As Elisa and Haruki continued their journey, they drew to a halt before a looming castle. The fortress was a massive, intricate labyrinth of stone, surrounded by sprawling grounds, skeletal trees, and withered vegetation. The harsh winter had stripped the landscape of any former beauty, leaving it bleak and unforgiving.
It was evident that the castle had been abandoned for centuries. No gates guarded the entrance to the gardens, and at the main threshold, one of the massive doors lay splintered on the ground, likely having succumbed to time long ago. They stepped inside, their footsteps muffled by a long, crimson carpet that stretched deep into the interior. As they walked along the rug, Haruki scanned his surroundings with a piercing gaze.
"If I am not mistaken, this must be the palace of the fallen kingdom," he mused. "To think it still stands after more than three hundred thousand years. Whether the Fallen Kingdom was conquered or simply eroded by internal decay matters little to me now. Either way, I can turn this to my advantage. If anyone has claimed these lands, I shall simply slaughter them and take everything for myself."
Elisa clung to Haruki's arm as they walked, holding on with a desperate grip, as if letting go would mean the end of her world.
Haruki stopped before the throne. A profound silence descended upon the hall, so heavy that the very walls seemed to hold their breath. He took a single step forward, his black robes trailing silently across the cold stone floor. Then, with a calculated grace, he took his seat.
The throne accepted him. Haruki rested his elbows on the armrests, interlacing his fingers beneath his chin as he looked down. He remained silent—a cold, deep, and razor-sharp silence that carried more weight than any shouted command.
Elisa watched the scene, trembling. As she gazed upon Haruki's face, he no longer seemed like a monster to her. Nor was he a hero. He was a being that was simply... meant for the throne. Her heart hammered with a strange rhythm; there was terror, yes, but hidden within that fear was an unwavering trust. In that moment, she understood:
"If darkness is to swallow this world, then that darkness has found its King."
At that very moment, in a far distant place, another story was unfolding.
Ron Yamada, a former A-rank hero, sat in a dimly lit bar. He glanced toward the entrance and saw Arthur, who was still waiting outside despite the falling snow.
"Where else would he go?" Ron thought to himself. "He has no home, no place to return to, and no kin left to help him." He rose and walked toward the door. Stopping in front of Arthur, he asked bluntly:
"What is your goal? What do you plan to do from here on?"
Arthur remained silent for a moment before shouting with all his might: "Please, be my master!"
Ron hesitated, weighing the boy's resolve. "I could be your master," he replied, "but are you worthy of being my disciple? Prove it!"
Ron signaled for Arthur to follow him. They walked deep into the heart of the forest. Ron turned to the boy and said, "Well, kid, let's see what you're made of. The rules are simple: I will try to kill you, and you will try to stay alive." His expression left no doubt—he was deadly serious.
Before Arthur could even process the situation, Ron vanished. He was gone—not just from sight, but from sound as well, as if he had never existed in that space at all. Suddenly, Arthur lunged to the side just as a small wooden object whistled through the air and struck the ground where he had been standing.
It was merely a small twig, no more than five or ten centimeters long, yet it hit the earth with such force that it left a massive crater. Arthur stared at the twig, unable to believe his eyes. But his shock was cut short by a heavy hand landing on his shoulder.
"You are not worthy of being my disciple," Ron said coldly. Yet, inwardly, he was stunned. "I can't believe he dodged that. If that twig had hit him, he'd be dead. I threw it with immense power. Hmm... perhaps I should take him in after all?"
As he pondered, a sudden strike came from ahead. Ron deflected it effortlessly with one hand. Arthur stood before him, hunched over and gasping for breath.
"If I must defeat you to gain my revenge and the strength I need, then I won't leave this place until I have!" Arthur grabbed a wooden stick and charged at Ron.
Seeing this tenacity, Ron thought: "This is exactly what I was looking for. If you had surrendered or accepted defeat, I would never have taken you on."
He looked at Arthur and warned him: "I'll remind you now—there is no place by my side for the weak or the faint of heart. Even if you find yourself at death's door, you will never be excused from your training."
Arthur went quiet for a moment, then nodded his head in firm agreement. Pleased with the response, Ron said, "Then follow me. Before your first lesson, you'll need a place to live."
They arrived at a small cabin, clearly designed for only one or two people. Inside was a single table, two chairs, and a few simple beds.
"This is my home," Ron said with a slight smile. "It may be small, but I built it with my own two hands, and I've never complained."
Arthur muttered under his breath, "He built this himself? But heroes earn so much money... especially heroes like Ron."
Ron looked at Arthur as if he had heard every word. "I don't believe in wasting money," he said. "I don't need the people's wealth, so I give it to the poor. I assume you don't have a problem with that?"
Arthur froze. "W-what?! Did he hear me? I didn't even say that out loud!"
Ron simply let out a chuckle, "Hehehehe," before disappearing into the house with light steps.
"There's something seriously wrong with this old man..." Arthur muttered, standing in silence for a moment before entering the cabin. The interior was cozy. Arthur set his belongings aside—a few clothes, his mother's jewelry, and his father's amulet. He looked at these items and sighed deeply, fighting back tears. He remained quiet until Ron returned later with food.
During the meal, Arthur told Ron about his childhood. Ron listened, eventually replying with a smile: "It's alright, kid. No matter how heavy your past is, live for the now. That is my motto." There was something in his smile that seemed to say, 'I, too, have a history.'
Arthur nodded and looked toward the corner of the room. He fastened his mother's jewelry to his wrist, hung his father's amulet around his neck, and stepped outside. Taking an axe, he began to chop wood. It was grueling at first, but eventually, the tree fell. From the timber, Arthur fashioned a wooden sword and returned to Ron to begin his training.
They sparred together. With every clash, their wooden swords would splinter or Arthur would lose his grip. The days began to blur together in a cycle of relentless training. Meanwhile, elsewhere, another individual was busy with their own mysterious affairs...