Four hundred and fifty-seven years later.
The world of Eswua knew nothing of Asema's quiet arrival. What it did know was the unstoppable advance of the Astana Empire, whose armies had conquered kingdom after kingdom until only one rebellious force remained.
Scias stood on a ridge overlooking the valley where final battle would take place.
The early morning mist curled around his soldiers' feet—five hundred thousand strong, disciplined, and utterly loyal to Scias.
Across the valley, the last oposition had entrenched themselves, perhaps two hundred thousand strong with inferior weapons but the desperate strength of those who knew defeat meant extinction.
At twenty-four, Scias was the youngest High Commander in the Empire's history, a position earned through brilliance in strategy, unrivaled sword mastery and unflinching dedication to victory.
The faint blue mark on his chest—a family birthmark in the shape of a bird with spread wings—was hidden beneath his ornate armor.
"Formations are set, High Commander," his second-in-command reported.
Scias nodded, his eyes scanning the battlefield with practiced precision.
His officers exchanged glances when Scias began removing his command insignia.
"Sir?" one ventured cautiously.
"This is the last battle we'll likely ever fight," Scias said, unsheathing his sword. "I've spent every battle commanding and overseeing from behind. Not today. Today, I'll unsheathe my blade."
"But High Commander, your position—"
"Is temporary. You have your orders. I'll be with the fifth battalion." His tone silencing all complaints.
Fifth battalion was unit comprised of only the most elite soldiers. He chose this unit so he wouldn't stand out too much.
When the horns sounded, Scias charged with his army.
His blade cutting through enemy ranks like hot knife cutting through butter. Each strike, each movement calculated despite the chaos of battle around him.
The enemy soldiers, recognizing his superior armor, tried to focus their attacks on him, but none came close to breaking his defense.
As his blade fell, the blue mark on Scias's chest pulsed faintly beneath his armor—unseen, unknown, gathering energy through yet another generation of Asema's bloodline.
By midday, the enemy lines crumbled. The valley was littered with bodies, most wearing colors of the resistance.
Scias stood amid the carnage, barely winded, as his soldiers continued the slaughter of their enemies.
Before night fell, the battlefield was covered with dead soldiers. On this day, the world of Eswua became united under Astana Empire's rule.
The celebration that night was subdued for Scias despite the triumph.
He felt empty inside, like something was missing in his life. Now that his job was finally over, he became dreadfully aware of this everpresent feeling.
His soldiers drank and sang victory songs around massive bonfires, recounting tales of valor from the day's battle, but their High Commander merely walked among them, accepting salutes with quiet nods before retreating to his tent.
The following morning, funeral pyres stretched across the valley.
Friend and foe alike were being sent on their way—hundreds of pyres turning the morning sky black with smoke.
Scias stood, watching as the bodies burned, his expression solemn.
"Death unites us all," he murmured to no one in particular. "May you be cleansed by fire and your journey to next life be swift." Usual parting words for the dead.
With the war concluded, Scias granted his army a day of rest before the long march back to Astana.
The men needed it—victory was theirs, but the cost of constant wars was high.
As twilight descended on the camp, Scias found himself alone in his tent, his armor removed and maps still scattered across the command table.
He stared at the conquered territories, all now unified under the Empire's banner.
For the first time in his adult life, no campaigns awaited him. No battles to plan. No enemies to defeat.
'Perhaps it's time for different conquests,' he thought, considering the marriage proposals that had arrived from noble families across the Empire.
Lady Elenia of House Tor had made her interest particularly obvious at the last imperial gathering. Or perhaps a quiet estate in the eastern provinces, far from politics and war.
The tent flap rustled, interrupting his thoughts.
"Zaros," Scias said without turning. "What do you need?"
"I thought we might speak, Commander. About the future."
Something in his second's tone made Scias frown. He glanced toward the entrance. "Where are my guards?"
Zaros didn't answer, moving quietly around the table, circling behind him. "The Empire is grateful for your service."
Scias felt it then—the wrongness of the moment—but his realization came too late. Zaros's movement was fluid, practiced.
A dagger appeared in his hand as if conjured from the air itself.
The cold steel bit deep across Scias's throat. Warm blood cascaded down his chest, soaking into his tunic, revealing the blue phoenix mark as the fabric clung to his skin.
"By order of His Majesty the Emperor," Zaros said, his eyes as empty as winter skies, "High Commander Scias Tenebris is relieved of his duty."
Scias clutched at his throat, blood pouring between his fingers.
As he collapsed to his knees, a voice unlike any he'd ever heard resonated within his mind.
The phoenix mark on his chest blazed with brilliant blue light.
[Activation of Mark of Phoenix.
Host's life will soon come to an end.
Attempting reincarnation.
…
Attempt failed. Not enough energy.
Searching for closest blood relative to pass the Mark.
…
Search failed. No living blood relatives found.
Searching for solutions.
…
Solution found.
Sacrificing first host's stored experience and knowledge for energy.
The minimum required energy acquiered.
Host's soul will be transported to Ostea.
New body will be generated.]
The cold embrace of death reached for Scias, but something else reached faster.
The blue light intensified, spreading from the mark across his chest in luminous veins that quickly enveloped his entire body. Blood continued to pour from his throat, but Scias no longer felt the pain or the weakness. Instead, a strange weightlessness overtook him.
'What... is happening?' The thought barely formed before an overwhelming surge of energy coursed through him.
Through fading vision, in the corner of his eye he could see Zaros backing away, face contorted with shock. The assassin's dagger clattered to the ground as he stumbled against the tent pole, mouth working soundlessly.
The tent, the maps, Zaros—everything began to dissolve around Scias like mist in morning sun.
His consciousness expanded beyond the confines of his dying body, revealing threads of blue light stretching into infinity.
He sensed his world—Eswua—growing smaller beneath him, as if he were ascending into the heavens.
For one infinitesimal moment, Scias understood everything. The Mark. His ancestor. The generations of accumulated power. The purpose.
Then, darkness claimed him. And with it, the understanding he grasped disappeared as quickly as it came.
Light vanished from Scias's eyes. The blue radiance that had enveloped his body faded away as if it never existed, leaving behind only a cooling corpse slumped on the floor.
Zaros remained frozen, staring at body of the man he just murdered. The Emperor's orders were to eliminate the potential problem.
Zaros interpreted his Emperor's commands clearly—a simple assassination. But nothing about what he just witnessed was simple.
Zaros would be later beheaded for killing his superior. The Emperor wanted Scias to retire. Not to be killed.
Zaros's actions sparked a new wave of rebellion, now within their own army.
That was no longer Scias's concern. His soul, freed from its mortal vessel, traveled across the vast emptiness between worlds, drawn inexorably toward Ostea—a place he didn't know existed until this moment of transition.
A new journey begins.