"The verdict has been reached."
Aden Vasco stood at the center of the grand disciplinary chamber, his wrists bound in enchanted iron cuffs that suppressed mana.
The air was thick with judgment, the gazes of the Walpurgis Academy's Disciplinary Committee drilled into him like nails hammered into flesh.
The Sun's rays filled into the room, illuminating the towering bookshelves and banners bearing the Academy's crest.
The Head Arbitrator's voice rang out, devoid of warmth or hesitation. Silence fell over the room. The students, professors, and noble representatives in attendance barely dared to breathe.
"Aden Vasco, you are hereby found guilty of first-degree murder."
How did we get here?
---------------------------------------------------
The mud of the Serran Plains tasted of iron and regret.
Aden Vasco dragged himself backward, his broken sword hanging from a numb hand. The weight of his armor, once the proud steel of House Vasco, was now a funeral shroud.
His core was shattered. Every breath was a shard of glass in his lung.
He had run for years. From his family's exile. From the hounds of the underworld. He had gathered strength in the shadows, becoming a weapon they all feared.
But it was never enough.
The Godfather emerged from the smoke. His robes were torn, but his walk was calm. His sword was clean.
Aden's vision blurred at the edges. He saw the man who had orchestrated it all.
He hated that he still hoped.
With a raw roar, he charged.
The Godfather parried with a casual flick. Sparks died in the air.
"You were supposed to lead," the Godfather said. His voice was calm, like a teacher's. "You had the name. The blood. The talent."
Aden swung again, his body slow and heavy. "I had a family."
"You had a legacy. You chose to break it."
"You broke it first!" Aden's scream was hoarse. "You turned them all against me!"
He lunged one last time. It was a desperate, dying move.
The Godfather's blade slipped past his guard. It was a short, precise thrust.
White heat exploded in Aden's side. His legs gave out.
He fell to his knees in the mud. Blood pooled beneath him, warm and final.
The Godfather looked down, his expression cold. Almost pitying.
"The Vasco bloodline ends here."
Aden looked at him one last time.
"You think this changes anything?"
"You'll still die alone."
"We all do..."
He turned and walked away. The smoke swallowed him whole.
Aden collapsed onto his side. The world grew quiet.
His trembling hand found the two rings on his belt. His father's. His mother's. The last pieces of home.
Memories bled into the dark.
"You are no longer a Vasco." His father's voice, cold and final.
The great hall of House Vasco, burning against the night sky.
He had wandered. He had fought. He had watched the continent tear itself apart in a war he couldn't stop.
This was how it ended. Not in glory, but in silence.
His fingers tightened around the cold metal.
One chance. The thought was a final, desperate spark. If i had Just one chance to do it right.
Then, everything went black.
The darkness of the battlefield faded, replaced by the fire of memory.
House Vasco. Since the time of the empire's founding, their word was law. Their legions were the shield of the Chronos Empire. The Silver Sword that broke chains was more than a crest; it was a promise of strength.
Aden remembered the gilded halls. He felt the weight of that legacy. He had been its prodigy, the son who was a sword genius, whose tactical mind outpaced seasoned generals.
He never knew that his brilliance was the very thing that marked him.
The Public was a whisper then. A rumor in dark corners.
He saw them now, clear as day. Their agents, wearing friendly faces, whispered into the ears of lords and knights. They planted seeds of doubt.
The charges were crafted like fine jewelry. Treason. Embezzlement of legion funds. A web of lies so convincing, even allies looked away.
A secret council gathered. Their voices were muffled, but the verdict was clear.
"The Vasco heir is too strong. Too willful. He cannot be controlled."
"He will not bow. He is dangerous."
The order was given. Exile the boy.
He saw it again. Vasco soldiers, men who had saluted him, now dragging him from his home. The family banner burned in the background. His father watched, his face a stone mask, choosing the survival of the House over the truth of his son.
Then, the wandering. The hunger. The constant, gnawing fear.
He became a blade for hire. A ghost in the underworld. He fought in petty wars for scraps of gold.
A montage of blood and steel flashed behind his eyes. A dirty tavern. A signed contract. A rival's corpse at his feet.
His name grew. From disgraced heir, to mercenary, to a king of the shadows. They called him the Iron Hound.
Power was the only language the world understood. He thought it would be enough.
The Public found him again. They offered him a place at their table. A chance to see the strings that moved the world. A path to the truth he craved.
He took it. He donned their grey cloak. He learned their rituals.
And then he found it. Classified documents in the Godfather's own sanctum.
The truth was a blade to the heart.
The Public had orchestrated it all. The false charges. The fall of his house. His exile. The war that was consuming the continent. They had even placed a pliable puppet in his place, a false heir to the Vasco name.
The rage was a cold, clean fire.
He turned his new army, his mercenaries, his outlaws, his shadows, against his masters. He stormed the Public's headquarters himself.
The purge began. It was chaos. It was fire. It was death.
This was the battle. The one he was losing. The one where he lay dying.
The memory sharpened, then shattered.
The vision faded. The fire of the past dissolved.
He was back on the Serran Plains. The taste of blood was real. The cold ground was real.
His body was broken. His story was over.
As his eyes closed for the final time, a faint, silvery light began to glow from the two family rings clutched in his hand.
The mud was gone. The iron taste of blood, the smoke, the weight of his own corpse, all of it vanished.
Aden lay in a silence so profound it felt like a physical pressure. There was no ground, no sky. Only a vast, weightless gray. Corpses hung suspended in the air around him, frozen mid-fall. Flames were captured in translucent amber. Reality had been stilled, held by invisible strings.
Footsteps echoed. Calm. Measured.
Aden tried to turn his head. He couldn't. Even the pain in his side was a memory.
"Who's there?" His voice was a frayed thread.