The Praetor
I was still standing on the VIP balcony, hands gripping the cold railing that felt like burning iron shackles. The mysterious girl had vanished into the crowd like smoke sucked away by the strong wind from The Great Tether, leaving me with a warning hanging in the air like a slow poison: be careful with the White one. Silas. The Priest who smiled like an angel but was as poisonous as a cobra disguised in a flower garden. I could imagine that smile—gentle, full of affection, but behind it were sharp teeth ready to tear a soul apart.
Down below, the opening ceremony for the new academic year continued to roll on like a giant war machine oiled with the blood and sweat of the students. This Colosseum was like a living creature breathing: the sound of thousands of students echoed like its heavy breath, the smell of teenage sweat mixed with burning engine oil from the Valdor block, static ozone from Aurum holograms, and the damp floral scent from Aethelgard that made the air feel sticky on the skin. The old Praetor—a stocky man in a neutral gray robe, his face full of scars that seemed to tell a long and brutal personal war—was still giving his speech. His voice echoed through the magical amplification system, filling the arena with empty words about unity, honor, and sacrifice. Thousands of students listened with various expressions: bored and sarcastic in the Aurum block where some students were busy betting through their AR gadgets, stiff and disciplined like iron statues in the Valdor block, and reverent like worshippers in prayer in the Aethelgard block, with bowed heads and silently moving lips.
I shook my head, trying to ignore the pain in my temples that was tormenting me again like needles stabbing my brain. Weaver. The message still echoed like a curse. Observing. But observing what? And why me? This amnesia was like thick fog hiding everything, but leaving enough clues to drive me crazy. I wasn't the type who liked being the center of attention—at least, that's what felt right now. I preferred shadows, observing from afar, not being a puppet on this brightly lit stage. This world was already crazy enough without me having to dance in the middle of it. I remembered this morning, when I stood in the Apex Tower courtyard, feeling like a tourist in hell, and thought "screw it all." Now? It felt like fate was laughing at me.
Suddenly, the old Praetor's voice cut through my thoughts like a sword slicing.
"And now, the moment we've all been waiting for. As per our sacred and unshakable tradition, this fragile ceasefire requires a new bridge. A new Praetor to lead us through this year, connecting these cracked lands to the untouched sky, and maintaining balance among us all who are at each other's throats."
The crowd murmured like waves beginning to churn. I could feel the energy vibration in the air, a mix of burning anticipation and tension like a drawn bowstring. The four Suzerains on the podium—Titus with his oppressive iron aura, Vianna with her dazzling gold sheen, Silas with his eerie false peace, and Kael with his storm-like silence—stood straighter, their eyes sweeping the arena like eagles looking for weak prey among thousands of ants.
"The choice of the Suzerains has fallen upon a worthy individual," the old Praetor continued, his voice firm like a hammer hitting an anvil. "Wynter Ash, High Senate Guest, second-year student from... neutral. Step up to the podium. It's time for you to take over this baton."
That name thundered like lightning striking directly into my chest. Wynter Ash. Me. My eyes widened, my breath caught in my chest as if an iron hand was squeezing my heart. What? New Praetor? Me? This must be a fatal mistake, or a perfectly designed trap. I was not a leader. I didn't even remember who I was yesterday, let alone lead thousands of students ready to kill each other. My body moved automatically, but my thoughts spun chaotically like an uncontrolled Gale storm. My steps towards the gravity lift felt heavy, like walking through mud pulling my feet down. This VIP balcony suddenly felt like a perfect trap, its glass walls reflecting my pale and confused face. Me, the amnesiac who just had an expensive egg for breakfast and thought "screw it" with this world, now the Praetor? This was like a bad joke from the Sovereign—or Weaver. They thought I'd be a natural leader, but I felt like a pawn forced onto the stage, surrounded by hungry wolves.
The gravity lift hissed softly as it descended, and I could feel the energy vibration from the fences separating the zones. The air inside the lift felt colder, maybe because of the Downdraft from The Great Tether that pierced everything. I looked outside, seeing thousands of faces starting to turn towards me, whispers beginning to sound like serpent hisses. What did they expect from me? A hero? Or just a new puppet they could manipulate?
