The hunt had begun like any other.
Garin moved through the jungle now with the same lethal grace as Tizoc—his body honed into wiry muscle, his footsteps silent on the damp dirt. Where he had once stumbled over roots, he now flowed, swinging between vines like the monkeys overhead, his bare feet finding purchase on moss-slick stones without hesitation.
"There—you see?" Tizoc pointed to a fat iguana sunning itself on a branch.
Garin's eyes flicked past it. "Better prey. A boar. Just beyond those ferns."
Tizoc's nostrils flared as he caught the scent—then froze. A thunderous crack echoed through the trees, so loud it sent a flock of parrots screeching into the sky.
"What was that?" Garin whispered, hand flying to his knife.
"A tree falling," Tizoc muttered, though his knuckles whitened around his bow. "Too close to the escarpment. Come."
They crept forward, the jungle's usual chorus of insects and birds now eerily absent. Then—through a gap in the foliage—they saw it.
A massacre.
A swath of land the size of a village had been stripped bare, the earth scarred by boot prints and drag marks. Dozens of fair-skinned men—men with Garin's coloring, his people's garb—swarmed like ants, their saws biting into ancient mahogany trunks. One tree groaned, then collapsed with a ground-shaking boom.
"Hah! That's fifty!" a man bellowed, wiping sweat from his brow. "Ropes and hoists ready—we'll have this jungle cleared by moonrise!"
Tizoc's breath came in short, furious bursts. His face twisted into something primal—the look of a man watching his ancestors' graves being desecrated.
Garin gripped his arm. "Tizoc, wait. We should—"
The arrow was already loosed.
It struck the lumberman square in the throat, silencing his laughter mid-breath. Chaos erupted. Men screamed, scattering like startled deer—until steel flashed in the sunlight as reinforcements arrived, swords drawn.
"TIZOC, NO!" Garin roared.
But Tizoc was already charging, his purple knife a blur. He fought like a jaguar—all lethal grace and snarling fury—felling three men before they could raise their blades. Yet Garin saw what Tizoc, in his rage, did not: the tactical formation closing around him. Fifteen men. Thirteen swords. Two spears. A death sentence.
Garin moved.
His stolen sword carved through the first attacker's arm at the elbow, then—in the same motion—parried a strike from behind. He disarmed the man with a twist of his wrist and opened his chest to the bone. Two more lunged; their swords met only air as Garin's blade severed both their sword hands at the wrist. They stared, dumbfounded, at their stumps before the pain hit.
As a Holy Knight Commander, Garin's mastery of arms was comprehensive - from the elegant precision of the longsword to the brutal economy of a battle-axe's swing. Every weapon was an extension of his will, and now, faced with overwhelming odds, that hard-earned skill became his salvation.
Spotting a gap in the chaos, Garin exploded into motion. His borrowed sword flashed like silver lightning as he carved a path toward Tizoc, who stood encircled by steel. Though Tizoc fought with savage determination, his unfamiliarity with formal swordplay showed. Fresh wounds adorned his torso, the worst being a deep gash across his back that painted his skin crimson.
"TIZOC!" Garin's voice cut through the clang of steel like a war horn.
The jungle warrior turned just as Garin breached the enemy circle, his blade dancing in a deadly rhythm that forced the attackers to divide their attention. "Go! Now!" Garin commanded, locking eyes with his brother-in-arms.
Tizoc's face twisted in rebellion, but what he saw in Garin's expression struck deeper than any blade - a silent plea carrying visions of home: Atzi's smile, Zeltzin's laughter, his newborn nephew's tiny grasping fingers. The message was clear - this wasn't their battlefield to win today.
With a final snarl, Tizoc seized his moment. As Garin's sword wove a barrier of steel, the jungle warrior vanished into the foliage with startling speed, his footfalls silent despite his injuries.
"After him! Fuck! He's a fast one!" bellowed one swordsman.
"Good. He's leading them in the opposite direction of our home. Besides, he's faster than any of these fat men." Garin smirked.
