Chapter 172: Valley Of Whispering Mists

"You're Jenkins?" Ricky said, pointing at the undead skeleton who bowed in a refined manner.

"Yes, Sir Ricky," Jenkins replied, his hollowed-out voice carrying an eerie calm. 

He recognized Ricky by the knightly armor, and Ricky couldn't help but notice the butler's composed posture.

"And you're the butler-oh sh*t~" Ricky's words trailed off as realization hit him, his eyes widening in shock.

"Is there anything troubling you, Sir Ricky?" Jenkins asked, wondering if there was something wrong with how he addressed Ricky.

"Yeah, when I pushed Rachael out of the way, I instinctively sent her to Transylvania." Ricky sighed, rubbing his forehead in frustration as he could already feel the impending chaos that would come from this mistake.

He looked over at Asterion and Alexander, both of whom exchanged a knowing glance as their faces contorted in understanding, as if they both instantly grasped the gravity of the situation.

Lilith and Rachael were fully aware of each other's existence but despite both sharing a connection to Ricky and forming relationships with him, they couldn't stand each other.

"It'll be fine, right?" Ricky asked, glancing at Asterion and Alexander, both of whom looked away, rubbing their shoulders uneasily.

"Yeah, it will be fine."

Meanwhile at Transylvania,

Rachael, who had tried to run back to the teleporter, clutched her stomach and slowly sank to the ground, wincing from the cramps.

"You idiot~" Rachael muttered, her voice tinged with frustration not at Ricky, but at herself. 

She had gone to such lengths to appear strong, only to be shoved aside before the fight could even begin.

Her first grappled with her own weakness, which loomed over her, making her feel so small.

"Ms. Rachael, are you-"

"I'm fine, Eric," Rachael interrupted with a chuckle, patting the young boy's head as he smiled up at her, but then his eyes suddenly turned red.

"Don't." Rachael's words stopped him in his tracks as she yanked the child back, her gaze shifting upwards to Likith slowly emerging onto her terrace, flanked by her vampiric knights.

Lilith took a different approach from her father since rather than relying on an army of ghouls, she had established a military order of vampires, with high-ranking vampires serving as commanders, their influence trickling down through the ranks.

These knights were mid-ranking vampires, each of them having spent considerable time training with swords and other weapons like the guns humans had been using for decades now.

"I thought I smelled wet dog," Lilith chuckled, holding her hand above her mouth as she gazed down at Rachael, who snarled slightly in response.

"And I knew I smelled rotten tuna," Rachael shot back, her words dripping with sarcasm as her eyes locked onto Lilith as the playful glint in Lilith's gaze darkened, turning deadly.

"If I wasn't so worried you'd cough up a furball, I'd personally come closer," Lilith said, her tone light and cold while raising her gaze above her as Rachael scoffed.

"Those are cats, and we both know what would happen if you came closer," Rachael shot back, her eyes turning golden while Lilith's flashed a deep crimson.

"Only your complete embarrassment." They both spoke in unison, each scowling at the other as Lilith's gaze then shifted to the boy, who was glaring at her hatefully.

"Is that-oh my." Lilith leaned over the terrace, her gaze falling on those familiar red eyes as Eric stared up at her, his teeth slowly emerging.

"You're a vampire-"

"I'm half-vampire," Eric interrupted boldly as the knights immediately unsheathed their swords, but Lilith raised a hand, halting them, as Rachael's eyes pulsed with power.

"My apologies, you're a self-hating half-vampire," Lilith mocked, her voice dripping with disdain.

The other vampires sneered at Eric, scornful of his audacity to look down on their race while appearing so weak.

"Lilith, we-"

"Let me guess," Lilith interrupted, her tone dripping with amusement. 

"You're here because of how pathetically weak you are, and my darling Ricky sent you here?" Lilith chuckled, already anticipating the question as Rachael, her gaze turning hateful, didn't deny it and instead looked away.

"Very well," Lilith said, her tone mocking, enjoying every second of this exchange. 

"I shall grant you asylum." Lilith laughed, turning away from Rachael, but paused when she noticed the sidelong glance.

"Guides won't be necessary, since you already know your way around." Lilith said, turning her back towards the two as the knights followed her back in.

Rachael gritted her teeth but said nothing. 

Ricky had sent her here for a reason, and she didn't want to make things harder than they already were and reluctantly, she kept quiet, her frustration simmering beneath the surface.

"Enjoy your stay."

Sigh

"Yeah, they'll be fine." Ricky shrugged, marching forward with his makeshift army, all of them tense as they realized they had crossed into Otherworld.

"Gentlemen, do not fret." Jenkins said dutifully, trying to ease the tension. 

"Big Ben does indeed travel into the lands of Avalon, but only to its outskirts." Jenkins gestured toward a specific line, where the environment seemed entirely drained of life.

