Adam teleported instantly—then staggered half a step as the strain caught up to him. His breath came sharp and uneven, chest rising and falling as red‑and‑yellow light flickered behind his eyes. Sweat traced down his temples as he forced his systems to keep pace.
"There you are."
The White King sat upon his throne, one hand resting against his chin, gaze distant and heavy with thought. He did not rise.
"Go to the teleportation station," the King said at last. "It will send you to the Fairies' Chamber."
He lifted his hand in a small gesture. Black Knights approached in unison, one of them presenting an object with reverent care—a warped black ring, cold and dense, set with a single flickering orb. The core pulsed softly, blue light breathing in and out like a living thing.
"My wife will allow you through the gates if you carry that," the King continued.
Adam closed his fingers around it. The weight felt wrong—too heavy for its size, as if it carried intent rather than mass.
What now?
The King's voice came again, quieter but firm.
"If you ever find my children… give them the warp message."
He raised his hand slightly, as if sealing the command into law.
The Black Knights bowed in perfect synchronization.
"Sir," one of them said, "we must go."
Before Adam could respond, three lords hurried toward him. They were thin, drawn figures, faces pale, eyes hollowed by something they had seen and could not forget.
"Lord," one of them said, voice trembling, "something is happening."
Their expressions were haunted—grim beyond fear. Even they recoiled at the sight of the White King's eyes as he stood. The darkness within them, vast and hollow, frightened even those sworn to him.
"I know," the White King said.
His voice carried no panic—only command.
"Prepare formations of all units. Light Units. Defenders. Medical divisions. Airborne. Cavalry. Converge immediately. Contain abomination out within our kingdom."
The lords bowed deeply and rushed to obey.
The King remained seated as they departed, shoulders heavy. His posture spoke of weariness no crown could hide.
If only I could see winter again, he thought. Like the old days.
But all roads led to ruin, didn't they?
He lifted his gaze toward the stars—toward the Creator herself. Confusion and exhaustion twisted quietly within him. Why create a world only to watch it suffer? Why grant life only to test how much it could endure?
Then footsteps—fast, desperate.
A soldier burst into the hall, breath ragged, armor light and chitin‑like, shaped from insect plating. He nearly stumbled as he reached the throne, clutching a report in shaking hands.
"Your Majesty—" he gasped, barely able to stand.
The King was then unfurled the scroll in his hand, his fingers long, sharp and pale as marble.. his gazed lingered through the words-a letter-... My daughter has been kidnap. with a wave of his hand.
Before the soldiers could retreat, a figure emerged from the mist—a jester.
His face was painted white, round spectacles catching the dim light. A red-and-black tuxedo clung to his frame, a cape trailing behind him like liquid fire. He moved as if each step were a note in a song.
He sang.
"You cannot, my King… Your soldiers already fight—defending the homeland against dark flesh, corruption, monsters. Infections. Titans. Beings unknown have crossed the veil of this world…"
His voice was both melody and sermon, echoing through the frozen chamber.
The King turned.
His eyes were dull, unreadable.
"So you tell me," he said, his voice slicing the silence, "that I must not save my children?"
The jester dropped to his knees, bowing until his forehead met the cold floor.
"I only advise, Your Majesty… as my bloodline has always done. The choice, as ever, belongs to you."
The King's gaze drifted inward—into his reflection on the snow-glass floor, through his lineage, through the crown that weighed upon his soul.
"I was the one who protected," he whispered. "Who gave peace. As my fathers did before me. And when terror comes, I am told to endure in silence? To hesitate in the moment of cataclysm?"
He inhaled.
"My honor is not meant to be still. If my people fall into despair, then it must be me who moves."
He rose.
The ground shuddered. Cracks spread like veins of lightning across the floor. From his body erupted the radiance of creation—four forces coiling around him: Mana. Strength. Life. Death. Matter bent to his will.
White light tore upward, flooding Kaloterm—the kingdom of steel and caverns, its cities layered from the depths of the earth to the open sky.
His armor split apart, metal flaking away like ash. Darkness bled from the fractures in his flesh. He staggered—
—but he did not kneel.
"I will be the one."
With a single motion, legions awakened.
The White Knights surged forward, blades gleaming like fallen stars, racing to save the King's child. Behind them followed the Black Knights, silent as shadows, marching into war beside their King.
He bore no sword. No banner.
He needed none.
He was the weapon—
a will that refused to vanish.
"No cost too great."
Adam's eye widen's... With lividness he could not help but be livid to this Jester being the person of the yellowed hair... The person who had got to be something that fouls the plans of even piercebox? The one who was always there...
With rehan's connection's through his brain... Realising something, The clown person who attack the kingdom, the one who maybe orchestrated the wryms, the revolt across the kingdom, piercebox death, and even the glasses eyed person in Dowell...
How is HIM?
[You are the co‑creator of this world, Adam. You can exist anywhere at once—but there are things you cannot erase. You cannot destroy what the Creator herself shaped before this scape ever began. There are boundaries she set, rules she does not allow to be broken. The story was already written long ago. This person did write it—but he has orchestrated it, weaving himself through generations, through lineage and blood.]
Adam focused, his awareness narrowing.
He analyzed the being before him.
Shinanu Mono.
The name settled heavily in his mind.
