When news reached Zerethis that a vast number of his soldiers had been wiped out by a single magis, Zerethis was consumed by rage. He too was gravely injured himself as struck down by the power of a white magis. The beings he loathed.
Despite his condition, he forced the brown magis to heal him. With no white magis left to aid the process, his recovery was slow and arduous.
Yet the moment he regained his strength, Zerethis acted.
Barely a month after his recovery, he claimed the throne—crowning himself the new Emperor of Epsos.
And that was when chaos began.
War erupted between the Omran Empire and Epsos. The number of skilled soldiers had already dwindled, many having fallen during the devastating confrontation between Eomer and Ivny—the two white magis whose clash had shaken the special military strength under Zerethis control.
To make matters worse, the magis people, having lost their beloved lord in such a cruel manner, refused to serve Emperor Zerethis. Their grief turned into defiance.
They sought to leave Rodh entirely and return to their homeland, Graitan—abandoning their posts, their schools, their welfare systems, and the high positions they once held.
This enraged Zereth further.
In his fury, he ordered mercenary armies to attack Graitan. He needed the magis to secure victory in the war against Omran, and he would not allow them to just walk away.
To force their compliance, Zerethis captured young magis and used them as leverage against the adults. It was a tactic he believed effective. After all, he had done the same with Eomer. Eomer had died protecting his child and his wife.
But this time, the consequences spiraled beyond his control.
Backlash grew. Chaos spread. Zerethis tyranny and mismanagement pushed the empire closer to collapse. Days turned into months, and months into years.
Epsos began losing the war.
People died in increasing numbers. Food became scarce. The empire's coffers ran dry again. Those who remained were crushed under unbearable taxes.
Yet, in the shadows, unknown to Zerethis. A force was rising.
Visil Deprayse, the younger brother Zerethis whom he had tried to assassinate multiple times, had quietly built a powerful following.
With the support of the remaining magis, Visil honed his skills and strengthened his resolve. They believed in him—that he could overthrow the tyrant and restore peace and prosperity to both Epsos and Graitan.
Visil worked tirelessly, pushing himself to the brink. He carried not only the weight of a crumbling empire, but also his guilt. If he ever became emperor, he swore he would atone for his failures—for not being able to protect his sister Ayumu, and for failing her parents.
Even now, he did not know where Ayumu was.
Years had passed without a single word. The uncertainty gnawed at him relentlessly. Is she alive? Is she safe?
He did not know.
And perhaps… it was safer this way. If Zerethis ever discovered that Ayumu still lived, she would be in grave danger.
Eight years passed since the incident and Visil turned nineteen.
That was the year he decided to end it all.
He orchestrated a rebellion within the heart of the palace itself. With the wrath and hatred he had harbored for years, he led his followers into the imperial grounds, cutting down Zerethis loyalists and guards without mercy.
Zerethis, in his cowardice, barricaded himself inside his chamber. He cast out everyone, even his own consorts and young sons. Choosing only to save himself. His selfishness knew no bounds. He ordered his soldiers to die for him.
But the soldiers were tired. Tired of serving a useless emperor.
So when Visil arrived,clad in light armor, sword in hand. He simply ordered them to step aside.
His voice was soft, almost calm, yet the murderous intent behind it was unmistakable. Without hesitation, the soldiers obeyed.
With a single gesture, Visil signaled Kaiser, his ever-silent and expressionless right-hand man.
Kaiser acknowledged and raised his hand. Black smoke gathered and swirled, condensing into a dense mass of energy. In an instant, it shot forward with explosive force.
The grand, intricately carved door shattered.
Fragments flew across the room. Some striking Zereth.
He screamed, collapsing in fear, his eyes wide like a cornered rat.
Visil stepped inside. Each step echoed like a death sentence.
Zereth trembled uncontrollably, desperation clawing its way through him as he struggled to find the right words. His mind raced, and then he has an idea. His father had once struck bargains with the white magis, Theana. Perhaph, he thought, he could survive the same way.
"W-w-wait… let's talk… we can make a bargain, I—"
Visil drove his sword into Zereth's leg.