Interestingly enough, that line marked the border of Avalon's outskirts, its boundaries defined by a dead, barren land, life nowhere to be found. 

It was like a signal, a warning, that they had crossed into the lands of Gorre, where Castle Le Fey stood.

"Geez," Ricky muttered, stepping onto the dead grass that marked their entry into the Land of Gorre and Jenkins, his eyes glowing with green flames, looked sadder.

"Yes, well, it's a tragic story," Jenkins said heavily, walking forward onto a half-destroyed path as the makeshift army followed him in silence, taking in the desolate scenery.

"Let me guess, she was left with only this crappy territory?" Ricky said, his voice tinged with sarcasm only to see Jenkins shake his head at this.

"No, Sir Ricky, the lands of Gorre used to be a paradise, contrary to its current environment. It rivaled Avalon," Jenkins replied solemnly, as Alexander crawled down onto the land as he scooped up some dirt, sniffing it and rubbing it between his fingers.

"Salt and sulfur," Alexander muttered with an impressed gaze, though it quickly shifted to disgust and disappointment.

"What a foolish decision," Alexander muttered, scrunching up his face before crawling back onto Ricky's shoulder and plopping down.

"Well, don't just keep it to yourself, Alexander." Ricky whispered, the gerbil looking around before closing his eyes.

"Am I to assume that Merlyn salted the earth?" Alexander asked, his gaze shifting to Jenkins, who slowly ducked his head as the gerbil shook his head in disapproval.

"What a barbaric practice," Alexander remarked, able to respect the defeat of Morgana, but unable to respect what Merlyn did afterward.

Although Alexander was a brutal conqueror, there was a common belief that he had indulged in such practices as salting the earth. 

However, that wasn't true at all.

Alexander the Great did not use salt to destroy any territory as his approach to conquest was not focused on total destruction but on integration and control. 

While he was ruthless in battle and occasionally ordered the destruction of cities such as Thebes which he razed as a warning to other Greek city-states, there is no historical record of him salting the earth. 

Instead, he typically rebuilt and re-populated cities, often naming them after himself like with Alexandria in Egypt.

He even often sought to integrate local cultures, appointing local rulers, and even adopting customs of the regions he conquered, such as in Persia and Egypt. 

His strategy was always to build and expand, rather than devastate, ensuring the long-term stability of his vast empire. 

Salting the earth and ruining the resources that would support a kingdom or empire was something Alexander found utterly disgusting. 

To him, it was a waste of vital supplies, troops, and equipment that could have been repurposed to strengthen his own forces. 

That was a big reason why he left the cities intact in the first place, he saw no value in destroying what could be used to fuel his expansion.

"Yes, when Merlyn sealed Morgana away, he used our country of Gorre as an example to all the others within Otherworld, a warning to bow toward Avalon, to Camelot." Jenkins's eyes flickered, his mind drifting to the horrifying screams outside the castle walls. 

He remembered how Morgana fell to her knees, crying tears of hatred, forced to listen for seven days and seven nights as Merlyn made her endure the torment.

"It is best not to bring up such topics in front of Her Majesty," Jenkins continued, his voice tight with discomfort. 

"It's a very touchy subject."

The conversation grew stale after that, and Ricky took his time, though he was eager to speed things up but he had never been to the castle before, so his magic portal wouldn't help him here.

Ricky kicked pebbles along the road, his frustration growing as he couldn't just leave his guys behind. 

Begrudgingly, he followed Jenkins, trudging along the narrow path that wound deeper into the heavy valley, the thick haze of mist swallowing them whole.

"Ugh, so boring~" Ricky sighed, glancing to the side at Bucephalus marching along with the army. 

The horse turned toward him, gave a disdainful scoff, and then turned away.

Bucephalus didn't respect Ricky, and every time he tried to mount the steed, the horse would throw him off, only allowing Alexander to ride him.

"Do not fret, Ricky. You shall win Bucephalus's respect soon enough," Alexander encouraged with a reassuring smile, knowing it was only a matter of time before the noble beast would allow Ricky to ride on his back.

"Why does it have to respect me to f*cking ride it? It's not like I'm asking him to be my slave or anything," Ricky laughed, unable to believe this stubborn horse was still acting this way. Bucephalus glared at him in response.

"It is a pride thing, Bucephalus is a purebred warhorse from Olympus and thus only recognizes those who take part in wars." Alexander explained, gesturing towards Bucephalus who raised his head as if confirming his master's words.

"I was literally just fighting-"

"Yes, but that was a battle." Alexander corrected, holding up his paw as if it were a matter-of-fact only for Ricky to have a deadpan expression.

"That's actually such a stupid reason," Ricky muttered, glaring at the horse as Bucephalus glared back, nostrils flaring as he raised his head higher, meeting Ricky's gaze.

It gave him a mocking expression, almost snickering at his feeble strength as Ricky's eyebrow twitched at this look.