—
The iron chains screamed against Holy High Land's immaculate cobblestones, their harsh scraping a vulgar interruption to the Holy Empire capital's harmonious bustle. Between two silver-armored Holy Guards marched a broken figure - barefoot, draped in nothing but a soiled tunic that might have been white in another life. The prisoner's shuffling steps left faint crimson smears on stone, his body bearing the marks of questions asked and answered.
The citizens of the empire's jewel recoiled as if confronted by a leper. A merchant spat in the gutter, muttering about defiled ground. A noblewoman clutched her children closer, as though the prisoner's shadow might stain their pristine robes. This was the city consecrated to the Holy High One - no place for the damned.
"We've received word from those who once knew him," announced the court official, his voice cutting through the crowd's murmurs, "and all concur he is, beyond doubt, the former captain of the Holy Knights, Garin Juggesright."
The guards forced the bloodied prisoner to his knees before the throne. His chains clanked against the marble dais as he slowly raised his head.
"What an unbelievable coincidence! What a joy!" The king's voice dripped with malicious delight. "Well, if it isn't the captain of the 3rd Holy Knights brigade... former captain, actually."
Garin's swollen eyes focused with difficulty. The face smirking down at him bore familiar features, but twisted in ways he didn't recognize.
Then realization struck - this wasn't the king he'd served. This was the younger brother, whose eyes had always burned with ambition during war councils.
"Why the long face?" the usurper continued, signaling for wine.
A servant scurried forward with a crystal goblet.
"Ah yes, that's only to be expected, I suppose!" He took a slow sip. "Mmm, delicious! A marvelous fine wine, wouldn't you agree?"
The king swirled the blood-dark liquid, watching Garin through the shimmering surface.
"Right, I suppose this was the same wine we all celebrated with after I dethroned the former king." Another sip, longer this time. "The moment was much like this wine - rich, smooth, and sweet."
His fingers tightened around the stem as he studied Garin's reflection in the glass - the conqueror and the conquered, warped together in the curved surface.
"He dethroned the former king? His own brother?" Garin's thoughts churned like a storm. "I despised the old king... but this snake was always worse."
The math unfolded bitterly in his mind - the late king had been over twenty years older, early fifties when Garin last saw him. That would make this smirking usurper barely into his thirties, only a handful of years senior to Garin's own twenty-five. The realization burned - they were nearly of an age, yet one sat enthroned while the other knelt in chains.
"You." The king's voice snapped Garin back to the present. The ruler waved a jeweled hand in exaggerated confusion. "Why aren't you asking questions?" A vein pulsed at his temple. "He's really annoying. You do know when a king speaks he expects a reply, right?"
Garin let the silence stretch just a heartbeat too long before muttering, "What happened to the king?" The question came flat, disinterested - a verbal bone tossed to quiet a yapping dog.
The usurper's eyes lit up with perverse delight. "Funny you should ask!" He leaned forward, the throne's golden serpents seeming to coil tighter around its arms.
"Well, if it quells your eager curiosity..."A theatrical pause. "The former king was beheaded." He flicked his fingers in a casual decapitation motion. "Along with every captain and advisor. Anyone directly involved in those... ambitious crusades of yours." The king's lip curled as if tasting something foul.
"Such toxic filth needed purging." He added.
"Anyways, that same fate awaits you also, former captain Garin,"the king snarled, his jeweled fingers tapping impatiently against the throne's armrest.
What a joke, Garin thought. Of all the ambitious, power-hungry men in the empire, none burned brighter than the former king's younger brother. He'd seen it himself - the way the man's eyes lit up with hungry delight during war councils when expansion plans were discussed.
"Do what you want with me," Garin said, his chains clinking as he straightened, "but stay out of the lands above the escarpment."
The king's head jerked back in genuine surprise before his expression twisted into amusement. "Oh? Not only do you dare give orders to your emperor, but you actually think I'd obey?" He clapped slowly, the gold rings on his fingers clicking together. "You were always the serious type. I'm amazed you've grown so bold."
