Alaric materialized the worn journal in his hand.
It felt heavier than it should have. Not because of its size, but because of what had been added to it—the notes, the translations, the careful annotations left behind by Adam's village elder.
He ran his thumb along its frayed edge, eyes lingering on the cover.
This… was one of his only ties to the first people he had ever met after his reawakening. One of the few things that anchored him to that fragile, fleeting beginning.
Outside of Adam himself, it was all he had.
And yet—
The weight of it stirred something in his chest.
Something quiet.
Something… sad.
Recently, that feeling had only grown stronger.
As he learned more about the Drogan Empire, his thoughts kept circling back to this journal—to the man who had written it, and the world it described.
Because the empire he now heard of… was not the same one.
Same name.
Different soul.
"No such order as the Dragon Lancers," Alaric murmured. "The Emperor banished them after their failures. Civil wars… conquests… the empire has been hollowed out."
His voice faded into the silence.
Slowly, he lowered the journal and set it aside.
It no longer held any particularly valuable information—not in the practical sense.
But he wouldn't discard it.
Not for himself.
For Adam.
A quiet pause lingered.
Then—
"Strange… very strange."
His gaze drifted, distant, unfocused.
"This empire feels less like a nation… and more like a cult."
The thought settled uneasily in his mind.
And then, unbidden—
Another followed.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"…What if…"
A flicker of something—uncertainty, perhaps even dread—passed through him.
"What if Krieg became like this too?"