"You wanna go, you f*cking go donkey? Cause I'll throw hands right now." Ricky challenged, reaching for his blade but instead of turning away, Bucephalus didn't back down.

 Instead, he marched right up to Ricky and stopped his hooves right in front of him as they sized up each other. 

Snort

The warhorse exhaled sharply, standing tall as if daring Ricky to act as the latter laughed, unsheathing his blade as sparks of red electricity flashed, only for Jenkins to swiftly intervene.

Ahem

"Excuse me, Sir Ricky, Sir Bucephalus," Jenkins interjected smoothly, stepping between them before things escalated further.

Both Ricky and Bucephalus jerked their heads toward him, their glares momentarily shifting from each other to the butler.

"What?"

Snort

"We're at the Valley Of Whispering Mists." Jenkins gestured to the mountain rage induced into a thick fog.

"And?" Ricky said, actually having Bucepahlus agree with him as to why this stopped their coming squabble.

"And it is where Castle Le Fey lies, enshrouded under its natural protection," Jenkins dutifully answered, his tone carrying the weight of old knowledge.

Ricky and Bucephalus shared one last glare before both turned their attention back to him.

"And?" Ricky asked, watching Bucephalus glare even harder towards Jenkins who slowly nodded his head as if to understand the confusion.

"The mist acts as a natural defense, inducing hallucinogenic effects that drive those afflicted into a state of delusion," Jenkins explained, watching Ricky frown and rub the back of his neck.

"Oh, so basically a mindf*ck," Ricky muttered, shifting uncomfortably as he'd had enough flashbacks for one lifetime.

"I'll just use my force field-"

"The valley requires a two-hour trek on foot," Jenkins interrupted, explaining why that wouldn't work since even if he didn't need to breathe, his makeshift army did, at least the coven part. 

"The air within your force field wouldn't last the entire journey." Jenkins gestured for Ricky to move forward, while the rest of the convoy exchanged uneasy glances. 

Meanwhile, Cedric kept his sharp gaze fixed on the undead guide, calmly studying the scene with his eyes.

"Jenkins, buddy, just get to the point." Ricky sighed, gesturing toward the undead skeleton who nodded dutifully while pulling out an orb. 

"This is a magical device created by Her Majesty to convert the hallucinogenic effects of the mist into breathable air, making a pocket of clean space. However, it doesn't fully neutralize the mist completely, so please do not stray outside the barrier." Jenkins funneled magic into the orb as it slowly began absorbing the surrounding mist. 

"Now, squeeze together, even a couple of breaths can induce the effects." Jenkins urged, stepping forward as the convoy hurriedly squished together while Ricky followed behind.

As they walked into the mountain range, Ricky didn't feel anything at all, his toxic immunity cleansed his body of the residual mist that the magical device couldn't completely neutralize.

However, for the convoy, their skin prickled uncomfortably, as if tiny needles were pressing into them, though that was the extent of their discomfort and even Bucephalus remained unaffected, much less Asterion. 

Alexander, however, was a different story. 

Unlike the others, who quickly shook off the hallucinatory effects that had been blocked, Alexander, with his small gerbil-sized tolerance, succumbed almost instantly as his pupils dilated heavily as his vision warped.

'Where am I?' Alexander thought, his mind clouded with confusion as the scenery around him twisted and reshaped itself. 

He glanced down, expecting to see his small gerbil feet, but instead, he found himself wearing boots. 

When he lifted his gaze, there was no mountain range ahead, only a desk, and a man slumped in his chair, surrounded by cup after cup of wine.

'Why am I here?' Alexander muttered, staring at his hands, real, human palms, rough with calluses layered upon calluses and then, an understanding dawned on him.

'Right, I came to report to my father about becoming a master at Kamar-Taj.' Alexander remembered after recognizing his own reflection in the nearby mirror, his form now that of his nineteen-year-old self.

Up to this point, he had followed his master, Aristotle, to his place of origin, where he had learned and mastered the mystic arts. 

It was there that he earned the spear now in his grasp, his reward for completing his training.

Before Alexander stood his father, Philip of Macedonia, a revered commander and king, once hailed as one of the greatest generals in history. 

Yet, the man before him looked nothing like the legends had described.

Philip's once-proud stature was slumped, his face lined with exhaustion, his regal presence dulled by the stench of wine as his eyes, once sharp and commanding, now held only a distant emptiness.

"So what if you've become a mystic master?" Philip scoffed, reaching over to refill his cup, his gaze barely acknowledging Alexander's presence.

"Worthless, it means nothing." Philip's words were hollow, drowned in the bitterness of the wine he poured.

"You'll still never amount to anything, neither you nor I." Philip spoke heavy words, dousing the tongue that had uttered them in another stream of wine before slumping in the chair and gazing at the ceiling.

Alexander's grip on his spear tightened, his knuckles paling under the pressure as he stared at his father, Philip of Macedonia, a man once revered, now slouched over a desk, drowning in his own disillusionment. 