The lift doors opened with a soft sound, and I stepped into the arena. The crowd fell silent for a moment, like a held breath, then erupted into half-hearted applause—a mix of forced respect and bloodthirsty curiosity. I walked along the path towards the podium, feeling thousands of pairs of eyes stabbing my back like hot needles. The Arbiters on the edge of the stands watched with their expressionless silver masks, Nullification rods ready in hand, ready to extinguish anyone who dared to break the rules. The stone floor beneath my feet felt rough, each step like stepping on a landmine that could explode at any time.
As I stepped onto the podium, the four Suzerains stared at me with an intensity that made the air feel heavier. Titus stood first, his solid iron body like an unshakable wall, his eyebrows raised in an expression mixed with anger and suspicion. His fingers tapped his iron armrest like war drums getting faster. "You're late, Ash," he growled softly but piercingly, his voice like scraping iron. "And you look like a ghost just risen from the grave. This isn't a game, you know? We chose you because you're supposed to know what you're doing. Or do you think this is a joke?"
I swallowed, trying to keep my face neutral even though my heart was pounding like an overheating engine. "Maybe I forgot to drink coffee this morning," I replied flatly, but the cynicism inside me burned: yeah, as if coffee could fix this amnesia. They knew. Or at least suspected. The old Wynter should have known this—the Suzerains' choice before amnesia. But me? I was like a stranger in my own body, and that made me cynical: why did it have to be me, this amnesiac, forced to be the bridge to the sky? As if the Sovereign needed an intermediary who didn't even remember his own friend's name.
Vianna rose next, her movements fluid like Aurum's restless wind, but her purple-gold eyes narrowed suspiciously like knives ready to stab. Her fingers stopped typing in her air hologram, and she approached, her voice sweet but poisonous. "Wynter, you proposed this yourself last month. Don't tell me you've forgotten? Or is something wrong with you? We don't choose weak people, you know? If you hesitate, we can replace you right now. But that means you're out of the game—permanently." The subtle threat hung, making my hairs stand on end. She wasn't just suspicious; she was testing, like a merchant checking goods before buying.
Silas followed, smiling gently but his hand touched my shoulder with a pressing force, like a grip disguised as an embrace. His touch made my hairs stand on end again, and the mysterious girl's warning earlier echoed like a death knell. "Calm, my brother," he said with a voice like rotting honey. "This is a sacred honor. The Sovereign chooses through us. But if you're not ready, we can 'cleanse' your doubts. We don't want a Praetor who's... divided." His words were soft, but there was a threat behind them—like a promise of torture wrapped in prayer.
Kael was last, silent but his gaze like a knife skinning layer after layer of the soul. He didn't speak much, but when he opened his mouth, his voice was cold like frozen Aqua ice. "Don't waste our time, Ash. We chose you for your potential. If this is acting, stop. If not... fix yourself now. Or we'll do it for you." The four of them pressed like closing walls, making the podium feel like a lion's cage.
I resisted the urge to brush off Silas's hand, cynicism burning again—this world is a stage play, and I'm forced to be the lead actor. But I couldn't back down. Not now. I nodded stiffly, accepting the Praetor medal from the old Praetor: a silver pendant shaped like a trinity wheel, its weight like the crushing burden of the world on my shoulders. "I'm ready," I mumbled, though in my heart I thought: ready for what? To be the Sovereign's puppet?
The old Praetor stepped back with a respectful nod, and now it was my turn. I stood in front of the magical microphone, facing the churning sea of students. The air felt thick, a mix of sweat, ozone, and tension like static electricity. I took a deep breath, trying to string words together. A speech. Not cheap propaganda like the previous one, but something... honest. Poetic sarcasm, sharp enough to tickle but not enough to provoke execution. I started speaking, and in my head, my cynical voice echoed like a never-ending devil's whisper.