[Only then did Adam truly understand what he was himself. Omnipotence. Omnipresence. A presence that could stretch across the world without limit.]
But not omniscience.
He was never meant to know everything. He was given power, not authorship. He could move through reality, act upon it, even shape it—but he was not the origin of all things.
Some truths were kept from him.
And some outcomes were never his to decide.
As Adam seized the jester with telekinetic force, the air itself seemed to tense. Guards faltered, hands half‑raised, confusion rippling through their formation. The King rose from his throne, slow and deliberate, his footsteps echoing as he approached. He exhaled, a quiet sigh carrying weight far heavier than sound.
"What are you trying to do?" the King asked calmly.
Adam's voice was firm. "This person isn't what you think he is."
The King paused, eyes narrowing as he studied the jester suspended before them. His gaze sharpened with memory and judgment.
"No," he said at last. "This man—his parents, his bloodline—have served as magisters against us for centuries. Even in my father's time."
Adam turned back to the jester.
"How old are you?"
"A few centuries," the White King replied
Adam acted.
He reached into the jester's being itself, attempting to change him—rewrite the shape of what he was. The jester convulsed violently, crackling as if his body were tearing itself apart from the inside. He coughed, gagged, thrashed in midair, eyes wide as he struggled to escape, his gaze darting desperately toward the King.
As Adam was about to change the fundamental core of the jester... To say everything he want's.
Then—it stopped.
The King moved.
With a single motion, he severed the very concept of Adam's interference. Not just the force holding the jester aloft, but the act of change itself. Adam felt it collapse—his power cut cleanly, fundamentally. Surprise flickered through him.
The jester dropped hard to the floor.
He lay there for a moment, humiliated, then slowly pushed himself up. A smile spread across his face—soft, honeyed, carefully crafted.
"I…" he said weakly, "I promise you, I'm not plotting against you."
"He's still lying," Adam said without hesitation.
The King's eyes widened briefly, confusion crossing his face—then understanding struck. His gaze hardened, narrowing to a cold glint of resolve.
"I cannot allow you to harm my people," the King said. "I will not be so lenient again."
The jester was restrained immediately and taken away, placed under investigation without further delay.
Adam let out a long breath. His hands slipped into his hoodie, fingers tugging unconsciously at the fabric beneath his shirt.
"You need help," Adam said quietly. "I know you can't handle all of this alone."
The King remained silent, eyes lowered to the stone floor. His posture was authoritative, yet strangely relaxed, as though the weight he carried had long since become familiar.
At last, he spoke.
"Alright. If you can help me—then do so."
He lifted a hand, gesturing for Adam to leave. Knights stepped forward, forming an escort. As Adam walked away, the King's voice followed him, low and measured.
"The monsters in the south are not the only enemies you will face. There is another—one you will meet at the north. When that time comes… please be lenient."
Adam passed along the grand hall walls, feeling the gaze of the knights slide away from him as he went. He exited the tower, the sight of towering spires and descending cobblestone stairs opening before him. His hand brushed lightly against the handle at his side as he moved forward.
A stray thought surfaced—unwanted, intrusive.
[Is the King autistic? ADHD‑C?]
Shut up.
Adam felt a flicker of embarrassment at himself. His thoughts were already elsewhere, far beyond the tower, far across the world—knowing exactly where Yuruki was. He could see her in his mind, smiling, lost in her small, familiar quirks.
And despite everything, that made him smile too.
318 Years Ago
There was a White‑haired boy who was barely two feet tall in an old castle, no older than three. He tugged weakly at the edge of a sleeve, his fingers small, hesitant. His voice was almost a whisper—thin, nearly mute.
"I need… someone to look," he said, struggling to find the words. "The windows scare… Can Father be here?"
The service room was alive with motion and noise, yet none of it belonged to him. Knives struck wood in steady rhythms. Vegetables were chopped, meat portioned, dough rolled flat and dusted with flour. Pots simmered with soup meant for tomorrow's feast, steam curling toward the ceiling. Laughter drifted between the maids as they worked.
No one noticed him.
He stood there, small and still, swallowed by a room too busy to care.
Then a maid with yellowed hair finally glanced down. She wore a navy‑dark dress beneath a stained apron, a bottle of rum in her hand as she passed it to another maid.
"Your father's busy," she said lightly. "There's a celebration tonight."
She crouched just long enough to tug him by the wrist.
"Come on. You're already three years old. Time for bed."
He clutched at her shirt, fingers tightening in quiet panic.
"I'm afraid of monsters," he said. "I don't want the dark. There's something out there."
She sighed—not cruelly, just tired.
The distant sound of a ballet echoed faintly from the grand hall of the side castle, music drifting through stone corridors like something from another life.
"Well," the maid said, patting his head as if that settled things, "there's nothing to be done. Sleep needs darkness. for you to rest"
She closed the window without looking back, pulled the curtains tight, and guided him to the bed.
"Goodnight, Prince."
The door shut.
Silence rushed in to replace the noise.
The boy sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the curtains. Shadows shifted behind the fabric as torchlight outside flickered. His heart beat fast—too fast. His body locked in place, breath shallow, hands clenched in his lap.
Time passes as he was always alone...
He wanted to hide.
He wanted to be covered.
He wanted someone—anyone—to stay.
Then—
The window creaked.
Slowly, impossibly, it opened.