After a calculated pause, the king's smile returned, sharper now. "Tell you what, Garin. Since you're the last of the great conquest commanders, I'll grant your little jungle mercy... in exchange for your servitude. Or should I say," his voice dropped to a venomous whisper, "your devoted slavery."
A servant rushed forward to collect the empty wine glass as the emperor continued: "You see, while we've become the strongest empire, that thorn called Augustus still pricks at us." He waved a dismissive hand. "I've been barred from expansionism," he spat the word like a curse, "but if we were... provoked... If their so-called 'tyrannical king' attacked first..."
The emperor leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. "Well then, we'd have no choice but to crush them completely, wouldn't we?"
Some time later, the emperor dismissed the broken former captain from his presence. As Garin's chains scraped their way out of the throne room, a figure emerged from behind the jeweled throne - the emperor's cousin, Lord Gregory, his silk robes whispering against the marble floors.
"My emperor," Gregory began, fingers steepled in false deference, "if I might ask... why let the fool live?"
The emperor's lips curled as he examined the empty space where his wine cup had been. At his subtle gesture, a servant hurried forward with a fresh goblet, the dark liquid catching the torchlight like liquid rubies.
"Gregory, what a question." The emperor took a slow sip before continuing. "It's simple really. I seek only to use him as a stepping stone to claim Augustus as mine." He swirled the wine thoughtfully. "He's the last true conqueror we have. None of these current... so-called captains could take Augustus."
Gregory's smile was all sharp edges. "What a fine way to make use of him."
"Yes." The emperor's gaze grew distant, the wine forgotten in his hand. "I heard the reports with my own ears - how the former captain of the Third Holy Knights slaughtered hundreds above the escarpment at Ridge." His fingers tightened around the stem. "Not a single witness who fought there lived. By the time reinforcements arrived..." A mirthless chuckle. "The mighty captain simply surrendered."
"What of his petty request?" Gregory swirled his own wine, the crystal catching the torchlight. "That dense jungle above the escarpment?"
The emperor's laughter echoed off the gilded throne room walls. "I'll grant it." He took a deliberate sip, savoring both the wine and his own cunning. "It's merely man's poor mindset of owning land that drove Garin, I'm willing to wager."
A servant knelt to refill the emperor's goblet, but found it still half-full - his master was too preoccupied with his victory to drink. "Besides,"the emperor continued, his jeweled rings clicking against the glass, "it's a small price to keep the man chained to my will." His laughter returned, colder this time, as he glanced toward the doors where Garin had been dragged away.
—
An army of thousands marched through the Kingdom of Augustus. Garin led the front as he always had, though now without his former enthusiasm. He longed to see his family again, but to his surprise, the new emperor had actually kept his word about forbidding entry above the escarpment - claiming the area was too dangerous due to savage beasts.
Garin had verified this claim himself. It took half a year after his surrender, but he confirmed the stories were true. Now his army stood ready for battle, though this wasn't his preferred way. Garin still stubbornly clung to his old habit of offering mercy before attacking.
The lands of Augustus spread before them - beautiful hills, mountains, and lush greenery beyond what Garin had imagined. Before his reputation as a commander became known, he'd heard tales of Augustus' great armies that had defeated many Holy Knights. Yet now, something felt wrong.
No army came to meet them. Not when they passed villages. Not when they neared small cities. At this rate, they would reach the capital of Marlile completely unopposed. That eerie realization settled over the troops.
The capital of Marlile stood in stark contrast to the kingdom's lush greenery - even kilometers from its walls, an eerie darkness seemed to cling to the city.
Finally, after marching unopposed for so long, Garin's army faced an approaching force.
"Commander, should we charge?" a captain asked eagerly.
Garin cringed at the man's bloodlust but shook his head. Urging his horse forward, he announced: "I will meet with their king to settle this. Wait for my return." His men stood dumbfounded.
