December 13th 4878 - The Royal Meadows
Blak Sirius woke from a deep sleep on a bed in a place he didn't remember, nor did he recognize.
As he slowly leaned up, his head throbbing and vision still a little blurred, he grumbled,
"Ugh… where am I? Why does my head hurt so bad?"
Muttering those words, he crawled out of bed and tried to walk toward the window to his right. His legs were still weak from sleep, trembling beneath him.
When he finally reached the window, the sunlight was blinding. He shielded his eyes with his hand, squinting as he glanced out at the town not far from the building he stood in.
He stood there, taking in the beauty of the town before him, a lingering memory tugging at the edges of his mind—something that had happened before he awoke. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
Suddenly, the door to the room creaked open.
Blak turned his head and saw a girl who looked to be around his age. She had a bright, wide smile, and without hesitation, she ran toward him, shouting with excitement.
"You must be the new one that arrived a few weeks ago! I can't believe you're already awake! My name's Jill! Wanna go out and play with me and Mr. Puppet?" she hollered, holding up a small puppet doll.
Blak jumped slightly as she shoved the doll in his face. He gently moved it aside to get a better look at her, not having registered a single word she'd just said. Locking eyes with her, he asked,
"Do you know where we are? Or who I am? I can't remember anything from before I woke up."
Jill's smile grew even wider. She set the puppet down and grabbed him by the shoulders, practically bouncing with excitement.
"We're in the best place on the planet, of course! The Royal Meadows! And as for your name, I heard the grown-ups say it was Blak Sirius when you first arrived!"
She paused for a moment, then continued, her voice full of pride.
"This town of ours, in the Royal Meadows, is the best in all the world! In fact, our community is the only one separated from the Four Kingdoms. Here, we live in peace with everyone around us!"
She tugged at his arm, beaming.
"Now let's go play!"
Blak, now beginning to understand his situation and surroundings a little more clearly than when he first woke up, replied in a voice that carried less confusion and a touch more certainty.
"My name's Blak? I can't say I like it or hate it... but I guess it'll do."
He turned his gaze toward Jill and offered a wide, genuine smile. Extending his hand, he added warmly,
"Your name's Jill, right? We should be friends."
At his words, Jill's eyes lit up like a pair of lanterns in the dark. She jumped with joy, spinning around on her heels before facing him again with a grin so wide it nearly overtook her face.
"That's right! My name's Jill Kesler! Does this mean you're gonna play with me? I would love to be your friend!" she screamed.
The sharp pitch of her excitement made Blak's ears ring slightly, but he gave a patient nod and responded with a simple, "Yes," accepting her invitation.
Without another word, Jill dashed out of the room in a blur of movement, only to return a few minutes later, breathless and clutching a bright, worn ball to her chest.
"We can play with this by the river!" she said, her voice practically glowing with enthusiasm.
Blak, feeling an unfamiliar warmth in her presence, followed her out of the building and into the strange new world—toward the river, where the sun hung low and shadows stretched like long fingers across the land.
3 Hours Later
The sky had begun to darken, casting a dusky violet hue across the land. Clouds drifted slowly overhead, veiling the sun, while the river below churned with rising aggression—its waters crashing violently against jagged rocks. Blak sat alone on a smooth stone at the river's edge, his eyes locked on the restless current. Jill played nearby, splashing happily in a gentler part of the water, completely unbothered by the shift in atmosphere.
Without warning, Blak spoke, his tone unusually distant.
"Hey, Jill… are we orphans or something? I don't see many kids with adults around here. Do I have parents?"
Jill turned her head sharply, confusion momentarily clouding her cheerful face. But it didn't last long. Her bright smile returned as she ran over to him and playfully smacked the back of his head, laughing.
"Of course you have parents! We all do! They just do grown-up stuff outside of the Royal Meadows until nightfall, silly!" she giggled, twirling in place before hopping back toward the water.
Blak didn't reply. He simply stared down at his hands, the question still lingering in his chest like a stone sinking into deep water.
Moments later, a figure appeared—just barely older than Blak, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, with striking red hair and piercing blue eyes that seemed almost unnatural against the fading light. The man approached slowly, kneeling in front of Blak without a word. From his coat pocket, he pulled out a necklace—silver, tarnished, and old. Dangling from it was a pendant etched with a symbol Blak had never seen before, its lines jagged and precise, almost alive.
