forward, every muscle taut. "What authority do you have to pass a sentence here?" His voice was cold, controlled, but there was steel under it. "You acted without my consent."
Michael did not move. He met the king's stare evenly. "We will not execute him in the square," he said quietly. "Killing him now would be reckless. His power is unprecedented, if we destroy it blindly, we lose something we may desperately need."
The king's jaw tightened. "We cannot let him live. He is a threat. He will come for us. End him."
Benjamin's tone was calm, but deliberate. "If we can bring that power to our side, it could change this war's outcome. This decision is not for one throne alone, the Seven must judge."
Voldin's hand curled on his sword hilt. "He is a demon. As long as he breathes, the danger remains."
Benjamin shook his head slightly. "He wields holy light. Can a demon truly command that? I don't believe so."
Voldin slammed his palm against a pillar, control cracking into insistence. "Then how does he fit into our histories? Our chronicles name seven heroes and no more. Where does this man belong?"
Michael's eyes narrowed, clinical and cold. "Then perhaps the chronicles are incomplete. Or the real enemy hides within human skin among us. This stranger may be symptom, not cause."
Benjamin's face hardened. He stepped closer to the king, voice low and precise. "He spoke to you as if he knew you. Do you recognize him? Have you wronged him?"
For a beat the king's façade slipped; his color drained. "No," he said, quick and brittle. "I know no such man."
The square held its breath. Michael's look did not soften. "Whatever the truth," he said, "do not bring him before the throne. We will escort him to the Hall of Heroes. The Seven will examine him and decide."
Voldin's eyes flicked to the bound figure on the ground, to the scorched stones, to the faces of his people. He drew a slow breath and, with a hard nod, conceded. "Very well. Keep him off palace grounds and under guard. Bring him before the Council. If they find him guilty, I will accept their judgment. But he will not be loose in my presence again."
Michael inclined his head. "We move at once."
Orders were given, guards posted, a carriage readied, and the camp snapped into action. No one smiled. The question that hung over them remained: savior or threat. The answer would come with the Seven.
Far to the north lay the Kingdom of Acewall, perched upon the spine of the mountains, where snow never melted and the wind carried the song of ice. It was said to be the most beautiful of the Seven Kingdoms, its white spires glittering like crystal beneath the winter sun.
Inside the frost-walled throne hall, a knight burst through the great doors, falling to one knee before the throne. His breath misted in the cold air.
"My king," he said, voice trembling with urgency, "a message from the Kingdom of Artwine."
The knight extended a scroll sealed with the golden crest of Artwine. One of the ministers took it, studied the seal carefully, then cracked it open. His eyes scanned the parchment before his voice filled the chamber.
"Tomorrow evening, all heroes of the Seven Kingdoms are summoned to the Templer Kingdom.
The matter concerns the demon threat,
and the existence of an Eighth Hero."
A murmur rippled through the court. The minister's brows furrowed in disbelief.
"The Eighth Hero? That's impossible. There have only ever been seven. It must be a false message."
The king leaned forward from his throne, his deep, commanding voice echoing through the icy hall.
"Look closer," he said. "This is not written in the hand of any royal scribe. The tone, it's informal. This was penned by one of the heroes themselves."
Silence filled the room. Even the wind outside seemed to hold still.
The king rose, his cloak sweeping the frost-covered steps. "If the heroes are summoning one another, there is truth behind it. We will not ignore this."
He turned to his captain. "Send word to our hero, immediately. Tell him there is to be a meeting of heroes. He must depart at once."
The knight bowed deeply. "As you command, my king."
And with that, the sound of steel boots echoed down the frozen corridors, carrying the weight of the news, the Eighth Hero had appeared.
Blizzards howled across the northern peaks, the snow thick enough to swallow sound itself. Beyond the walls of Acewall Kingdom, where even the light dared not linger, something massive stirred beneath the ice.
