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Chapter 3 - CHAP 3: THE DUEL OF MYSTERY AND HISTORY

Time did not halt by spell nor divine decree—It froze, under the weight of what was about to be

Not a muscle twitched. Not a breath dared. Even the flickering flames bowed to the tension that now ruled the air.

The Children of House Kappel stood as statues, not out of fear, but reverence—for their Lord had spoken, No one would intervene

And I—I, the one they called mad, The lunatic, The scorned, The weeping wretch in the corner of prophecy, The one who dares to question the truths laid down by blood and heritage—

—I stood.

Not with blade, nor banner, But with every ounce of soul, every fiber of breath, every fragment of the self they tried to erase.

They branded me heartless, but they knew not the weight a hollow heart must carry.

And in that moment—

I Omitted my Sight.

I blinked, not in blindness, but in refusal.

Refusal to see the world as it wished to be seen. Refusal to accept the shapes carved by lies. Refusal to believe in appearances sculpted by comfort.

I looked deeper.

Past the pageantry of postures. Past the illusions painted by legacy. Beyond the structure of images—beyond even the message of words themselves.

And in that sacred blindness...

Everything became clear.

Not as it was, Not as it pretended to be—

The Manifestations of Meanings

In turn Truth spoke for me, and my words Commanded Reality

"Viri Magni, nati infirmi, hoc est onus vestrum, Domine Kappel."

Great men, births weak, this is your burden, Lord Kappel.

In the eyes of Stein the Manor where he Stood became the playground of his thoughts, the floor had vanished and the roof erased Sigils ignited not in flame or ink but in words of every Sins, Of Every Lies, of the Ignorance of His Children, the flashes of imagery not of Illusions but of Memory

A forgotten heir weeping beneath marble columns.

The cries of soldiers sent to die for pride, not honor.

The withered hand of a wife left waiting for a promise broken by ambition.

And in the center of it all—Stein stood, not as a legend, not as a lord—But as a man.

As HE snapped to Reality there in the Manor, a paradigm shift whipped, His armor of gold and steel he wore in every battle the Sword on His hand Withered by time, weighed Heavy, dragging every muscle in his body, The stones beneath Lord Stein's feet cracked with ancestral pressure,

not from force—but from Burden long denied.

And each step wore heavier, each attempt to swing fell

However.

Silence.

Then, as if drawn from the marrow of the old stone, he spoke—Not with thunder...But with weight.

"A King is born not of perfection, but from the mistakes of himself—and of the others he swore to carry."

And as those words left his lips, the very air around him shifted.

The sigils meant to chain him—those relics of accusation and buried truth—did not shatter, they folded, reformed, and then, rewrote themselves—into something far more terrible... and holy.

"His words are not worthless..."

No.

"And his ambition stems meaning."

Then came the surge.

Lord Stein Remembered.

Not merely with thought—But with feeling. With grief, and hope, and the weight of a thousand mornings spent watching over a House he built from children forgotten

He recreated a memory—but not a battle.

He remembered when they loved him.

And the world responded.

From the torn marble rose the figures of the past: Children once raised by his hand. Men and women who found home in his shadow. The commoners who rallied at his command not out of fear, but from trust. Every face, every cheer, every tear—etched in gold, formed from light shaped like memory. They appeared behind him, beside him, within him.

Every step he took: a thousand stood with him. Every swing of his arm: they swung too.

This was no army of fantasy. This was no show of power.

This was a memory made manifest.

And through the smoke and brokenness of the hall, Lord Stein stood taller. Not because he had more strength. But because, for the first time in decades—

He remembered why he fought.

"You speak of burden, Nicaisse Kohler," he said, voice rising like dawn over a battlefield, "But you speak only of what is carried. A king...chooses to carry what others cannot."

His eyes, glowing now—not with rage, but with purpose.

"I remember not my greatness. I remember their faith in me." I will protect the Ignorant Children today, as I promised to the innocent Men of Yesterday

And the battle—of thought, of weight, of legacy—began again.

Not between men. But between what is forgotten...And what is worth remembering.

"you fight with mysteries behind the meanings, I fight with Histories etched in Memories"

And for every dream and every imagination they can envision, reality bowed and fought their fight

"Avaritia." Greed.

The moment the word passed Nicaisse's lips, the blade of Lord Stein vanished,—not shattered, not struck—stolen.

By nothing, by everything. By the desire to own, to hoard, to leave no hand holding what was once shared. Even the steel itself bowed to the concept.

Stein's grip clenched on air.

Then—

"Dolor." Sorrow.

A word dripped with gravity.

Behind him, the ghosts of enemies long buried—men once cut down by his own hand—rose. Not in vengeance. In mourning.

Their eyes hollow, Their mouths open, But it was their tears—not their blades—that struck.

Each tear that fell became a blade, each sob a dagger. They fell like rain, and Lord Stein bled.

But he did not break.

He closed his eyes.

He did what only a true Visionary could do. He remembered not pain, not pride—but why he chose to bleed in the first place.

A child.

A single memory. Small. Fragile. Pure.

The day he stood between an orphan and a sword. The day he earned not respect—but trust.

He imagined that moment again, and again.

Not a blade. Not vengeance. But protection.

And it answered.

From that thought, from that single act long ago, a shield emerged.

Not round. Not steel.

A glowing orb, woven from will and memory, formed around him, arms open like a father's embrace,—a manifestation of the idea: "No one else will be hurt."

It hummed.

The same hum the old halls made when the Children slept soundly. The sound of guardianship.

And with it, the tears shattered against his soul-forged ward.