In a voice that was soft yet carried a strange coldness, the man spoke.
"I see you woke up from your coma, Blak. I know you probably don't remember much because of the amnesia, but… I'm glad you're back home."
He smiled faintly and fastened the necklace around Blak's neck, the clasp clicking shut with finality.
Blak stared down at the pendant, feeling its unfamiliar weight settle against his chest. The symbol offered no answers, and the man offered no explanation.
Still stunned, Blak muttered, "T-thank you?"
Inside, his thoughts swirled.
I have amnesia? Is that why I can't remember my past…?
He didn't know it then—not truly—but that day, that quiet and seemingly innocent day…
sealed the fate of everyone in the Royal Meadows.
The red-haired man left soon after, vanishing without another word. Jill and Blak spent the next hour playing by the river, laughter echoing across the water until the curfew bell rang. As the sound echoed through the air, they returned to the townhouse—where Blak had first awakened.
It had been a peaceful day.
Blak truly believed it would be a peaceful night, too.
And just when he had started to accept his new life in the Royal Meadows—just when things finally felt safe...
He was ripped from sleep.
The bell tower screamed through the night air, loud and frantic. Heavy footsteps thundered up and down the halls of the townhouse, accompanied by urgent voices shouting over one another. Panic instantly flooded Blak's chest like ice water, and his breath hitched as confusion gave way to fear.
Heart pounding, he scrambled out of bed and stumbled to Jill's side. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he shook her frantically, his voice a harsh whisper edged with desperation.
"Jill. Hey—Jill, wake up! Something's wrong. Please, wake up!"
Jill groaned and stirred, her voice barely audible. "Hmm?"
She rubbed her eyes and sat up slowly, running a hand through her tangled hair. "What do you mean something's happeni—?"
She stopped mid-sentence.
The bell tower rang again. And again. And again.
Her eyes widened as realization struck her like a slap. She threw off her blanket and leapt from the bed.
"We have to get out of here—now!" she shouted, already shoving her most treasured belongings into her backpack with trembling hands. "My daddy told me… the bell only rings like this for one reason!"
Blak, still dazed and terrified, asked in a shaken voice, "What did your father say it means?"
Jill turned slowly to face him. Her face had gone pale. The panic in her eyes was unmistakable—this was no game.
"It means we're under attack…" she said in a near whisper. "We have to leave the Royal Meadows—right now."
Blak snatched the necklace from where it lay on his bed, clasping it around his neck with shaking fingers.
"What do we do?!" he cried out, his voice cracking.
Jill grabbed his hand tightly and looked him in the eyes. "Isn't it obvious?! We run!"
Without waiting for a reply, she pulled him toward the door. Together, they bolted out of the townhouse and into the open streets—where the once-quiet world had descended into chaos.
They ran through the war-torn streets, Jill leading the way with Blak just behind, their footsteps drowned by the chaos erupting around them.
Screams of agony tore through the air like sirens. The sharp clang of steel meeting flesh echoed through the town, followed by the sickening thuds of lifeless bodies hitting the ground. All around them, fire devoured the buildings—homes reduced to blackened skeletons of wood and stone, flames crackling hungrily as they spread.
They didn't stop.
They couldn't.
But then, for the first time since they'd fled the townhouse, Blak turned his head.
And froze.
A group of armored soldiers—faces obscured by nightmarish masks—descended upon a crowd of townsfolk, their blades gleaming with blood. Blak watched in horror as the swords pierced flesh, as innocent people fell one after another in brutal silence.
Then—something clicked.
A flash.
A memory.
A woman, her face blurred and unfamiliar, screaming in silence.
A sword—long and thin—piercing her chest, driving straight through her heart.
The image vanished as quickly as it came, yanked away by Jill's shrill voice.
"Hey! Blak!" she screamed, eyes wide with fear. "React and get back to moving already! We don't have time to watch the death of others!"
Blak blinked, disoriented, and nodded silently before following her again.
But the horror only grew.