The air reeked of aged wine and defeat, the dim candlelight casting flickering shadows over his father's worn features.

"We are all but pawns in the game of the gods." Philip muttered, swirling the wine in his cup, his gaze distant, unfocused. 

"Our lives, our choices, they all mean nothing in the hands of the Fates."

The words were spoken with such certainty, such bitter finality, that they gnawed at something deep within Alexander. 

He had traveled across the world, endured grueling training, mastered the mystic arts, all in pursuit of something greater than himself. 

To be like his father, Philip of Macedonia.

Yet here he was, a man who had once shaped empires, reducing all ambition, all struggle, to insignificance.

"We are mere figurines." Philip continued, lifting his cup in a mock toast to the unseen gods above as his smile was hollow, his voice void of hope.

Alexander felt a surge of defiance boil in his blood, his eyes radiating pure outrage at the will he had so much revered turned into such loathing bitterness

Was this truly the conclusion of a man who had once been called great? 

A man who had commanded armies, carved his legacy into history, and raised a son meant for more? 

His father had once believed in power, in destiny forged by one's own hands and now, he sat here, undone by his own doubts.

"Do you truly believe that?" Alexander finally spoke, his voice steady but laced with quiet anger.

"That everything we do is meaningless, that everything you've built is meaningless?" Alexander asked, gripping his chest and squeezing at his heart that ravaged against his chest.

Philip exhaled through his nose, as if amused by his son's resistance. 

"Look around you, boy. Look at history, look at me." Philip gestured vaguely to himself, to the empty chamber around them. 

"Even the greatest among us are nothing more than whispers in the wind, waiting to be scattered. The gods play their games, and we are the pieces they move for their amusement." Philip pranced his fingers in the air, as if they were being dangled by the strings held in the sky,

However, contrary to this man's acceptance, Alexander's jaw clenched as he had come here expecting recognition, perhaps even pride, but instead, he was being handed a lesson in futility.

He refused to accept it.

"Then let them try to move me," Alexander said, stepping forward, his spear radiating with power. 

"Let them reach down from their thrones and see if I break, for my story will not end as mere tales spoken in pastime!" Alexander's voice thundered, his chest swelling with defiance as his heavy armor clanged against his form. 

The marks of countless battles etched into the metal seemed to speak of his struggle, the raw force of his will reverberating through his every word.

His gaze was sharp and unyielding, his eyes locked with the figure of his father, a man who had once stood taller than gods in Alexander's eyes, but now seemed a shadow of that former glory.

The weight of destiny bore down on Alexander's shoulders, but he refused to bow, he refused to break.

"And I will not let you merely escape into the shadows of the world's history!" Alexander's voice cut through the silence like a blade. 

The air between them crackled with his conviction as his hand reached up to adjust his spear, an emblem of his newfound power and purpose that he gained from Kamar-Taj.

"I shall seek glory, for the both of us."

Without waiting for his father's response, Alexander turned sharply on his heel and strode out of the room, his footsteps echoing through the cold stone halls like the steady march of fate itself without even sparing a look back.

Inside, Philip remained seated, his hand still clutching the half-empty wine cup as he was silent, but the weight of his son's words hung in the space like an unspoken promise. 

The old king's eyes seemed to soften, a flicker of recognition, of something long buried, stirring beneath the surface.

"Then show them, Alexander." Philip's voice rumbled from behind, low and laden with a strange mix of disdain and something else, something buried deep within. 

"Show them what fear truly looks like." Philip's words hung in the air, fragmented and raw, carrying the weight of his own failures and weaknesses. 

There was a brokenness to them, but also something more, something unspoken, a quiet plea, a final reach toward his son.

The words reverberated in the cold, silent room, echoing off the stone walls like a ghostly whisper. 

Alexander, his back still turned, remained motionless, his hand resting on the doorframe as though the gravity of his father's statement had struck him at his core.

Time seemed to stretch, the silence thickening like a heavy fog as the challenge, the dare, lingered between them, filling the space with a tension that was impossible to ignore. 

Philip's words were not simply a taunt, they were a plea, they were a subtle hint as to how he had fallen from his mighty throne into the hollow man before him. 

With a long, slow exhale, Alexander turned to face his father as his eyes glowed with a fire that could ignite the very earth beneath them. 

When he spoke, his voice was so calm, so eerily, but beneath its surface, sat a current of power, a quiet storm of resolve that made the air itself tremble.

"I will show them."

As soon as the words left his mouth, the world around Alexander shifted, the mist pouring in around him as he seeped deeper into his own mind.

The powerful, confident form of the nineteen-year-old conqueror melted away, replaced by the frailty of his childhood body. 

His once strong, capable hands were now small and covered in cuts, streaks of red tracing his pale skin like the marks of some forgotten struggle. 

