Chapter Three: The Prophecy and the Traveler

Darkness is the most profound fear. Even the bravest and most fearless warrior, when confronted with the boundless chaos that has existed since the dawn of time, cannot help but hesitate in his heart. Yet what sets a warrior apart, what makes a hero a hero, is not anything else but their courage to face the fears engraved in the very instincts of life, and to break free from the uncertainties rooted deep within. Sadly, in any age, such people are exceedingly rare.

At the very least, Amy could be sure that his heart was not so resilient. Yet his own limits did not mean such people did not exist—quite the contrary. Even in the lower districts of Hemptica, the youth knew of one such pioneer who had crossed the deepest night, braved the nameless mists, and walked the waves of chaos. Though this trailblazer had never truly reached the lost royal city of Prometheus, the spirit to dare and to act was enough to stir the soul of any who heard the tale.

Amy was, of course, among those moved.

And so, he intended to visit this legendary traveler in person.

Even though night had already fallen.

Nighttime in Hemptica was very dark indeed—dim and heavy. While it was not so black as to render one’s own hand invisible, the thick fog of midnight obscured all but the faint hint of road ahead. As the power of the primordial Flame waned day by day, the line between the lower district and the Mist Quarter grew ever more ambiguous. At times, it was difficult to distinguish whether the faint whispers in the darkness were the cool murmurings of the night breeze, or the wicked, secretive voices of demons lurking in the mist.

Within the mist lurked all manner of abominations.

Fanned by the efforts of certain people, rumors spread unchecked, and the already desolate nights of the lower district grew even more deserted. Walking through the fog where black and white entwined, one could not only hear the pounding of one’s own heart, but even the scraping of boots on the gravel, clear as thunder. Even knowing that, until the next decay of the Flame, no demon could possibly break through the barrier of the Mist Quarter, it was undeniable that the oppressive atmosphere could gnaw at one’s sanity, and the smallest sound only heightened the creeping sense of delirium.

Fear springs from the unknown.

Amy slowly mulled over this proverb handed down from the ancients, feeling the power coursing through his blood, the heat radiating from the short sword hidden in his sleeve—the Darkblood—using the force of Order to dispel the shadows clinging to him, soothing his restless soul little by little.

To be born of the Glorious Line was not merely a matter of a proud name. What set them atop the world was not only the honor their ancestors had forged, but the pure blood inherited from the pioneers who first tamed the chaos—and, within that blood, the power of Order itself. The strongest among them could even rekindle the brilliance of the ancients, displaying might great enough to stand against the monstrous beasts of chaos made flesh: the saviors anointed by destiny, the true Chosen.

“Bathed in the mountain’s roar, I shall be crowned king!”

So wrote the king who founded the name Caesar in his memoirs. Even in the Age of Kings, those able to perfectly inherit the blood of the ancients were few. If a generation spanned twenty years, there would be only three to five Chosen in an era—each an uncrowned king, the mightiest knights to rally beneath the royal banner, and invincible wherever they went.

Should the Old King perish in the calamity of darkness, the Royal City of Prometheus would hold a Rite of Kingship. Heroes from all corners of the Order’s domain would gather, settling by sword and wit who was truly worthy to inherit the Flame. In the sacred land born of the primordial Flame, the victor would receive the legacy of the kings, thenceforth breathing with the Flame, sharing the fate of humanity, becoming both shield and blade of the Order: an ageless, undying sage.

There was no written law, but the final victor had always been a Chosen, born of the blood of glory.

Perhaps this is why the title of Chosen spread so widely, but Amy could not say for sure. The Age of Kings was far too distant, and in this era, when the nameless mist severed all bonds between city-states, the Chosen was merely a legend—a legend whose very existence was in doubt. Still, many chose to believe that if the age of darkness was ever to end, it would certainly be at the hands of a Chosen: one who would find the lost royal city of Prometheus amidst the tides of darkness, triumph in the Rite of Kingship under the witness of the primordial Flame, complete the trial of the Firebearer, and inherit the kingly power.

Some prophecies even boldly declared:

I. The King perishes in betrayal

II. The lost royal city takes away the last light

III. The world is bereft of radiance

IV. Demons run rampant

V. The flames in the darkness grow dim

VI. The wheel of fate turns once more; the seeker of light steps into the dark

VII. Despair within despair, disappointment upon disappointment

VIII. A wanderer discovers the light

IX. The Chosen, seeker of destiny, arrives at the lost royal city

X. Truth is drowned in blood

XI. The new-born King brings light

XII. The world is at peace

XIII. At last, the ideal land is reached

A clumsy prophecy, lacking rhyme or rhythm, yet perhaps it happened to satisfy the people’s longing for a savior and a better world. In Hemptica, it was widely known, even to Amy in the upper quarters—though he mostly scoffed at it. Such blindly optimistic developments seemed fit only for drunken, third-rate poets.

