Chapter 429
"That was the beginning of the mist you have known throughout your life. The mist that is not merely a natural phenomenon, but the manifestation of the Authority of Perception Alteration.
The perception of the outside world was changed, and the village's perception of the world was changed as well."
In the winding dark corridors beneath the palace, among damp stone walls covered with moss, beneath the ground that continued to tremble from the roar of battle above, the loyal guards ran without stopping.
They carried a tiny baby wrapped in simple silk cloth—a baby who knew nothing of the chaos unfolding around him, a baby who could only sleep in the unfamiliar arms that swayed constantly with hurried footsteps.
And behind them, not too far yet not too close, the sound of the footsteps of dozens—even hundreds—of soldiers could be heard.
Soldiers belonging to Xavier XVI, who had been ordered to hunt the baby down, to pursue the guards who had escaped, to ensure that not a single one survived—that not a single heir to the throne would grow up and someday return to claim what was rightfully his.
Queen Xavier XVI, as she now called herself despite the illegitimacy of her claim, would not allow the shadow of the past to disturb the power she had just seized through blood and betrayal.
The pursuit lasted for days, passing through dense forests and raging rivers, through steep valleys and towering mountains, through small villages whose residents could only stare in shock as the group rushed past their homes.
The guards kept running even as their feet bled with blisters, even as their breath nearly gave out, even as their bodies were no longer strong enough to continue.
They kept running because within each of their chests was a trust they could never betray.
A trust from the last king they loved.
A trust to save the last blood of the Xavier dynasty.
A trust more precious than their own lives.
And when they finally arrived at a remote village at the edge of the world, when they saw that the village was surrounded by untouched wilderness, when they felt that perhaps—just perhaps—they could hide here and begin a new life, they did not know that behind them, only a few hours away, thousands of mounted soldiers were approaching at full speed.
They did not know that Xavier XVI had deployed half of her military forces just to pursue a single baby.
They did not know that the peace they felt upon arriving in that village would last only a few hours before it shattered into pieces under the arrival of an army of death.
But in the final moments, when the mounted soldiers had begun to appear in the distance, when the dust they raised had begun to rise high into the sky, when the sound of thousands of hooves could already be faintly heard trembling through the earth, something miraculous happened.
The villagers who had initially been afraid—who saw the strangers arrive with a baby and then saw mounted soldiers approaching rapidly, who did not understand what was happening but could feel that great danger was coming—suddenly froze in astonishment.
Their eyes widened.
Their mouths fell open.
Their bodies froze where they stood.
The same was true for the guards carrying baby Xavier XVII.
They all stared toward the boundaries of the village—to the border between the ground where they stood and the outside world that continued to approach with deadly intent.
And at that border, precisely at the boundary that had been clearly visible just a second before, something began to form.
Something white.
Something thick.
Something moving at an unnatural speed.
Something that would change everything.
The white mist appeared from nowhere—not slowly like ordinary fog, but suddenly in the blink of an eye.
As if a giant hand had plucked a chunk of cloud from the sky and placed it around the village.
As if nature itself had suddenly decided to intervene in human affairs.
As if a power far greater than any army had been watching from behind the veil of reality and finally said, enough.
The mist grew thicker, taller, and wider until it covered the entire boundary of the village in a perfect circle.
The mounted soldiers who had been so close just moments before—whose galloping had sounded so real, whose threat had felt so immediate—suddenly vanished, swallowed by the mist.
Nothing from the outside could be seen anymore.
There was no longer any way in.
There was no longer any way out.
And at the same moment that the mist formed, a burst of light occurred.
Not a violent burst like thunder.
Not a blinding flash like lightning.
But a gentle burst that sounded like a whisper, like a sigh, like the long breath of the universe inhaling.
The light spread quickly, casting its presence over the entire village, touching every resident without exception, slipping into their minds through their eyes, ears, and skin.
And when the light faded, when the white mist stood firmly as a new wall separating the village from the outside world, when the villagers slowly recovered from their shock, all memory of what had just happened vanished.
They did not remember the strangers who had arrived with a baby.
They did not remember the mounted soldiers who had nearly attacked.
They did not remember the mist that had suddenly formed.
The only thing they remembered was a single memory—one planted gently yet deeply into their consciousness.
That the white mist was their protector.
That the white mist was the shield separating them from an outside world that had long perished.
That beyond the mist there were no more living humans, no remaining civilizations, nothing left to search for or hope for.
That the mist was a blessing, not a curse.
That the mist was a gift that had saved them from total extinction.
That the mist was the final boundary between life and death, and they were fortunate to be on the right side of it.
And since that day—since the white mist formed and their memories were erased and replaced—the village lived in false peace for many years.
"Everything you have just heard is not a story meant to burden you. It is the truth that has been waiting for you to be ready to accept it from the very beginning. Your father, Xavier XV, did not sacrifice himself so that this lineage would end as a forgotten legend."
The old hand slowly rose, its movement gentle yet full of meaning, as if every inch of its journey toward Xavier's shoulder carried thousands of years of history and hope with it.
And when that palm finally landed on Xavier's left shoulder—when the wrinkles of that aged skin touched the dirty cloth covering his still-trembling body—Xavier felt something strange.
Not merely physical warmth.
Not merely the vibration of old muscles that still held strength.
But something deeper.
Something that spread from his shoulder through his entire body, into every cell, every bone, every drop of blood flowing through his veins.
It felt like an electrical connection linking the past and the future.
It felt like a spark igniting dry wood that had been waiting for a long time.
It felt like a key finally finding its lock after wandering in darkness for thousands of years.
Xavier looked into Alaric's eyes that shimmered with golden-yellow light, and for the first time he saw something he had never seen in anyone's eyes before.
To be continued…