Bruises dotted his arms and legs, and his face, usually set in a steely expression of resolve, was now streaked with tears, his eyes wide with helplessness.

He stood there, a boy, a child who had once feared the very world that now surrounded him. 

One that felt far too big, too cruel. 

His stature shrank further with each passing moment, the once towering presence of Alexander now a trembling, vulnerable figure, consumed by his own insecurities. 

He felt small and weak, in need of someone to hold him, to soothe him.

"Alexander?"

The voice, soft and soothing, broke through the haze of his thoughts as he looked up to see Olympias, his mother, standing before him. 

She was as beautiful as ever, her presence radiant, a warm glow that seemed to pierce through the darkness of his emotions. 

Her face was etched with worry as she bent down to him, her eyes filled with a love that wrapped around him like a comforting embrace.

"Mother, I-" Alexander choked on his words, the shame of his vulnerability threatening to suffocate him. 

He wanted to say something, apologize for his weakness, for not being the man he had always been meant to become, but his voice cracked. 

He couldn't, for he was but a mere child again, lost in his own pain and grief of trying to be what others asked of him, but failing time and time again.

Alexander wasn't born a fighter, nor was he a great commander who stood at the forefront of legends past and present. 

At one point in time, he was simply a boy, one who had to learn, to struggle, to carve his name into the annals of history with blood and fire, one who had to cry.

But before he could say anything else, Olympias enveloped him in her arms, pulling him close. 

Her warmth was a soothing medicine to his fractured soul as she cooed softly, trying to ease his pain, her voice gentle and yet so tender.

"It's alright, it's alright~"

But Alexander's sobs only grew louder, his body shaking with the weight of his own internal torment as his cries echoed through the room.

"Why am I so weak?" Alexander whimpered, closing his eyes tightly, as if willing himself to disappear. 

The man who would conquer nations had been forged from this very weakness, a weakness that haunted him from the moment he could understand the world. 

A weakness that had stayed with him, even as he grew stronger, even as he forged his empire.

But here, in this moment, in the safety of his mother's embrace, he was a boy again, weak, fragile, and unsure of the power he so desperately sought.

"You're are not weak-"

"I am!" Alexander hissed through gritted teeth, his head ducked in shame, tears falling to the ground like raindrops as his breath hitched as his fists clenched at his sides. 

"Everyone else easily understands the way of the sword, the way to hold a spear and I-"

Sniff

"I fail every time-"

A soft, melodic chuckle broke through the anguish and Olympias, her voice warm and soothing, reached him like a lifeline, despite his struggle. 

"And that is your strength." Olypmpias spoke as if it was the easiest thing in the world, gazing towards her loving son who thought he heard wrong.

 "W-What?" Alexander jerked his head up, eyes wide with confusion.

"Others were born with strength, with talent, able to hold the weight of their power, but you, my darling Alexander, were born with something no other man before you has ever wielded." Olympias said sweetly, gazing down at him with affection, continued

"Will." Olympias said, her voice imbued with certainty, as if she had known it all along. 

"Will, a will that reaches towards the sun, you were given the strength of perseverance." Olympias lovingly said, gently holding his cheek and wiping away the last tear he would ever shed with her thumb.

Alexander's breath slowed, and for a brief moment, the storm within him quieted as he processed her words.

"Never forget that, my dear Alexander. Never forget to stand tall, to never give up."

Her words hung in the air, a balm to his wounded spirit and there, in his mother's embrace, the boy who had once been lost in doubt began to understand, strength wasn't just about wielding a sword or a spear. 

It was about pushing forward, no matter the odds, no matter how many times he stumbled. 

His will was his true weapon, unyielding, relentless, and far more dangerous than any blade or army.

This will was built upon humility, the understanding that he wasn't the strongest today, but he could be tomorrow. 

It wasn't arrogance that drove him, but the quiet recognition that strength wasn't something you were born with; it was something you earned, day by day, through struggle and growth.

They say Alexander the Great was born with everything, and that was true, he had all the tools available to him to become the conqueror who would terrify the known world.

But what set him apart from other figures in history was that he used those tools to their complete advantage. 

Where others might have faltered, used their royal heritage as a shield of negligence, Alexander harnessed every lesson, every hardship, and turned it into a stepping stone toward greatness.

Funneled it all towards his will.

From that point on, Alexander never cried again. 

His will became unbreakable, not at first, but forged from every callus that slowly formed over his hands, the scars that littered his skin, he persevered through the pain to forge himself into the deadliest weapon.

The boy who had once wept in the arms of his mother now stood unyielding, his gaze set toward the horizon, never flinching.

Days turned into nights, and yet, Alexander never stopped. 

He swung the sword with precision, held the spear with resolve, and shot arrows that cut through the air with the same certainty he had found within himself. 

His strength wasn't born of talent alone, it was carved from the relentless determination to push forward, to overcome, to rise no matter how many times he fell.

