The journey back to the Roseblade Duchy was a blur of silent intensity, each mile steeped in the unspoken horrors of Sith. Upon their arrival at the sprawling castle, a hushed urgency pervaded the air, the very stones seeming to absorb the group's collective grief. A round table conference was immediately called, the heavy oak doors of the meeting hall standing open, awaiting its somber participants. But before the discussions could even begin, Anna R. McKellen, her face still streaked with the remnants of tears and her eyes blazing with a raw, unyielding frustration, confronted Ling.
Anna blocked Ling's path to the conference table, her presence a desperate barrier. "How?" she demanded, her voice strained yet sharp, "How did you come back? Explain yourself!" Ling stopped, his broad shoulders tensing. He turned, his gaze meeting hers, and the familiar warmth usually present in his eyes was replaced by an unsettling gravity. "Annabeth," he spoke, his voice low and firm, not the affectionate 'Little Anna' he had always used. The sound of that name, uttered with such solemnity, sent a jolt through her, underscoring the severity of the moment. For it was a name that hadn't been uttered after Annabeth completely ceased to exist, for she was not Anna or Beth anymore. She is now the new Annabeth Ruth McKellen, even though not a complete version.
"I've told you this once before, but it seems your youthful mind has forgotten. I sacrificed one of my tails to return, just as those who share my color lineage did." With that cryptic, heavy explanation, he offered her no further glance, merely turning and walking towards his seat at the round table, leaving Annabeth trembling in his wake.
Entering the hall, they found their places. At the forefront of the grand, circular table sat the Duke and Duchess, their faces a mask of profound sorrow, their eyes hollow. Annabeth took her designated seat, the polished wood feeling cold and unforgiving beneath her. The solemn atmosphere was palpable as the meeting officially began, the air thick with unspoken questions.
The Heavenly General, Ling, and his commanders were the first to speak, their voices hushed, their accounts fragmented. They recounted the chaos and bewildering speed of the attack, their words painting a vague, nightmarish picture. Ling, however, added a detail that sliced through the vagueness, a piece of information that demanded immediate attention. "During our battle," he stated, his voice grave, "I was able to take a sniff of him, even though it was just for a fleeting second, and it was no doubt a human. But his eyes seemed familiar, almost like I'd seen them before."
The Duke's composure visibly cracked. "You said you'd seen it before?" he asked, his voice sharp with incredulity, horror dawning in his eyes. "How can you tell them apart? In this world of thousands of races, the human race is one of the races of the 7-colored system. So, tell me how you, a Yokarion, one of the races part of the 7-colored system, tell apart someone from just their eyes when all humans and even Yokarions possess one of the seven eye and hair colors. And from your description, he was an adult, which means he is not a Colorless!" The Duke's voice escalated into a furious shout, slamming a fist on the table. "So tell me, how, how, how, General! Please, tell me how?" His tone then utterly dropped, the rage dissolving into raw, uncontrolled grief as tears streamed down his ashen cheeks, a silent testimony to his unbearable pain.
As Ling prepared to answer the Duke's anguished plea, Annabeth McKellen spoke up, her voice cutting through the heavy air with an unexpected clarity and steel. "My lords," she began, the quiet strength in her tone forcing every head to turn, every eye to focus on her. "The General is right." She paused, letting the shock ripple through the room, allowing a moment for the initial surge of anger and confusion to subside, before continuing, her voice laced with bitter irony. "Everyone here reveres him like God. Someone among you sees him as a mentor, a second father, and a guardian." The Duke's face, already red with grief, began to boil with fresh rage. "How can you say such things without any proof, Annabeth?! Huh, huh!" he roared, slamming his fist on the table. "But I do have evidence, Your Excellency." With that pronouncement, Annabeth lifted her hand, and before the Duke could utter another protest, a shimmering hologram sprang to life above the table, beginning to play a vivid, horrifying replay of what had truly happened in Sith that night.
