Arc 1
Chapter One: (Osir)
In one of the cities, four young men walked with confident steps toward a particular house, as if they knew their destination all too well. As soon as they reached the door, one of them rang the bell with an annoyingly violent press. Moments later, the door opened to reveal a woman in her late forties, the fatigue evident in the wrinkles beneath her blue eyes.
She shouted at him, raising an eyebrow in anger:
"What is it, you fool? Haven't I told you over and over to knock gently?!"
The young man replied awkwardly, scratching his head:
"Sorry, Auntie. I swear I forgot. But I promise I'll remember next time."
"Shut up and get in, you and your brothers."
He laughed and said:
"Alright, alright... but where's Osir?"
"In his room, as usual, following the political news."
The second young man chimed in with a tone of disapproval:
"Auntie, politics will ruin him. Make him focus on his life."
"I've tried countless times—and failed every single time. You're my last hope… go in and talk to him. Get him distracted from that nonsense for a bit."
The third stepped forward, trying to instill calmness in her voice:
"Don't worry, Auntie. This time, we won't let you down."
"Be quiet, Jamal! You've always let me down!"
"Why all the despair?!"
The four—Ahmad, Jamal, Yusuf, and Salah—headed toward Osir's room. They knocked once… then twice… No answer. Then Ahmad, without permission, opened the door. The moment he stepped inside, his eyes fell upon a young man in his twenties, with long brown hair that reached slightly past his shoulders, and shining blue eyes that gleamed like metal polished in moonlight.
That was Osir.
Not his real name, but a title his friends and relatives had grown used to calling him.
No one knew that this name, which began as a joke, would later become a name engraved in history.
Osir shouted, his voice sharp like an arrow:
"Ahmad! Why didn't you knock?"
Everyone suddenly burst into laughter, mocking him loudly. Osir spoke again, the seriousness evident in his eyes:
"Did I say something funny?!"
But the laughter didn't stop, until Salah mocked:
"We knocked several times, but it seems you've gone deaf!"
"I hear just fine. I was just busy with something important, so I didn't notice. Sorry."
"No problem… but we want to talk to you about something you know well."
"Not now, Salah…"
Yusuf interrupted sarcastically:
"I bet my underwear you were writing another one of your articles to post on TikTok or perform live!"
Osir laughed:
"It doesn't matter…"
But Yusuf cut in again, more seriously than before:
"It does matter. You're addicted to politics and obsessed with myths and legends! Your walls are covered with pictures of Trump and Biden! Books on the Mamluks and medieval history are everywhere. It's 2025, not the year 1200. Even your desk is covered with images of Ra, Tutankhamun, Odin, and Arthur! Scattered articles everywhere… Just hours ago you were doing a livestream about Arthur, and now what—gonna write about the Round Table?!"
Osir scoffed:
"I didn't like the article, so I decided to rewrite it from a new perspective."
Salah snapped, trying to control his temper:
"Doesn't matter! Enough of this nonsense. Let's go eat pizza. And whether you like it or not—you're coming."
"You guys go. I don't want to be bothered right now."
Suddenly, silence fell upon the room. A heavy silence.
The aunt entered quietly, her face stern, and said firmly:
"You're going with them, Osir. I need you to pick up some things for me. Or do you want me to go myself, an old woman? Don't I have a son?!"
Ahmad jumped in, joking:
"Heh, I always thought you were his younger sister... You don't look a day over thirty!"
She gave him a scornful look:
"Cheap flattery."
They all left the room, and Osir asked them to give him a moment to change.
Shortly after, he joined them—a rare moment of surrender.
But hours later, when Osir returned home, he made a difficult decision:
To sleep… instead of livestreaming about the Round Table.
Osir fell asleep—and several hours later, he awoke suddenly.
But this time…
He didn't wake up to Biden's posters, or Trump's face, or scattered articles.
He opened his eyes to find himself standing before a towering castle that touched the clouds, with massive wooden gates and two guards dressed in strange clothing.
Not only the guards—everyone around was dressed in simple cotton garments, devoid of any ornament.
He raised his head to the top of the castle, and read an inscription carved into the stone:
"Castle of Amentet."