It wasn't merely his victories on the battlefield that made him great, it was the unyielding spirit within him, the will to conquer not just empires, but his own doubts and fears.

But a man's will can turn bloody just as fast.

"Master Aristotle, I-I can't." Alexander, now grown to the ripe age of thirteen, hesitated, looking away as the mist funneled him even deeper into his own mind.

Before him stood an old man, his mentor in the ways of life, now asking him to follow him into the place where his knowledge truly took root.

"You can't?" Aristotle's voice was sharp, challenging, as though questioning the very fabric of Alexander's resolve.

This man, the father of Western logic and the guiding hand behind many of history's greatest minds, was none other than Aristotle, Alexander's master, his mentor.

"You have arms?" Aristotle asked, his voice unwavering as he had a curious smile on his lips.

"Well, yes-" Alexander replied, feeling a bit unsure of where this conversation was headed.

"You have a will?"

"Yes, master, but-"

"And you have legs, capable of moving with those arms and that will?" Aristotle continued, his gaze sharp and steady while his smile stretched further.

"Yes, master." Alexander answered, confusion starting to give way to understanding.

"Then you can come to Kamar-Taj with me." Aristotle's words were simple, yet their weight felt profound, as if a door had opened before Alexander, one that led not just to a place, but to a destiny he had yet to fully comprehend.

"But my mother-" Alexander hesitated, his words trailing off as he lowered his head as his gaze fell to the ground, his mind torn between his duty and the future that lay before him. 

Aristotle, ever the calm and thoughtful mentor, closed his eyes, allowing the weight of silence to fill the space between them.

The quiet stretched, and for a moment, Alexander wasn't afraid of this unknown region, but the thought of leaving his mother all alone.

"Your Majesty, it's your mother!" An attendant rushed toward the young prince, breathless and wide-eyed. 

Panic flickered in the servant's movements, his urgency pulling Alexander's attention away from his mentor.

"She is having one of her bouts, and you are the only one who can calm her down," The attendant explained, his voice strained with concern as he bowed deeply at Alexander's feet, the posture of respect a stark contrast to the fear in his eyes.

"I-"

"Go," Aristotle said simply, nodding his head for he understood all too well.

Alexander bowed respectfully before him, following the attendant as Aristotle watched the boy depart with sad eyes.

CRASH

CRASH

Alexander's footsteps faltered as he approached the castle's private garden, the sound of his mother's shrill scream cutting through the air like a blade. 

His heart clenched, a familiar, unsettling mix of concern and frustration rising in his chest.

"DO YOU NOT GET IT? I GAVE BIRTH TO THE SON OF ZEUS, HIS FATHER IS NOT PHILIP, A MERE HUMAN!" Olympias' voice cracked, filled with fury and something far more tragic, delusion. 

Her words echoed against the stone walls, and a silver platter flew through the air, narrowly missing an attendant who scrambled to the side, cowering against the garden wall.

Alexander's gaze shifted toward the woman who had once been his pillar, his mother. 

The fierce, regal Olympias, who had once instilled in him the belief that he was destined for greatness, now stood before him in a twisted parody of that former glory. 

Her once-beautiful face was distorted by anger and madness, her wild hair cascading around her shoulders as if she were a goddess in the throes of divine wrath.

Her eyes, once filled with love and pride, now burned with something darker, a deep paranoia that consumed her, making her lash out at everyone around her, even those who loved her most.

The sight of her like this brought an ache to Alexander's chest, and for a brief moment, he saw not the great queen or the mother who had inspired him, but a woman lost, adrift in her own mind. 

Alexander's heart sank as Olympias spiraled further into madness as her once-eloquent words, the sharp commands of a queen, now twisted into incoherent ramblings that barely resembled the mother he had known.

"Mother." Alexander whispered again, his voice strained with helplessness, but Olympias paid it no mind.

"Oh, there he is, my darling Demi-god~" Olympias chuckled, her voice eerily light, as if she were speaking to an object, not a son. 

Her eyes flickered with something too wild, too untamed to be love, yet she tried to fill them with a forced emotion. 

Her head jerked suddenly, her ears brushing against a leaf, as if the wind were whispering things only she could hear.

"Come, come, to the trees, to the leaves, and hear their whispers of your greatness!" Olympias gestured erratically toward the plants in her garden, their vibrant life forcing itself into the scene with a vitality that bordered on unnatural. 

The leaves fluttered, as if moved by some unseen force, and the flowers seemed to stretch toward her like followers to a queen.

"They speak to me, they tell me that you are not of the blood of that weak Philip," Olympias raved, her voice rising to a fevered pitch. 

"But the blood of Zeus, THE PROMISED KING!" Olympias laughed then, a manic, hollow sound that rattled the very air. 

Her hands clawed at the space around her as if trying to clutch the very air, the leaves, the earth that held her together. 