The mountain split open with a roar. From its depths, a Frost Wyrm emerged, an ancient serpent of the glacier, its scales glimmering like shards of glass, its breath a cloud of deathly cold.
Amid the storm stood a lone man. His cloak whipped in the wind, torn by battle, his armor etched with cracks of frost and blood. Marcus Varellion, the Hero of Acewall, held his greatsword in one hand, its blade glowing faintly blue, humming with frozen mana.
The wyrm lunged, its jaws wide enough to swallow him whole.
Marcus didn't flinch.
He thrust his blade into the ground, the steel ringing like thunder. The earth beneath the snow cracked in a wide circle. Ice shot upward, impaling the creature's flank. The wyrm shrieked, twisting in pain as the cold itself turned against it.
Marcus leapt onto its back, boots striking frozen scales, and drove his blade down with both hands. The sword blazed with brilliant light as he shouted,
"Freeze, and fall—Frostbane Judgment!"
A surge of white energy exploded outward, engulfing the valley. When the light faded, the wyrm was still, frozen mid-roar, its body turned entirely to crystal.
Marcus stood atop it, breathing steady. Snowflakes settled over his armor as the storm began to quiet.
From the distant cliffs, his knights approached, their voices carried faintly by the wind. "My lord Marcus! Are you unharmed?"
He pulled his sword free, the blade steaming in the cold. "Send word to the king," he said flatly. "The wyrm is dead. But its movement means the seal beneath the glacier is weakening again."
He opened a paper he got from a messenger bird from his kingdom. He opened the scroll and read it.
He gazed toward the horizon, where the faint light of dawn touched the snow.
"And if the world is breaking its chains," Marcus muttered, "then perhaps the message from the south was right. A new hero… or a new disaster."
Far to the south, near the Artwine Kingdom, the world began to tremble.
Rumors spread like wildfire across the seven kingdoms, demons had been sighted again. Their banners of shadow moved through the forests and the ruined lands. Scouts who ventured close never returned. The movements were coordinated this time, as if the demons were preparing for something greater, something final.
The villages surrounding Artwine began their evacuation. Panic echoed through every street, the sound of crying children and hurried footsteps filling the air.
In a small village called Callimen, chaos reigned. Carriages lined the muddy roads, families loading whatever they could carry. Soldiers shouted for order, urging people to move faster before dusk fell.
But amidst the confusion, one man stood still.
He leaned lazily against a half-broken fence, a faint smile playing on his lips, calm, almost amused. His eyes glowed faintly crimson beneath his hood.
Then, a strange metallic voice echoed within his mind:
[Another player's existence has been found.]
The man chuckled softly.
"So," he murmured, "a new player has stepped onto the board."
He walked toward a nearby carriage where a weary driver shouted for passengers.
"Hey, you," the man called out. "Where's this carriage headed?"
The driver, wiping sweat from his brow, replied nervously,
"To the Seagull Kingdom, sir. It's far south, safer there, away from the demon's path. Are you coming with us?"
The man tilted his head slightly, his smile widening. "No. Which one of these goes to Artwine Kingdom?"
The driver blinked. "Artwine? Are you mad? The demons are marching there. The capital's probably being evacuated as we speak. No one's going toward Artwine!"
"I see… where are they headed to, you know anything about it?" The man asked
"No I don't know anything about it."
The man said quietly, his tone calm but unsettling. "Then is there any horse for sale? I have gold."
The crowd fell silent for a moment.
Finally, an older man raised his hand hesitantly. "I–I have a horse. Take it, if you're serious."
The others whispered behind him:
"Is he really going alone?"
"He's lost his mind."
"That guy's got a death wish."
The man ignored them all. He tossed a gold coin to the old man, mounted the horse, and turned his gaze toward the distant horizon, where the faint orange light is.
Dust swirled around him as he whispered to himself,
"Let's see, then… what kind of player this new guy really is."
He pulled his hood tighter and rode off into the cold wind.