=Welsh Kingdom=
The Welsh Kingdom is one of the oldest realms in the world, revered and respected by factions far and wide. Named after its first ruler, King Welsh Leonard, the kingdom carries his name simply because he was notoriously lazy when it came to naming things—be it places, objects, or even his own children. Despite this quirk, King Leonard was a man of unparalleled wisdom, outshining other nobles with his sharp mind and unyielding resolve. His leadership brought victory after victory, forging a new home for his people and earning him the crown. This rich history defines the Welsh Kingdom: a bastion of peacemakers, a harmonious people, and a nation of indomitable will.
The kingdom has always strived to foster peace with others, acting as mediators in a world torn by conflict. Yet, when war became inevitable, the Welsh Kingdom fought with a ferocity that left a tragic mark on humankind's history. They did what was necessary to prevail, securing their place as a beacon of strength and unity. Years later, their efforts bore fruit: a promise of peace was forged, uniting the world in harmony.
Today, that promise culminates in a grand celebration, as factions from across the globe gather to honor the crowning of the Welsh Kingdom's twentieth king. Excitement buzzes through the air, with everyone eager to discover who this new ruler is and what kind of leader they will be.
Inside the grand chamber of the Welsh Kingdom's castle, the new king stood before a polished mirror, his reflection staring back with wide, anxious eyes. Maids bustled around him, carefully preparing his ceremonial robes for the grand celebration. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve as his mind raced with thoughts of the speech he'd soon deliver. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and a maid swiftly stepped forward with a soft cloth to dab it away, her movements gentle and practiced.
King: Nervously I'm not ready for this ceremony. There are too many people out there…
Maid 1: Chuckling softly Oh, my lord, you're not alone in feeling this way. Every king before you has had the same jitters—it's only natural. But rest assured, we maids and butlers are here to support you, no matter what.
Maid 2: Smiling warmly It's just a matter of time, my lord. You'll step into your role and lead our people with grace. Besides, you're already a favorite among the citizens.
King: A small smile breaking through Thank you, both of you. Your words mean more than you know. Once this ceremony is over, I promise you all a week off and a bonus to your payments. My maids and butlers deserve rest as much as anyone.
The maids' faces lit up with joy at his words, their chatter filling the room with warmth. Just then, a deep, resonant horn echoed through the castle, its booming call signaling the moment had arrived. The new king straightened, drawing a shaky breath. It was time to step onto the balcony, face his people, and greet the leaders of other nations.
As King Von Lycaon stepped out of his chamber, he strode through the castle's grand corridor, his footsteps echoing softly. Along the way, maids and butlers paused to bow, their faces glowing with warm, encouraging smiles. He returned a nod, drawing strength from their quiet support. At the massive double doors leading to the balcony, he paused, steadying his breath and calming his racing mind. His shoulders relaxed, his chin lifted, and a spark of confidence kindled in his eyes—stronger than ever before. With a firm nod to his trusted guard knights, they heaved open the doors, revealing the vibrant scene beyond.
Stepping onto the balcony, Von Lycaon was greeted by a wave of jubilant cheers from the citizens below. The high castle offered a breathtaking view of the gathered crowd—his people, mingled with leaders from neighboring lands, all united in celebration. He raised a hand, offering a warm smile, and cleared his throat. The crowd fell silent at once, their eyes fixed on their new king.
Von Lycaon: Citizens of the Welsh Kingdom and our esteemed guests from distant lands, thank you for joining me in this momentous celebration. I am deeply honored. My name is Von Lycaon, son of Vike Lycaon, and as your twentieth king, I stand before you with hope for the future. Together, we will forge progress beyond our wildest dreams—new discoveries, new lands to explore, and perhaps even new foundations for unity. Our bonds of strength will not falter; they are what brought us here. Though our past holds tragedies, we have the courage to move forward into a new era.
The crowd erupted in applause, their cheers echoing across the castle grounds.
Von Lycaon: To the kings and leaders among us, I look forward to strengthening our alliances. I care not for differences of race or origin—only for the strength and trust we can build together.