"I am not perfect," Stein whispered, "but I chose to stand... when no one else would."

And in the silence that followed—

He stood again.

Then Stein remembered his younger days the Wooden Sword he trained, conjured on his Hands, with an upward strike Nicaisse was struck, he bled not from cut but from the pressure of the air that had hit his gut, the same Pressure a Lord's Child felt

"Senex." Aged.

Nicaisse did not shout it.

—a curse spoken gently, with the same softness one might use to close a coffin lid.

A single word, drawn from the lines in Lord Stein's skin, from the weight beneath his eyes, from the years buried in his spine.

And then the dreamscape fractured.

From the folds of thought, from the cracks in time's illusion, age was pulled forth—ripped from Stein's marrow like dust drawn into storm.

Decades turned to daggers. Years became blades. Every unit of time he had endured became a sword.

They came from all directions. Elegant. Cruel. Unavoidable.

Each sword was a moment lived—a winter survived, a child buried, a choice regretted, a morning awoken to grief.

Each one remembered. Each one demanded toll.

And they fell upon him—

One after another, A thousand truths, A thousand wounds.

Not made by steel...But by what he had endured to wear his name.

His body arched in stillness. His shield shattered. His mind blurred,—hollowed by the immensity of his own existence weaponized.

Yet still—He did not fall.

Even as blood pooled at his boots, even as his armor cracked—

His eyes stayed open.

"You would turn my years against me..." he whispered, lips dyed red.

His voice cracked,

"Such cruelty from someone so Kind"

All who bore witness understood that the battle was already done,

And with each Children rushing to break the Lord's Word is a fraction of second in Nicaisse's time, for every cards they drew and every manifest they look, is a step closer to Lord Stein

Lord Stein's words waver, breathed its final life bearing the final words

"I see your hollowed heart, I wish for it to be filled with someone yearning for life"

and in reply

Lord Stein, even in death you refused to fall apart, and stood grand, I see not a lord but a man with dignity

"I PROMISE" That in death you shall take your seat, the burden of your children and the sin of your people shall not bear in your heart, but rather to those who commit, those responsible shall take now their turn you once bore.

"Promissum." Promise.

Spoken not in rage, nor in pain—but with the quiet finality of a sealed tomb.

And the Manor—the House of Kappel itself—heard.

The air grew thick, slow. As if time again wept for what it could no longer rewind.

Then, as if God Himself passed judgment through the bones of a dying king—The Promise was collected. in retribution it paid

And so it began.

Every child of House Kappel present—those laden with sin, who carried not honor but rot beneath their names—were dragged beneath the weight of their Lord's unbroken word.

And now, their bodies remembered.

The greedy, their hands— the same ones that took what was not theirs —split open, bleeding dry, their eyes turned to pulp, as if the world itself refused to let them see any further.

The ignorant, who closed their minds and ears — their skulls split, tendrils of blood spiraling upward, like flowers blooming in reverse.

The arrogant, who spit upon legacy and name — their tongues ignited, mouths scorched o ash, blood boiling beneath skin until nothing remained but blackened bone.

The manor dimmed.

One by one, every candle extinguished, every window sealed, as if the very walls grew ashamed of those they once sheltered.

It was no longer a home. It was a tomb of betrayal. A sanctuary turned judge and executioner.

Only one light remained.

Leith Kappel. The youngest. The quiet. The innocent. The one who never sought power—only to one day honor his Lord.

And as he stood alone amid the silence and the gore, the light above him remained steady.

A single, unwavering flame, cradling the promise he never broke.

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"Then he faltered."

Nicaisse Kohler remembered.

"I wish for it to be filled with someone yearning for life."

A child's wish. A broken man's final tether to innocence.

And that wish...was enough.

Then it came.

A voice that shattered time, and all that it governs.

"The perfect pawn for this boresome game."

It did not echo. It invaded. It spoke not in sound, but in command—like a book writing its reader.

The world split. Pages tore across the walls. Ink bled from stone. The air sounded like quills scratching in every direction

I turned—

Not by choice, but by design.

And then—everything vanished.

There was no ceiling. No walls. No floor. Just blankness—infinite ,with a black abyss beneath, and somehow I did not fall.

Then—the ceilings roared, the walls shrieked, and from the void below, something rose:

A colossal table, carved from ivory and bone, lined with porcelain filigree and engravings of ancient scripture written in a language predated

Upon it, five thrones—not chairs, but architectures of meaning, each for one who commands not armies, but reality itself.

Three figures already sat.

Shadows made flesh. Statues that breathed. Entities too old to be named, yet too familiar to be unknown.

The fourth seat rose from beneath me. It cradled me—gently, but with no room for refusal. A throne of thought. Of ink. Of expectation.

And from across the table, the Fifth Chair stood empty—until it was not.

A man appeared, clothed in an attire I had never seen before—threads woven not by tailors, but by narrative itself.

His face unreadable, his eyes pages never turned.

He spoke words but in vain were inaudible

and so I replied with Hesitation speaking to this Some godlike creation

"Why have you brought us her-"

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Leith Kappel Groaned in despair, Looking at the Man that turned His Home to horror

"Hurgh hurgh hurgh, They were right, the Lord was Right, THEY WERE RIGHT, WE SHOULDN'T HAVE TOUCHED THE HOUSE OF KHOLER"

and there In his eyes Nicaisse, the perpetrator, same but somehow different

his Emotions derailed and expression in confusion

Yet He stood

and So I beg, and pleaded, but there it flashed, my life and vision somehow split in all direction-

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