Three seconds.
That was how long Silas had between the moment Elian finished forming and the moment the hero moved.
Three seconds to process that the prophecy had accelerated. Three seconds to understand that Solarius had found a new trick. Three seconds to realize that the farm boy standing in his courtyard, the one with the kind eyes and the righteous fury, was about to try to kill him.
Three seconds.
Then Elian moved.
He was fast. Faster than any normal human had any right to be. The blessed hero shot across the courtyard like an arrow, holy light trailing behind him, a sword appearing in his hand as if summoned from the air itself. The blade burned with golden fire.
Silas didn't even have time to flinch.
But Rex did.
The berserker moved with the speed of someone who had spent years learning to react to exactly this kind of threat. His massive axe came up, intercepting the hero's sword with a clash that sent sparks flying in every direction. The impact drove Rex back a step, but he held.
"Got him!" Rex roared. "He's here! Hero is here!"
The courtyard exploded into chaos.
Players appeared from everywhere—from doorways, from windows, from shadowed corners where they'd been standing watch. Kael was shouting orders on the raid channel. Lily was already casting, golden light wrapping around Rex in protective layers. Z was circling, looking for an angle, looking for weaknesses.
And Elian, blessed hero of prophecy, stared at them all with confusion warring against his fury.
"What sorcery is this?" he demanded. His voice was young, barely out of boyhood, but it carried weight. Divine weight. "Who are these warriors? From where do they come?"
"They're my guests," Silas heard himself say. His voice was steadier than he felt. "And you're trespassing."
Elian's gaze snapped to him. The fury returned, hotter than before.
"Murderer. Tyrant. You killed him. You killed the only father I ever knew."
Silas opened his mouth to deny it. To explain. But what could he say? That it wasn't him, it was the other Duke, the real Duke, the one whose body he now wore? That he was as much a victim of this nightmare as Elian himself?
The words wouldn't come. Because they wouldn't matter. Because Elian wouldn't believe them. Because the god whispering in his ear would never allow him to believe.
"I'm sorry," Silas said instead. It was inadequate. It was pathetic. It was true.
Elian's face twisted. "Sorry? You're sorry?" He laughed, and the sound was bitter, broken. "He raised me. He taught me everything. He was kind, and good, and you killed him for—for what? For taxes? For sport? For the crime of being beneath your notice?"
"I didn't—"
"Silence!" Elian raised his sword. The golden light blazed brighter. "I will not listen to your excuses. I will not hear your justifications. I am the hand of Solarius. I am the instrument of justice. And I will end you."
He moved again.
This time, the players were ready.
Rex met him head-on, axe against sword, raw strength against divine blessing. The impact sent shockwaves across the courtyard, cracking stones, rattling windows. Elian pressed forward, his blade dancing with light, but Rex held firm.
"He's strong," the berserker grunted. "Like, really strong. This isn't a trash mob. This is a real boss."
"Then we fight him like one," Kael ordered. "Tank him in the center. DPS, spread out. Watch for adds. Healers, keep Rex up. Let's see what this guy can do."
The players moved into formation with practiced precision. It was beautiful, in its way—twenty-five people who had never been in this world before, fighting together as if they'd trained for years. Because they had. Just not here. Not for this.
Elian attacked again, and again, and again. His sword was a blur of golden light. He struck at Rex, at the DPS who tried to flank him, at anyone who came too close. But the players were too fast, too coordinated. They dodged, blocked, countered.
And slowly, inevitably, they began to wear him down.
"Phase one looking good," Z reported. He was somewhere in the shadows, taking notes even as he fought. "He's got a cleave on his basic attack. Tank, keep him turned away from the group. He's also got a charge ability—he used it to close distance on Silas initially. Probably on a cooldown."
"Noted," Kael acknowledged. "Rex, watch for the charge. If he targets anyone else, taunt him back."
"Got it."
The fight continued. Elian grew more desperate, more frantic. He wasn't used to this. In his story, he was supposed to win. He was supposed to sneak in, kill the Duke in his sleep, and escape into legend. Not fight twenty-five armored strangers in an open courtyard while his divine blessings barely kept him alive.
"Solarius!" he screamed, throwing his head back. "Help me! They're too many! I can't—"
The light answered.