"Mother, what you need is rest-" Alexander began, reaching out to gently pull her away from the maddened grasp of the trees but Olympias's mind snapped in that instant.

"NOOOOO!" Olympias shrieked, her voice high-pitched and filled with a manic desperation.

With a sudden burst of strength, she pushed Alexander aside, her frail body moving with surprising force as she lunged toward the trees.

"I-I NEED TO HEAR THE TALES, I NEED TO HEAR OF YOUR GREATNESS!" Olympias cried, her voice trembling with a crazed edge as her eyes began to overflow with tears, though they seemed as much a plea as a release.

"COME, come, let us hear them together~" Olympias spoke, her voice shifting from frenzied excitement to something softer, a fragile cry for help that Alexander could not ignore. 

Yet he stood frozen, his heart heavy with disappointment as he watched his mother unravel before him.

"I can't." The words left his mouth like a stone dropped into still water, heavy and final.

"What?" Olympias's face paled, her eyes wide in disbelief as the young Alexander felt incredibly uncomfortable and wanted to leave, from all of this, from all of his problems.

"I-I'm going to Kamar-Taj with my master, Aristotle." Alexander's statement hung in the air like an anchor, and for a moment, Olympias stood still, the wind rustling through the trees around them, whispering like a warning.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no-" Olympias's voice became frantic as she shook her head violently, her body trembling with the exertion of her own inner conflict with the winds crashing into her ears before she looked up at Alexander, her eyes wild, desperate.

"You can't leave." Olympias's voice turned cold, sharp, her gaze locking onto him with a deadly intensity. 

It was no longer the pleading look of a mother, but something darker, something protective in the most twisted form.

"YOU CAN'T LEAVE!" Olympias screamed, her voice tearing through the air like a blade.

Before Alexander could react, she lunged at him with a fierce, frantic dedication as he turned to face her, his eyes full of sorrow, but before he could speak, her hands were at his throat, tightening with an unnatural strength.

"YOU CAN'T LEAVE, YOU CAN'T LEAVE, YOU CAN'T LEAVE!" Olympias repeated, each word a choking command, her grip tightening around him as if she would never let him go.

Alexander gasped for air, his hands instinctively reaching to pry his mother's fingers from his throat. 

But when he gazed up, upon the madness looming in her eyes, there was this subtle hint of desperation so raw it felt untouchable, something he couldn't fight. 

It was as if losing him would mean losing the last bit of herself, that last shred of sanity.

He tried to push her away, to break free, but the love he had once seen in her eyes, now twisted with so much hate, made him falter. 

The image of her love, however warped, kept him from striking back against his own mother.

"Sleep."

The words came out soft, almost a whisper, and in an instant, his mother's body went limp, collapsing toward the ground. 

Alexander caught her, cradling her gently in his arms, but his gaze turned upward toward Philip as his hand stretched out in a silent plea.

Philip met his son's eyes for the briefest moment. 

It wasn't anger that flickered in Philip's eyes, it was something far more unsettling: resignation. 

An empty, hollow look that spoke volumes, somehow torn as though he wanted to say something, but the words never came. 

Instead, he turned away, walking with heavy steps, his back retreating further from Alexander.

"Leave."

The word was final, hollow and with that, Philip was gone, leaving Alexander alone with the weight of his mother's fragile form in his arms as he lowered his gaze.

"Yes, Father."

Alexander's words echoed through the air, heavy with anger and frustration as a firm hand settled on his shoulder, grounding him as Aristotle's calm presence beckoned him away, pulling him into the next memory.

The mist swirled around Alexander's figure, his senses overwhelmed by the disorienting effects.

Aristotle, ever the steady presence, gently guided him forward, trying to help him stay grounded as the fog thickened around them. 

Meanwhile, the attendants rushed to his mother, lifting her gently to carry her back to her dwelling, concerned for her well-being. 

Alexander took a hesitant step, and the mist reverberated around him, distorting his perception further as it seemed to come alive, curling and shifting in unnatural patterns.

In an instant, they were transported to another moment, one where Alexander stood behind his father, the weight of his rage consuming him. 

His young belief in justice and rightness surged as he swiped his hands through the air, the air thick with tension.

"HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN? HOW COULD YOU GIVE AWAY MY SISTER TO THAT FIEND WHO'S TRYING TO USURP YOUR RULE!" Alexander's voice cracked with fury, his golden aura flaring around him like a firestorm.

Philip stood, unmoving, gazing out at the empire he had built, now feeling as if it were nothing more than a playground for forces beyond his control. 

His eyes were distant, as if he had already checked out from the very reality his son fought so desperately to protect.

"It doesn't matter, nothing matters." Philip's voice was cold, devoid of any fire, any will, any strength, and when the wine cup slipped from his hand, it fell with a dull thud, unnoticed. 