A teenage boy ran out of a burning house, flames licking at his back—only for a spear to burst through his throat from behind, thrown with bone-splitting force. He collapsed to his knees, eyes blank, gurgling before falling face-first into the mud.
An elderly woman wailed beside a burning fence, her hands raised in surrender—only to be kicked down and trampled by a soldier's horse, her skull cracking loudly under the hooves.
People were dying in droves, and no one was coming to help.
As they neared the edge of town, a sharp groan echoed across the street. Blak looked up just in time to see a house begin to collapse—its structure failing, flames devouring the last of its supports.
A heavy half-burned beam had already fallen and crushed an elderly man's legs beneath it. Blood seeped out from under him, his fingers twitching, lips quivering in pain. But he wasn't crying.
He was watching.
Watching Blak.
His cloudy eyes narrowed as they landed on the necklace around Blak's neck.
"You've forsaken us," he rasped, voice like gravel. "Why did that foolish boy have to bring you here…?"
Then it happened.
SNAP.
The beam above him gave way.
He looked up.
"No! Wait! Please! HELP-!"
Blak surged forward to help him, arm outstretched.
Too late.
The burning timber came down fast—crushing the old man's head like fruit, the impact sending a hot, wet spray of blood across Blak's legs and shoes. A shard of bone skittered across the ground and stopped near his foot.
blak stood there, shaking, helplessly staring at the blood and bits of flesh splattered on the ground
And then—stillness.
From beneath the beam, a slow ooze of black-red blood crept outward. Thick, syrupy, it slithered over the ground like it had purpose. Bits of fragmented skull and pulped brain matter floated in the stream as it spread—slowly, steadily—until it reached Blak's shoes.
The warmth of it seeped into the soles, soaking through the seams.
a wave of unease swept throught them as blak stared at the liquid frozen in place
Jill tugged hard at his arm, eyes wide with horror. "We have to go, now!"
Blak finally stepped back, the slick squelch of blood beneath his foot grounding him in grim reality.
He didn't speak.
There were no words left.
And so they ran—through ash, through screams, through death.
This new home of his—the place he had only just begun to enjoy—was fated to end in fire and blood.
And all Blak could think about was the look on that old man's face.
Not just the pain.
Not just the fear.
But the desperation—the raw, helpless terror carved into every wrinkle of his skin as he looked up and begged for salvation that never came.
As they continued to run through the flame-choked streets of the Meadows, the smoke thick and stinging their eyes, Jill suddenly grabbed Blak's arm and yanked him behind a crumbling stone building.
Ahead—just at the next intersection—marched a formation of armored soldiers, their blackened armor smeared with ash and blood, moving with mechanical precision.
Blak and Jill slipped inside the ruins of what once might've been a bakery. The walls were cracked, windows shattered, and the scent of charred bread mixed with the iron tang of death. Blak crouched low beneath a broken window and risked a glance through a jagged shard of glass.
Outside, a group of soldiers stood rigidly in formation. But what caught Blak's attention was the man in front.
A tall figure sat atop a black horse, unmoving as a statue. He had long, wind-swept blond hair, a patchy golden beard, and eyes that burned with cruel calculation. He wore a long black coat lined with silver trim, and his gloved hands rested coldly on the hilt of his sword. The soldiers around him gave him wide space—respect, or maybe fear.
A second rider galloped up and quickly dismounted, dropping to one knee before the man.
"Captain Asterics!" the soldier barked. "We've found no trace of the treasure yet, sir—but from the intel extracted from captured town guards, we're certain it's here!"
Asterics' expression darkened. His brow furrowed deep, eyes narrowing with contempt. Then, with a voice like broken glass scraping over stone, he bellowed:
"I don't care what it takes. Burn every house. Slaughter every man, every woman, every child if you have to—just find that damn treasure!"
His words sliced through the night like blades, followed by a chilling silence—no protests, no hesitation. The soldiers simply nodded and dispersed, weapons drawn.
Blak ducked back down behind the wall, heart hammering in his chest. When he turned to Jill, her eyes were wide, filled with pure, gut-wrenching terror. Her hands were shaking—violently, uncontrollably—her fingers twitching like they no longer belonged to her.
Blak leaned in closer, whispering, "What's wrong? Are you okay? You can't just go silent on me."