"ARGHHHH! Y-you bastard!"
There was no hesitation. No mercy.
Visil stabbed him again. And again.
Then, with one clean motion, he slit Zereth's throat.
Silence filled the room.
A heavy, suffocating silence—before it slowly gave way to something else.
Relief.
The tyranny had ended. The war would soon follow.
And from the ashes, a new emperor would rise.
Visil Deprayse. The Emperor of Epsos.
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News spread like wildfire across the Epsos Empire, and soon beyond its borders.
A new emperor had ascended—one spoken of with hope.
A ruler who promised peace. Prosperity. Renewal.
A ruler backed by the magis.
Emperor Visil Deprayse.
His coronation was simple. The empire, once wealthy through trade and commerce, had been drained by Zerethis reckless rule.
One of Visil's first acts was to lift the crushing taxes placed upon the people. He restored the magi to their rightful positions. It was not through coercion, but by earning their trust. They returned willingly, and together with the people of Epsos, they began to rebuild the empire, piece by piece.
Change came slowly—resources were scarce—but it came.
And the people noticed.
Over the next three years, celebrations spread across the land as signs of recovery began to show.
Among his greatest achievements was the restoration of one of the empire's most prestigious institutions:
The Volance School — an institution divided into two main branches: the Knights and the Magis.
Knights are non-magis individuals, trained not only in combat but also in intellect. They are not confined to the role of mere soldiers; over time, their paths have expanded into many fields.
Those who are less inclined toward combat may become office workers, clerks, intelligence officers, or tacticians—roles that require sharp minds rather than strength of arms. For those gifted in battle, they may rise through the ranks as soldiers, guards, generals, and beyond that, even Judges.
Judges stand above the general ranks, chosen through a sacred trial: lifting a sword embedded deep within stone. This ritual, created by the magis, ensures that only those possessing both strength and a righteous heart may assume the role. As Judges are entrusted with the authority to carry out justice immediately—without trial—the burden they bear is immense, and must never fall into the hands of the corrupt.
As for the Magis division, all magis from Graitan, as well as those residing within Epsos, are required to attend the school from a young age. Regardless of tribe, enrollment is mandatory. This is especially vital, as magis make up only twenty percent of the entire population of Epsos.
Within these halls, the Black, Charoite, Brown, and Blue Magis gather to study the depths of their abilities. They are taught spells, medicine, herbology, politics, mechanics, and more. Many instructors come from noble magis families, yet within the school, no distinction is made—every student is treated equally. The sharing of knowledge is regarded as the foundation upon which the next generation will thrive.
Yet, among them, one tribe is absent.
The White Magis.
Those who sacrificed everything.
In their honor, a dedicated syllabus has been established. Students are taught their history—of Lady Theana, whose sacrifice shaped the fate of both the magis and the Empire of Epsos. Though none of the White Magis remain, their legacy endures, etched deeply into memory.
The school itself is heavily subsidized by the Empire. Because of this, crime has lessened, and stability has begun to return.
Three years have passed since Emperor Visil ascended the throne.
Though peace now blankets the land through hard-earned diplomacy and renewed trade, the scars of war still linger. The people of Epsos continue to rebuild their lives, piece by piece.
And Visil—
For three long years, he has ruled without knowing the fate of his sister. Whether she still walks this world… or has long since vanished from it.
In the quiet of night, when the burdens of rule momentarily loosen their grip, he finds himself gazing at the moon. He wonders if, somewhere beneath that same pale light, his dearest sister looks upon it as well.
He carries with him a worn pouch filled with her crystal tears. Though the original pouch had nearly fallen apart with time, he encased it within a new one of deep red, preserving the precious gift.
The crystals still shimmer.
And as long as they do, hope remains.
Hope that Ayumu is still alive.
That one day, she will return to Epsos.
Visil let out a soft chuckle as memories surfaced—her habit of tucking flowers into her hair, only to ask him, with a bright smile, to remove them.
He longs to see her again.
But for now, rest must come.
Tomorrow, the Volance School will host a grand tournament—
One that will determine the rise of new Judges and the ascension of high-ranking Magis.