"Brothers and sisters," I began, my voice echoing steadily even though my heart churned like a storm. Oh, yes, as if we're really siblings. More like wolves forced to sleep in one cage, eyeing each other's necks under the Sovereign's shadow. "We stand here, at the zero point of our cracked and bleeding world, where Valdor's hard iron meets Aurum's blinding neon, and Aethelgard's sacred white merges with the cold neutral ash. Unity, they say with loud voices. But isn't this unity like a gleaming golden chain—beautiful from afar, captivating to hungry eyes, but binding us all in the same dance, where every step is a calculation, every turn a hidden betrayal?" Golden chains, yes. And the Sovereign up there laughs seeing us dance like puppets, while we pretend this is sacred honor, when it's just a rotten game of power.
The crowd murmured again, their voices like rising waves, but I continued, keeping my tone neutral, like ambiguous, piercing poetry. "This new academic year is a vast empty canvas, painted with Valdor's hot and burning blood, Aurum's cold and calculative sweat, and Aethelgard's dreams that might shatter like dry leaves in the autumn wind. For the naive and hopeful new students, welcome to this melting pot—where Valdor's fire burns your dreams into hard ash, Aurum's wind blows your fortunes like leaves scattering aimlessly, and Aethelgard's water cleanses your sins with unseen tears." Cleansing sins? More like brainwashing you until you forget whose sins they really are—the Sovereign watching from the sky, or all of us who join this game like obedient slaves? Valdor with its forceful iron, Aurum with its blinding gold, Aethelgard with its white hiding blood.
I paused for a moment, letting the words sink in, watching the crowd's reactions: some in Valdor clenched their fists, in Aurum there were small sarcastic laughs, in Aethelgard more intense silent prayers. "Remember, we are not each other's enemies; we are shattered mirrors, reflecting our own failures in the shadow of the towering Great Tether. The Sovereign up there, the untouched gods, watch us with cold eyes, and we dance for them. But let us endure, not because of commands descending from the sky like unchallengeable mandates, but by our own choice—the choice to break those chains someday, or at least loosen them. Happy new academic year. May our chains not be too tight, and our dreams not too fragile." Choice? Ha, as if we have any choice besides dancing or dying. This is all pretty nonsense, but at least I can poke a little without bleeding, tickle the hearts of those already numb.
Applause erupted like a storm, a mix of forced enthusiasm and suspicious murmuring. In the Valdor block, there were firm cheers like military orders; in Aurum, applause accompanied by betting whispers; in Aethelgard, louder prayers. But I could feel the Suzerains' gazes on my back—suspicious, calculating, perhaps angry. Titus growled softly, Vianna smirked but her eyes were suspicious, Silas smiled but colder, Kael silent but his gaze sharper. My speech might have been too close to the line, but that's what I wanted—sarcasm that made them think without giving them reason to attack.
I stepped down from the podium, my heart still pounding like war drums. New Praetor. God's intermediary. But inside, I was still the cynical amnesiac, ready to break those chains if necessary. The game had just begun, and I felt like I was walking on knives.
As I returned to the VIP balcony, alone again in that quiet place, my Smart-ID vibrated again like a small earthquake tremor. A new message from Weaver, appearing on my private hologram screen with cold blue light:
[WEAVER: Congratulations, New Praetor. Your access is now open: Universal Key for all city doors, Global PA System for your echoing voice anywhere, Cargo Diversion to control the flow of goods from the sky, and Sky Liaison for direct reports to the Sovereign. Use wisely. Observing isn't just seeing—it's leading. Don't fail.]
I stared at the message, cynicism burning again like an unquenchable fire. Wisely? This is like giving the kingdom's key to an amnesiac thief. But alright, Weaver. Let's see how deep I can dig before everything collapses. But then, a new thought slipped in, making me pause: who really is Weaver? Their messages were too timely, too knowing, like someone—a person?—watching from above, controlling the threads of fate. Could Weaver be the Sovereign themselves? A god in disguise, playing with pawns like me? That thought made my hairs stand on end again, and the fog of amnesia felt thicker. If so, then I wasn't just a pawn—I was bait in a bigger trap.