As Garin approached, he saw the Augustus commander - a pale man on horseback with lifeless eyes.
"I wish to speak with—"
"He has been expecting you," the man interrupted.
"He?" Garin asked, confused by the commander's cold demeanor.
"Welcome to Marlile, Garin Juggesright," the pale man declared with unsettling certainty.
—
Massive ancient stone doors groaned open, their fifteen-meter height dwarfing all who stood before them. Yet they moved at the mere presence of the pale commander.
"You're fortunate," the man remarked. "Few receive audience with the king."
The throne room stretched before them - cold stone illuminated only by distant torches. A red carpet led to the shadowed throne, its occupant hidden in darkness.
After a brief walk, they reached the throne's base. The pale commander knelt, bowing his head deeply.
"King Decimus Octavio Augustus. He is here."
The king lowered the scroll he'd been reading, revealing sharp features - slick black hair framing pale skin stretched over pronounced cheekbones. His throne loomed elevated above them.
"Well, I've been expecting you." A sigh escaped his lips. "How are they?" His voice resonated deeply, filling the chamber.
"They?" Garin asked.
"The lands of my beautiful Augustus."
"Worthy of the title," Garin replied respectfully.
The king leaned forward slightly. "I understand you always offer mercy to your opposition?"
"Ye— I um, yes."
"No need to be so timid."
Garin swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.
"It is your first time speaking with a true king, I presume?" Before Garin could respond, a thunderous grinding erupted from the left wall. Stones trembled as hidden mechanisms whirred, chains groaning under immense weight. Dust rained from above as a massive section of the wall began descending.
King Decimus spoke calmly over the cacophony:
"I understand you desire to see your family - up in those dense jungles above the escarpment in the former Kingdom of Ridge." His hands clasped together as the wall fully lowered.
Garin's head snapped toward the king, eyes wide with shock. He'd ensured no witnesses survived. No one should know—
The king extended his right hand, gesturing toward the newly revealed space behind the wall.
"I've also summoned you... to offer mercy." His eyebrows arched meaningfully.
—
The following months tore through the Holy Empire's history. For the first time, a lowborn warrior slew the emperor and seized the throne himself, shattering the myth of divine right. He exposed the corruption festering in the royal bloodline, dismantling their expansionist dreams stone by stone. The people crowned him willingly - this man who reduced the empire to a mere union of kingdoms, taking only the title "King of the Holy Land."
Yet whispers followed his reforms. The Holy Empire became as much a religious movement as a political one, its new doctrines spreading like wildfire. More shocking still was his marriage - taking a dark-skinned jungle woman as queen when no ruler had ever looked beyond noble blood.
But his masterstroke came in the Treaty of Marlile, signed with Augustus' enigmatic King Dominic Dreacus Loove. The document's elegant script belied its world-shaking terms: permanent peace, open trade routes, mutual defense.
—
"My king." The man knelt on the cold stone before Augustus' shadowed throne, his forehead nearly touching the ground.
King Decimus Octavio Augustus stirred, his eerie cherry-red eyes glinting in the torchlight. "Ah, Dominic Dreacus. How was the treaty signing?"
"It went well, my king." The false king kept his head lowered. "Though I'm positive you already knew."
"Mh, yes." The true king's fingers tapped the armrest. "Come here, Gorphus."
From behind the massive lowered wall came a stirring of leathery wings. The ten-meter bat creature emerged, its breath rattling through dagger-like teeth as it approached. With surprising grace, it bowed its massive head before its master.
"You and your bloodline have served me and my father well for generations." Decimus' voice echoed unnaturally in the chamber. "Your diligence knows no bounds. As reward... an added one hundred years of servitude will be permitted."
Dominic Dreacus Loove pressed his face to the floor. "My family, my bloodline and I are eternally grateful for your mercy, my king."
"You are excused."
The false king retreated backward, never daring to turn his back on the throne. As the doors groaned shut behind him, Decimus' glowing eyes lingered on the empty space where his puppet had knelt.