The round table vibrated not just from the projected violence, but from the raw, visceral mix of emotions it ignited in the onlookers. Disbelief, horror, and a dawning, sickening recognition warred across the faces of the Duke and his court. The scene unfolded as Annabeth had witnessed it: the sleeping village erupting in screams, the two dark figures, their blades crimson in the flickering light of flames. Then, one of the assailants departed, and at that very moment, the maniacal, drawn-out killing spree stopped. The remaining figure, his face still obscured by shadow, moved with chilling efficiency, striking down everyone with a single, precise blow in what could only be described as a merciful massacre. But then came the truly confounding act: he began to dig graves, burying the villagers in opulent, royal caskets, meticulously inscribing tombstones with their life stories.
As he finished laying the Heavenly General to rest, the figure straightened. His head turned, and his gaze, unnervingly direct, pierced through the holographic screen, locking onto Annabeth McKellen, as if seeing her across time itself. "So, you finally came, Anna, you're now Annabeth Ruth McKellen," he said, his voice now reaching Annabeth's ear, clear as a bell. "Know this: the path ahead is a choice, not a destiny. You seek vengeance, but revenge is a hollow echo in a shattered world. Choose carefully what you become in its pursuit." At the table, several lords recoiled, some clutching their chests, others spitting out blood, their minds desperately rejecting the impossible truth of who they were seeing.
"But I suggest you rather take care of your mistress's child," he continued, his tone shifting to a chillingly casual warning, "for in twenty years he'll strike his own vengeance." "What!?" Annabeth shouted, the unexpected revelation about the young master's future ripping through her already frayed nerves. "Oh, I almost forgot," the figure added, a faint, unsettling smile playing on his lips, "tell little Ling I'm sorry, but I had no choice since his son has a destiny to accomplish." Having delivered his cryptic messages, he descended the hilltop. At the bottom, amid the newly consecrated graveyard, he knelt and began to pray, his form a solemn silhouette against the rising sun, an act of profound, bewildering piety after such monstrous deeds.
As the Duke was about to speak, his face contorted in a desperate attempt to reconcile the horrific truth with his deepest loyalties, the holographic scene abruptly shifted. The image of the praying figure in Sith vanished, replaced by the chilling, mist-shrouded depths of the Forest of Beasts. They watched, transfixed, as the other assailant tortured their mistress and young master. The reason for the unspeakable torment was laid bare, a horrifying justification that made some at the round table, despite their evident pain, nod in grim support, even though the methods were beyond anything they had ever conceived. But then, as the victims' souls exploded in a blinding flash, he absorbed the young master's essence and stepped out of the dimensional pocket.
He began to laugh manically, a sound that twisted the very air of the conference hall. As he did, the horrific truth slammed into the minds of all who watched: this entire horror was nothing but a perverse performance, a play designed to torture, a dance for his entertainment. The revelation shattered the composure of all, even his former sympathizers. But the one who was completely, utterly shattered was Annabeth. When she had first seen this projection in the Forest of Beasts, her mind was too clouded by grief to fully register the finer, devastating details. Now, as she focused with agonizing clarity, every piece of the nightmare began to fall into place. The assailant's features, his mannerisms, the very cadence of his voice—it was all devastatingly familiar. But after rearranging his body, shifting from his true form until he took on the robust familiar appearance of a Xenograft – his disguise. Then it finally clicked for her.
Even though this was a new Annabeth, a new personality. The memories and feelings of the old Annabeth, Anna, and Beth were deeply ingrained in her. For this was her second father, her Godfather, the one who had named and baptized her, her revered master, and her first and only love: Luke Timothy John, the former Pope of the Church of The Way, who had vanished two centuries ago.
After rearranging his body, he continued talking to himself. His words were a chilling monologue of his twisted philosophy, and he strolled into the devastated village of Sith. There, he knelt by James Novaryon, taking the King's still form into his hands. His shoulders began to tremble, and he began to weep, his voice choked with a chilling, self-serving sorrow: "I hope they understand... I had no choice... their sacrifice was needed... for the growth of the world..." Annabeth became a void. Her universe, already fractured, imploded into an abyss of nothingness.