Jill slowly turned her head, her gaze cold with sorrow, lips trembling as she answered in a strained, shaking voice. "If we don't get out of here right now, we're dead. Asterics... he's not just a captain. He's a monster. The kind of man you don't annoy. The kind that doesn't leave survivors."
Blak swallowed hard, forcing down the chill crawling up his spine.
Jill peeked around the cracked doorway. Asterics and the guards had moved on. Just a few meters away, parked beside a scorched wall, was a black, reinforced carriage guarded by only two soldiers. Her eyes locked onto it, the wheels still intact, reins loosely tied to the post.
A plan formed fast.
"My parents taught me how to ride carriages two years ago," she whispered quickly. "We steal that one. You distract them, I take the reins. We meet on the move."
There was no room for debate. They moved.
Building to building, shadow to shadow, they crept under cover of smoke and chaos. Screams still filled the night, but the blood-curdling sound had become background noise—like the world itself was dying and no one could stop it.
They reached the edge of a burnt-out tavern, just across from the carriage.
Blak nodded once, took a breath, and sprinted into the open.
"Hey!" he shouted, waving his arms like a lunatic. "I saw someone hiding near the gate!"
The guards snapped to attention and charged after him without question.
Jill didn't waste a second. She bolted for the carriage, climbed up to the driver's seat, and yanked the reins hard. The wheels groaned, but the horses responded. She clicked her tongue, urging them faster.
The clatter of hooves picked up speed—louder, faster—cutting through the chaos.
Blak, sprinting for his life, heard her scream, "Hurry! Jump on before the guards get to you!"
He didn't think. He just ran.
The carriage passed by, and Blak jumped—his fingers barely catching the edge of the platform. His arms burned, body swinging, but somehow he held on. With a grunt and a burst of desperation, he hauled himself up and collapsed beside her, panting, drenched in sweat and smoke.
Behind them, the guards shouted furiously, their voices swallowed by distance and flames.
But they were free. For now. Though that wouldn't be the case for long.
Only three meters beyond the town gate, the thunder of hooves grew louder behind them. A second carriage had begun to catch up—twice the size of theirs, reinforced in iron, drawn by four war-trained horses. This wasn't for transport. It was made for bloodshed.
Six soldiers rode it. Two were the ones Blak had distracted. The others were archers, already standing, drawing arrows with terrifying precision.
Jill glanced back and her eyes went wide. She cracked the reins harder. The horses screamed, hooves pounding faster, wheels rattling over the dirt path. But it wasn't enough. The archers dipped their arrowheads into the flame of a mounted torch and launched the first volley.
Arrows hissed through the air. One embedded itself into the back of the carriage, then another, and another. By the fourth round, the wood at the rear caught fire. Smoke curled upward, choking and acrid. Blak shouted, "The carriage is on fire! You need to go faster!"
Jill gritted her teeth, keeping her eyes locked forward. "I'm only twelve! And it seems like I'm doing all the heavy lifting here, Blak! Just focus on not getting hit—we're almost at the Bazar River! If we can make it over the bridge, we can disappear into the forest!"
Blak ducked low and looked ahead, squinting through the smoke and wind. "I can see it! I see the bridge!"
Another round came. One arrow whistled past Blak's head and buried itself into the seat between them. Another nearly shattered a wheel but missed by a breath.
Then they hit the bridge.
The old planks creaked and groaned under the weight. Jill didn't slow down. The river roared beneath them, and for a brief moment, it looked like they might make it.
But fate had other plans.
The archers loosed a final volley.
Two arrows struck Jill—one in the shoulder, the other deep in her side. She screamed, her grip on the reins faltering. Blood sprayed across the wooden frame as her small body twisted in agony. The reins swerved. The horses veered.
The carriage tipped sideways, wheels lifting. In the chaos, Jill was thrown free, slamming into the earth just short of the riverbank.
Blak wasn't so lucky.
He felt the carriage tilt beneath him, then weightlessness—then the crushing pull of cold. He hit the river like a stone and was instantly pulled under, the violent current dragging him down into the dark, frigid depths.
The last thing Blak heard before blacking out was Jill's bloodcurdling scream echoing above the chaos. Then, the jagged crack of his skull slamming into a submerged rock. Everything after that dissolved into cold, choking silence.