It came from the sky, a beam of pure gold that struck Elian like a thunderbolt. When it faded, he was changed. His eyes blazed with holy fire. His sword had grown, now more of a greatsword than a standard blade. And wings—wings of light—sprouted from his back.
"Phase two!" Z shouted. "Everyone, phase two! He's got wings! He's got a bigger sword! This is a phase transition!"
"Spread out!" Kael ordered. "He's going to have new mechanics. Watch for tells. Don't cluster."
Elian rose into the air, his wings beating slowly, his gaze sweeping across the courtyard with terrible calm.
"You resist the will of heaven," he said, and his voice was layered now, resonant—the voice of a god speaking through a mortal throat. "You defy prophecy itself. But you cannot defy light. You cannot defy Solarius. You cannot defy me."
He dove.
The attack was devastating. He came down like a meteor, sword first, aimed directly at the largest cluster of players. They scattered, but not fast enough. The impact cratered the stones, and the shockwave threw several of them against the walls.
"Casualties?" Kael demanded.
"Three down," Lily reported. "I can rez, but I need cover. That AoE was massive."
"Tanks, pick him up. DPS, focus fire. We need to control this phase."
The players adapted. They always adapted. Tanks grabbed aggro, trading off when the damage became too heavy. DPS spread out, attacking from range, avoiding the devastating dive bombs. Healers worked frantically, bringing the fallen back, keeping the rest alive.
And through it all, Silas watched.
He watched from the edge of the courtyard, pressed against a wall, surrounded by players who had been assigned to protect him specifically. He watched as Elian fought and bled and screamed. He watched as the players treated the hero's divine fury as nothing more than a mechanic to be learned, a pattern to be mastered.
He watched, and he wondered: was this really survival? Was this really victory?
Because Elian wasn't a monster. He was a boy. A boy who had lost everything, who had been given a divine mission, who was now fighting for his life against people who saw him as content.
"His health is dropping," Z announced. "Sixty percent. Fifty-five. He's slowing down. The wings are flickering."
"Push harder," Kael ordered. "We want him below fifty before he phases again."
But Elian didn't phase.
Instead, he stopped.
Mid-swing, mid-attack, he simply stopped. His sword hung in the air. His wings faded. And his eyes—those blazing, divine eyes—cleared.
He looked around the courtyard. At the players, frozen in confusion. At the craters, the damage, the chaos. At Silas, pressed against the wall, watching.
"What..." Elian whispered. "What is this? What am I doing here?"
The light flickered. For just a moment, the hero looked like what he was: a farm boy, scared and lost and terribly, terribly young.
"I don't understand," he said. "I was in the village. I was praying. And then—" He looked at his hands. At the sword. At the blood. "What have I done?"
"Elian." Silas stepped forward. The players moved to block him, but he pushed past. "Elian, listen to me. You're being used. Solarius—the god—he's controlling you. He's making you fight. Making you kill."
"The light," Elian whispered. "The light spoke to me. It said you were evil. It said you had to die. It said—"
"The light lies." Silas was close now, close enough to see the tears forming in the boy's eyes. "I'm not what you think. I'm not the Duke who killed your elder. That man is gone. I'm... I'm someone else. Someone who never wanted any of this."
Elian stared at him. The sword trembled in his hands.
"I don't understand."
"Neither do I. But I know this: you're not my enemy. You're a victim. Just like me."
For a long, suspended moment, something passed between them. Understanding, maybe. Or just the recognition of shared pain.
Then the light returned.
It came not from the sky this time, but from within. Elian's eyes blazed golden, and his face contorted in agony.
"No," he gasped. "No, please—I don't want to—"
"YOU ARE MINE," the voice of Solarius thundered, pouring from the boy's mouth. "YOU ARE MY INSTRUMENT. YOU WILL OBEY."
"I won't!" Elian screamed. "I won't kill for you! Not anymore!"
"YOU HAVE NO CHOICE."
The light flared, and Elian's body went rigid. His sword rose, pointing at Silas. His wings reformed, brighter than before.
But his eyes—his eyes were still his own. And they were filled with tears.
"Run," he whispered. "Please. Run. I can't hold him back for long."
Silas didn't move.
"Elian—"
"RUN!"
The hero's body launched into the air, sword blazing, divine fury restored. But this time, he wasn't aiming at Silas. He was aiming at the sky. At the source of the light.
