of another vessel.
The winged creatures of Zarhama were already dead in his mind.
Reality simply had not accepted the decision yet.
Selene sat near the edge of the deck with her eyes closed while hundreds of prayers echoed around her.
Each prayer seemed to drift slowly into her body.
Like invisible threads wrapping around her fingers.
And every time she breathed…
doubt faded a little more from the hearts around her.
Icarus tightened and loosened the string of his bow over and over again.
He spoke to no one.
He did not watch the scenery.
He seemed to be listening to something distant.
Something that had not happened yet.
He had sworn to use his strength to bring evil to its knees.
And he carried himself like a man willing to fight for years without surrendering.
Thalessa walked barefoot across the damp deck while the waves softly struck the wood.
The currents shifted around her steps as though they had always been waiting for that rhythm.
Not violently.
As though the sea recognized her.
Like a daughter.
As though the ocean and she were the same thing.
Balthazar sat before several scrolls sealed with golden wax.
He was not writing names.
He was writing judgments.
One after another, with methodical calm, as though the world itself could be arranged through ink.
His power was not writing.
It was judgment.
He could see the truth behind every word, detect lies like cracks in the flesh of the soul.
And when he wished…
he could turn a name into a sentence.
A curse sealed upon paper.
But there were exceptions.
Names that refused to obey the ink.
One of them always returned.
Lusian.
Every time he tried to bind the name to parchment, the ink tightened, fractured…
and the word unraveled across the surface as though it had never been written.
It was not an error. Simply, his power had reached a limit.
Something older than his authority silently denied him.
And Balthazar knew it.
Yet he still tried every time.
Elias rested one hand against the railing and closed his eyes.
Whenever he thought of Zarhama, the same unease returned.
Fear.
He had survived the first crusade, and he still remembered it clearly. The darkness. The death. And above all, that feeling of helplessness before something he could neither see nor hear…
but knew was there.
This time was different.
The gods had chosen him.
He was no longer one of the lucky survivors.
He was a hero.
He would not fail.
Even so, his stomach tightened as though something hollow were breathing on the other side of the ocean.
Kaelen watched a small flame dance at the tip of his fingers and smiled.
"It'll burn well…"
The flame grew slightly, as though responding to his mood.
Nothing else needed to be said.
Morgana walked among the soldiers' sleeping quarters.
She heard voices no one else could hear.
People who had died in battle…
but had not completely left.
They were not hallucinations.
They were souls.
When someone fell in combat, she could call them back.
They did not return alive as before.
But neither did they remain dead.
They returned to their bodies and continued fighting, even broken or wounded, until there was nothing useful left of the corpse.
Uther walked the decks speaking with the soldiers.
Every time he spoke, some of their exhaustion disappeared.
So did their doubts.
It did not matter exactly what he said.
Simply hearing him made men begin believing that everything they were about to do was right.
And once that happened, they stopped thinking about returning home.
Lyra sang near the rowers in a soft, quiet voice.
No one recognized the melody.
And yet, after several minutes, some began following its rhythm with their feet.
Then with their hands.
Then with their breathing.
Little by little, individual thought began dissolving into the song.
Dante was almost never seen.
Sometimes someone swore they had spotted him leaning against a mast.
Or reflected in a window.
But whenever they tried looking directly at him…
he was already gone.
Isolde remained motionless near the center of the naval formation.
Light seemed to fracture around her armor.
Shadows avoided her, as though unwilling to touch her.
No one approached too closely.
Her presence commanded respect.
Since receiving the order, she had not strayed from her course even once.
Bring back the traitor's head.
Emily.
The former Heroine of Light.
The one who abandoned divine will for a man.
And Cyrus…
Cyrus stood silently watching the sea when he suddenly spoke without raising his voice much.
"Captain. Change course."
The old captain did not hesitate. He turned the wheel immediately.
No one asked why.
They already knew the ability of the hero they followed:
Cyrus could see fragments of the future.
Never all of it.
But enough not to ignore it.
The ship began to shift course.
And moments later, they understood why.
Something enormous emerged ahead in the sea.
Gigantic shadows beneath the water, moving as though the ocean were too small to contain them.
Had they remained on the original route, they would have crossed directly into them.
And there would have been no way to avoid it.
And then there was Amon.
Standing atop another ship, high above the deck of the flagship.
Watching the horizon as though expecting nothing in particular.
He smiled, though not like someone happy.
Nor like a fanatic.
It was a strange smile…
the kind that never quite fit the situation.
Some said he had once been different before becoming Chosen.
That he liked music, paintings, beautiful things.
That he could spend hours doing nothing except watching the sea or talking about art.
The son of a noble house, he had been chosen without being asked much.
And when the call came, his family did not allow him to refuse.
"It is an honor," they told him.
And he did not argue.
No one in his position did.
Now he was here.
Traveling toward a place no one liked speaking about out loud.
The night before Zarhama came into view, the fog arrived without warning.
It was not like a storm.
Nor anything natural.
It simply appeared.
The air stopped smelling like the sea.
Now it smelled of wet ash and old paper.
Visibility collapsed quickly until only a few meters remained visible.
That was when the Eighteen gathered.
For the first time since their departure.
Upon the open deck of the flagship, forming a circle within the fog that concealed even the stars.
No one spoke at first.
Valerius was the first to move.
He calmly unsheathed his sword and rested it against the wood.
Then he raised his hand.
The light surrounding him pierced through the fog.
And for a moment, the entire fleet appeared within the mist as though suspended above something unseen.
Selene opened her eyes.
The savanna unfolded before them like an ocean frozen in time.
Tall grass stretched as far as the eye could see, swaying without waves, moved only by the wind. Isolated trees stood twisted by distance and heat, as though they had grown without competition, without urgency. The sky was enormous.
Too open.
Too empty.
No natural walls.
No endless shadow.
Only vast open land.
Zarhama was there.
Icarus took hold of an arrow.
For the first time since their departure.
He did not draw the bow.
He simply placed the arrow against the string slowly, as though checking whether the world still obeyed the same rules.
The arrowhead pointed toward the savanna.
Toward that endless sea of unmoving grass.
"If something appears…" he said without looking at anyone.
Uther lifted his gaze toward the darkness.
"Tomorrow…"
Silence.
"…the gods will judge this world once again."