It was dawn when he was pulled from the river, unconscious and waterlogged. Whoever had found him dragged him into a worn-down cabin hidden deep within the forest and forced the water from his lungs, saving him from drowning. His chest burned with every breath, his body limp with fatigue.
When he finally awoke, Blak found himself lying on a makeshift cot, a thin blanket soaked with river water beneath him. His vision was blurry at first, but the smell of iron hit him instantly—blood.
Then he saw him.
The red-haired man.
The same one who'd given him the necklace.
He stood near the cabin's door, wiping fresh blood from the curved blade of his sword. His eyes flicked to Blak, sharp and unreadable.
"It's a good thing you're alive," the man said coldly, voice low and steady. "I went to look for you when the Boklot Castle soldiers arrived… but I never expected to find you in the damn river."
Blak forced himself upright, his body screaming in protest. He coughed, clutching his side, and looked around frantically before locking eyes with the man.
"Who are you?" he asked, voice cracking. "Who were those people? And… and where's Jill?"
Her screams still echoed in his ears, raw and haunting.
The man looked away for a moment, his expression unreadable as he sheathed his sword. He let out a quiet sigh before speaking again, this time in a more grim tone.
"My name is Malic, and those people...welll they're soldiers from Boklot Castle. Merciless, well-trained, and willing to slaughter innocents if it gets them what they want. I don't know what they came to the Royal Meadows for… but whatever it was, it wasn't worth the lives they took. I swore a vow of pacifism when I left the Kingdom's army, but if I hadn't broken that vow last night, I'd be lying dead with the rest."
Blak's breath hitched. He slid off the bed and fell to his knees, fingers digging into the dirt floor. Tears began to stream down his face, hot and bitter as they trailed through the grime of the river.
"It's not fair," he said, his voice barely a whisper at first. Then louder, angrier, broken. "It's not fair! I don't even remember my life before I woke up… and the moment I start to feel peace—real peace—it's ripped away from me! I had to watch people die! I heard them scream! And for what? A fucking treasure?"
His fists slammed into the ground. Over and over. Each strike more desperate than the last.
"Why did they come? Why us? Why Jill?!"
He didn't notice the blood on his hands. He didn't feel the sting of split knuckles.
He only felt the void growing inside of him.
Malic stayed silent for a long moment, his eyes low, brows furrowed. Then he looked up, his gaze cold and unwavering as it locked with Blak's. "King Price," he said, his voice flat with loathing. "He did this. He's the king of Boklot—and all that's left of the ruined land it once was. Nothing remains now but a blackened castle rotting atop a dead kingdom."
Malic's jaw clenched before he went on. "He sent those bastards to murder the Royal Fathers… to burn our home to ash. My home. Your home. We are most likely the only ones left, Blak. The Royal Meadows are gone."
The name echoed in Blak's skull like a curse. King Price. Each syllable felt like a dagger pressed behind his eyes.
"I want to be strong!" Blak shouted, his throat raw from emotion. "I need to fight—to protect the ones who can't protect themselves! I need to get revenge for all those innocent people!"
Without hesitation, Malic stepped forward and struck him across the face—hard enough to silence him. Blak stared up at him, wide-eyed and stunned, cheek burning red.
Malic leaned in, his voice sharp and commanding. "Then stop crying. If you want to be strong, then quit sitting on the floor like a child. I'll teach you how to wield a sword… how to dodge, parry, and hold your stance. But the rest?" His expression darkened. "You'll learn that in real combat—on real fields, against real killers. That's where warriors are made."
He extended a hand to Blak, firm and unwavering—not in pity, but in challenge. "So what's it going to be? Are you going to lie there and drown in your pain, or are you going to stand up and fight for something bigger than yourself?"
Blak didn't answer right away. The sting on his cheek grounded him, reminded him he was still breathing. Still alive. He clenched his fists, drawing strength from the pain, and after a moment of silence, reached up and took Malic's hand. As he was pulled to his feet, he wiped the tears from his face and met Malic's eyes with fire in his own. He still didn't remember who he truly was. But now, he knew who he would become.
Blak had made his choice. He would become a warrior.
Chapter End