With a scream that was part rage, part grief, part desperate defiance, Elian drove his sword into the heavens.
The light shattered.
For one perfect moment, the sky went dark. The golden beam that had been watching, guiding, controlling—it simply ceased to exist. And Elian, freed from its grip, fell.
He crashed to the courtyard stones and lay still.
Silas ran to him.
The boy was alive, but barely. His body was broken, his face pale, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The divine light that had sustained him was gone, leaving only flesh and blood and bone.
"Why?" Silas asked, kneeling beside him. "Why did you do that?"
Elian's eyes opened. They were clear now. Human. At peace.
"Because I'd rather die free," he whispered, "than live as a puppet."
He smiled. Just once. Just briefly.
Then his eyes closed, and his breathing stopped.
Silas stared at the body of the hero. The boy who was supposed to kill him. The instrument of prophecy. The victim of gods.
Around him, the players were silent. Even they seemed to understand that something profound had just happened. Something that wasn't in any script, any mechanic, any game.
"Your Grace." Kael's voice was quiet. "He's gone. There's nothing we can do."
Silas didn't answer. He couldn't.
He just knelt there, in the ruined courtyard, beside the body of a boy who had chosen death over being a weapon.
And in the sky above, the light began to return.
But it was different now. Angrier. Darker at the edges.
Solarius had lost his champion.
And Silas had just made a god his enemy.
---
The aftermath was chaos.
Players tended to their wounded, both digital and—in Silas's case—very real. Servants emerged from hiding, staring at the destruction with wide eyes. Guards tried to restore order, tried to understand what had happened, tried to make sense of the impossible.
And through it all, Silas sat beside Elian's body.
He should move. He should plan. He should prepare for whatever came next. Solarius wouldn't stop. If anything, he would be more determined than ever. More desperate. More dangerous.
But Silas couldn't move. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but stare at the face of the boy who had died to be free.
"Your Grace."
Venris was there, the steward's face grave. "Your Grace, we need to... we need to do something with the body. We can't leave him here."
Silas looked up. "He's not a body. He's a person. He had a name. He had a life. He had a father who was murdered, and a god who used him, and in the end, he chose to die rather than keep killing."
Venris was silent for a long moment. Then, quietly: "What would you have me do, Your Grace?"
Silas thought. The Duke in the books would have dumped the body in the river. Would have erased all evidence and moved on. But Silas wasn't that Duke. He would never be that Duke.
"Prepare him," he said. "Wash him. Dress him in clean clothes. And send word to his village. They deserve to know what happened to their hero."
"Your Grace... the village may not react well. If they learn their champion died here—"
"Then we deal with that when it comes." Silas stood. His legs ached. His heart ached. Everything ached. "For now, we do the right thing. We honor his choice."
Venris bowed. "As you command, Your Grace."
He gestured to two servants, who approached hesitantly. Together, they lifted Elian's body and carried it into the castle.
Silas watched them go.
"He was brave," Lily said softly. She had come to stand beside him, her digital face unreadable. "In the end. He was really brave."
"Yes," Silas agreed. "He was."
"Do you think... do you think the god will send another one? Another hero?"
Silas looked at the sky. The light was still there, watching, waiting. But it was different now. Angrier. More focused.
"I think," he said slowly, "that Solarius is going to try something else. Something worse. He just lost his champion. His prophecy is broken. He's not going to take that well."
"What do we do?"
Silas thought about the books. About the gods, and their politics, and their rules. About the limitations that bound even divine beings.
"We prepare," he said. "We learn. We adapt. And we hope that whatever comes next, we're ready for it."
Lily nodded. "That's the plan, then. Survive. Adapt. Win."
"Yes." Silas turned away from the sky, away from the watching light, away from the body of the boy who had died free. "That's the plan."
But as he walked back into the castle, surrounded by players who still didn't understand, served by servants who still feared him, guarded by guards who still doubted him, Silas couldn't shake the feeling that the plan wasn't enough.
Solarius had lost a battle today.
But the war was just beginning.
And somewhere, in the depths of the System that had brought him here, something stirred. Something that had been watching this whole conflict with an interest that was not quite divine, not quite mechanical.
Something that had its own plans for what came next.
But Silas didn't know that.
Not yet.
---
[CHAPTER 4 END]