The foreign kings raised their wine glasses in a gesture of respect and camaraderie, their faces alight with appreciation.
Von Lycaon: I may not have my father's gift for words, but I promise to serve my people, my kingdom, and our allies with all my heart.
The crowd clapped again, their enthusiasm swelling with pride for their new king's earnest words and the bright future he promised. Excitement buzzed through the air, a shared anticipation for what lay ahead. Nothing could dampen their spirits—or so they thought. Until…
BOOM!
A deafening strike shook the earth, the shockwave reverberating through the crowd as a piercing sound rang in their ears. In an instant, the joyous celebration fell silent, every face frozen with wide-eyed dread. Why now? Why during the new king's coronation? The question hung heavy in the air. Von Lycaon, startled by the sound, shook off his shock and raised his voice, commanding the crowd with urgency.
Von Lycaon: Citizens of the Welsh Kingdom! Evacuate immediately! Seek shelter in your homes and stay hidden until it's safe! All available soldiers, prepare for the new arrival!
The crowd obeyed without hesitation, scattering to find cover beneath their homes, their footsteps a frantic drumbeat against the cobblestones. Soldiers, nobles, and even representatives from neighboring nations rallied to defend the Welsh Kingdom. Von Lycaon, his heart pounding, rushed to the armory. His maids and butlers, though visibly shaken, worked swiftly to help him out of his ceremonial tunic, their hands trembling as they assisted their lord. Stepping into the armory, he donned his king's armor—a resplendent suit of golden plate adorned with lion head insignias, complete with a lion-shaped helmet and a flowing cape of blue and gold.
Moments later, as soldiers barricaded the front gates and castle walls, weapons drawn and eyes scanning the horizon, the air grew thick with anticipation. Allies from neighboring lands stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the Welsh troops, their resolve unwavering.
BOOM!
A second strike thundered, rattling the ground and steeling the defenders for the disaster to come. Von Lycaon emerged from the castle, his elite guard at his back. His golden armor gleamed under the sun, the lion motifs roaring silently, his cape billowing with each determined step. He took his place among his soldiers, standing tall as their king, ready to face the final strike that loomed on the horizon.
Von Lycaon: Captain Bastion! Are there any reinforcements available outside the castle?
Captain Bastion, clad in blackened armor etched with the marks of countless battles, stepped forward. A jagged scar ran across his face, his left eye the only one peering through, sharp and resolute. He saluted his king with a steady hand.
Captain Bastion: I've sent a pigeon message to warn of the strike, my lord. Our allies will know what's coming. The trouble is, we don't yet know what manner of foe we're facing.
Von Lycaon: Nodding If it's another surge of the demon race, we'll have no choice but to fight. I'd be honored to stand and battle at your side, Captain. A determined smile crossed his face.
Captain Bastion: Returning a proud grin The honor is mine, my lord.
BOOM!
The final strike thundered, shaking the earth beneath their feet. Soldiers raised swords, spears, bows, and shields, bracing for the onslaught. Von Lycaon lifted his golden broadsword, its blade gleaming with purpose, ready to lead the charge. But the expected enemy didn't appear. A tense silence fell, and the defenders slowly lowered their weapons, exchanging confused glances.
Captain Bastion broke the silence.
Captain Bastion: My lord, after the third strike, a foe usually emerges immediately outside the castle, shrouded in fog. This… this is different.
Von Lycaon: Frowning Indeed. This is something new.
A shout rang out from a soldier in the ranks.
Soldier: Pointing frantically Look! A gate!
All eyes turned to where the soldier pointed. There, in the middle of the cobblestone street, a gate had materialized. Its appearance was deceptively plain—lacking the ominous glow or swirling mists of legend—yet its sudden presence sent a chill through the air.
Von Lycaon: A gate? No—a dimensional rift, just like in the wars of old.
Captain Bastion: With a wry smirk A dimensional rift posing as a gate. Ironic.
The soldiers and allies fixed their gazes on the unassuming gate that had materialized in the heart of the town. Despite its plain appearance, they all shared the same thought: this was no ordinary gate but a dimensional rift, a grim echo of the wars that had scarred their past. They wouldn't be fooled by its sudden arrival.