Chosen, the lost royal city, the new-born king—these prophetic keywords were sure to come true, if humanity truly had the power to weather this tide of chaos. After all, even the Wall of Endless Night had fallen; only a new-born king, crowned through the trial of the Firebearer and inheriting the king’s might, could save mankind in its time of need. The Chosen and the lost royal city of Prometheus were necessary conditions for the birth of this king. So, once seen for what they were, prophecies became little more than ambiguously worded statements of the inevitable, a kind of verbal trickery; only fools would treat them as wisdom and place all hope in such insubstantial dreams.

Yet even so, the prophecy was not entirely without value. At the very least it preserved the memory of what had come before, and what was unfolding now. The entire prophecy could be divided into past, present, and future: from the fall of the old king to the rampage of demons, it painted the end of the Age of Kings and the onset of darkness. The part concerning the traveler represented humanity’s present struggle, while the ambiguous steps hiding beneath the inevitable outcomes formed the true body of the prophecy—a heap of meaningless words.

There was but one road before humanity: to find the lost royal city of Prometheus. Whether to inherit the kings’ power through the trial of the Firebearer, or to seek the forbidden knowledge left by the ancients amidst the ruins, all paths led inexorably to that most ancient city, which enshrined the primordial Flame.

And so, as the power of the Flame withered, even knowing the darkness ahead was hungry and boundless, pioneers still pressed forward, fearless, for the future of humankind.

They were the travelers.

Most of them vanished into the depths of darkness, yet a few were lucky enough to cross the demon-haunted chaos and take root in another land of Order, hiding their names, abandoning their missions. As for those who truly found the lost city of Prometheus—perhaps none ever had. Even if they did, their bones surely lay buried beneath the endless black wasteland of the deepest night.

The world had long since lost its light.

A nearly indissoluble darkness shrouded the entire world of Order. Seen from a higher vantage, their so-called salvation resembled nothing more than headless flies flinging themselves into the flame—futile and doomed. Yet as a human being, Amy could not help but admire their spirit of sacrifice, and feel a deep, instinctive curiosity for the world beyond the lamps of Order.

What, after all, lay out there?

Order and chaos—an old refrain. But the unspeakable, the blind madness, had always been humanity’s greatest taboo. Even now, when the borders between Order and chaos were more blurred than ever, those courageous enough to step beyond the Flame’s protection into the dark were few indeed. Of those who managed to return alive and sane, their number could be counted on one hand; in Hemptica, there was but one.

He was a living treasury of knowledge; even a figure as exalted as Duke Galsworthy treated him with the utmost respect.

It was said that thirty years ago, a wandering traveler emerged from the mist, causing a citywide sensation. The city’s lord, Duke Galsworthy, personally journeyed to the lower district to greet this stooped, frail-looking old man. Yet as time passed, the old man, who refused to speak of the dark lands, was gradually forgotten by high society, living out his days quietly in the filthy, crumbling streets of the lower quarters, in a low, shabby little house.

His behavior was hard for Amy to understand. To be able to traverse the four realms, each deeply scarred by chaos, the old man must surely have the blood of the Glorious Line in his veins. Even if he scorned fame, gold and silver were easily within his grasp—how could he, how could anyone, have fallen to such a state?

Turning these thoughts over, the youth hesitated before the pitch-dark tiled house, pausing uncertainly.

His hand hovered before the door, just before knocking.

To visit unannounced—would he even be admitted? Amy wished he could have come better prepared, but there was no more time. The lower district was no less dangerous than the upper, and now that he had been swept into the heart of the storm, he might never again have the chance to visit the only man in Hemptica who might know the secrets of chaos. To cling to safety would be to risk losing his one chance to pierce the darkness.

After all, the old man was very, very old—“a candle guttering in the wind” would not be an exaggeration.

So, after much hesitation, he knocked.

But unexpectedly, the door was not barred; the lightest touch swung open the way to the sitting room, and his startled gaze met a pair of deep, green eyes within.

A knot tightened in Amy’s chest, but he bowed slightly to the one who met his gaze.

“Forgive my intrusion—”

His voice broke off, a little awkwardly, before he spoke the master’s name.

“—Mr. Ignati.”