Just as Captain Bastion opened his mouth to question the situation, a faint sound reached his ears—distant screams echoing from beyond the gate.
Captain Bastion: Narrowing his eyes My lord, did you hear that?
Von Lycaon: Nodding sharply I did. It's a battle cry from within the rift. Soldiers, ready your weapons and surround the gate at once! Any who dare threaten our kingdom will face the full might of our resolve!
The soldiers let out a roaring cheer, their spirits ignited as they formed a tight formation around the rift. Shields locked together like an impenetrable wall, spears poised to pierce any foe that emerged. With each passing minute, the sounds from within grew louder—war cries mingled with the thunderous gallop of horses, drawing ever closer. All eyes were locked on the rift, unyielding. Von Lycaon gripped his pure iron claymore, striking a battle stance, his eyes blazing with unwavering determination.
Soldier: Yelling Here they come!
Enemies poured through the dimensional rift, charging with a thunderous stampede of horses and crashing against the Welsh Kingdom's wall of shields. The foes were a chaotic mix: human soldiers, fire-breathing wyverns, and grotesque, mindless monsters. The Welsh defenses held strong, striking down every enemy that breached their lines. Von Lycaon, scanning the human foes, noted their armor—eerily similar to that of a neighboring kingdom but shoddily made, easily sliced like butter. Their fighting style was barbaric, lacking the disciplined tactics of the northern highlanders. These were no highlanders; they were lunatics, reckless and disorganized. The wyverns proved trickier, swooping over the town with fiery breath, while the monsters' raw strength and speed posed a formidable challenge. Yet the Welsh armies stood resolute, determined to halt the invaders' havoc.
As the battle raged, the enemy leader had the gall to shout above the fray, ordering his men to plant their flag on Welsh soil—a brazen act of disrespect.
Enemy Leader: Shouting Hear me, savages! We, the Saderan Empire, in the name of Emperor Molto Sol Augustus, declare the conquest and annexation of your lands!
The Welsh forces, enraged by this affront, felt a surge of fury. Their morale soared, and their attacks grew fierce and unpredictable, overwhelming the enemy. The Saderan lines faltered, cut down by the sheer force of the Welsh defenses. Shields locked tight, spears thrusting, the Welsh trapped the invaders, forcing them back toward the rift. With reinforcements from Welsh, the Saderans would have been wiped out like stains scrubbed from a dish, their blood pooling on the cobblestones. The enemy leader, teeth gritted in frustration, had no choice but to signal a retreat, but not before hurling a final threat.
Enemy Leader: Insolent savages! We'll return with an army of a hundred thousand, and we'll take everything! The Saderan Empire will make you kneel!
As the invaders retreated amid the chaos they'd unleashed, the Welsh army erupted in cheers, celebrating their hard-won victory. But the jubilation faded quickly when King Von Lycaon raised his hand for silence and strode toward the captured enemies. He fixed them with a stern glare, his eyes burning with a fury that seemed ready to consign them to the flames of hell. Then, he spoke.
Von Lycaon: Glaring intensely Your battle tactics were embarrassing—a total letdown. Your comrades were slaughtered like butter, and yet you dare call us "savages"? It's an insult, born of your own lack of discipline. Captain Bastion! Escort these prisoners to our "warm welcome" in the cages. Show them who the real savages are.
Captain Bastion: Nodding firmly Right away, my lord. Wolfbane unit! Haul these hooligans to the prison!
The soldiers of the Wolfbane unit saluted sharply and dragged the prisoners away. Captain Bastion departed with his men, leaving the king to survey the minor destruction scattered across the town. It wasn't too bad—repairs could be done in a few days. Von Lycaon felt a wave of relief wash over him; his citizens were safe, none captured by the enemy. His gaze then settled on the gate, its dark void beckoning to another world beyond. The air hummed with tension, hinting at changes that would reshape his entire perspective.
Von Lycaon: Sighing deeply It seems this era will be interesting indeed.