His gaze shifted skyward, as though searching for something beyond the earth beneath his feet, something that was beyond his reach, beyond anything that Alexander could understand.

"FATHER, WHY-"

"I am not your father, boy." Philip's voice hissed through clenched teeth, his words sharp and venomous. 

He turned abruptly, and Alexander staggered back, recoiling as though struck as the truth in his father's tone cut deeper than any blow could.

"What are you-" Alexander took a step forward, desperate for some kind of explanation, but before he could get any further, Philip's attention was drawn to a flicker of movement at the edge of the terrace.

A shadow, creeping slowly and with deadly intent, an assassin climbing silently toward them.

It was a split second, a brief moment in time, but Philip's hollow gaze shifted, catching the movement with unnatural precision. 

His eyes met the assassin's, then locked onto his son but before Alexander could react, Philip's instinct kicked in, almost instinctively.

In an instant, he shoved Alexander away with all the force he could muster, throwing him off balance.

SPLAT

The sound of metal sinking deep into flesh was sickening as Alexander's body hit the ground hard, and his eyes widened in shock, unable to comprehend what had just happened. 

Only to look up in horror, his breath catching in his throat as an assassin's sword had not struck him, but his father.

"NOOOOOOOOOOO!" Alexander's scream shattered the air, his voice raw with agony, the sound of it echoing in the chaos of the moment. 

His body surged with energy, a golden aura radiating outwards as his spear cleaved through the air.

The assassin barely had time to react before his head was severed cleanly from his body, his form crumpling to the ground but the act of vengeance came too late.

Philip was already falling into the cruel grasp of death.

"Father, FATHER!" Alexander cried, desperation coating every syllable as he dropped to his knees beside the dying man. 

His hands, glowing with golden light, reached toward him, but Philip, with all the strength he could muster, grasped his wrist.

"I am not your father, b-but-" Philip's words were strained, his voice ragged and broken. 

His hollow eyes, once so distant, now flickered with something Alexander had never expected to see again, love.

COUGH

COUGH

Blood spilled from his mouth, staining his lips as he shuddered, his body failing since despite the pain, Philip's face softened into a pained smile. 

His hand, trembling with the weight of his own death, reached up to touch Alexander's cheek gently.

"You will always be my son."

Alexander was left speechless, watching Philip's hand fall limply as his blood stained his hands.

HUFF

HUFF

HUFF

Alexander's breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes, once young and full of ambition, now burned with the fiery rage of vengeance. 

The golden light that once radiated from him flared wildly, now twisted and corrupted by the blood of his father. 

His hands trembled with the weight of the world, dripping with blood, as his soul fought to contain the storm brewing within him.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

The roar ripped from his throat, a sound so guttural it seemed to tear the very air around him as the world around him dissolved into a swirling vortex of blood. 

The sky darkened as every scream, every tortured face, every drop of innocent blood that had been spilled in his wake, spiraled around him and his mind shattered under the weight of it all.

His father's limp body was caught in the chaos, swept up by the torrent of his rage, a grim reminder of the moment that had led him here.

The bodies of the fallen, the faces of the kingdoms he had conquered, surrounded him. 

The winds of his fury howled as the tornado of destruction and hatred wrapped around him, pulling him into its eye, drowning him, suffocating him with the consequences of his actions.

Alexander's eyes burned with madness as he gazed down at his own hands as they were stained, soaked with the blood of countless lives. 

Ashes from the ruined kingdoms fluttered in the air, their faces flickering like ghostly memories.

In the next moment, the tornado collapsed in on him, pulling him deeper into its fury, drowning his conscience, smothering any remnants of the man he once was. 

In the end, all that remained was one thing, pure, unrelenting hatred.

The mist faded, slipping away like a forgotten dream, and Alexander's mind was plunged into a memory. 

His hands trembled as he stared at them, the blood staining his palms, dark and warm. 

The sound of ringing filled his ears, drowning out everything else, a relentless hum that blurred the world around him. 

Yet one voice remained.

"Alexander~" The voice cooed again, its sweet tone dripping with venom as it curled around him like a snake, slithering through his thoughts, twisting them into knots. 

Two cold, green hands rested on his shoulders, the touch like ice against his armor.

"Alexander~"

The name was spoken again, but this time, it was laced with something darker, something more sinister. 

The dread within him grew heavier, like a stone sinking deep in his stomach as his fists tightened, the blood still staining his palms, but it wasn't enough to wash away the crushing weight of that voice.

"Alexander."

"Alexander!"

"ALEXANDER!"

"Huh?" ALexander said, looking up only to see Ricky weirdly looking at him after they exited the Valley Of Whispering Mists.

"Are you okay, man? You've been quiet for like, two hours." Ricky said, his voice laced with concern as he noticed Alexander muttering to himself, completely distant.

Cough

"Yes, I am quite alright!" Alexander let out a hearty laugh, masking the turmoil beneath with a thin veil of assurance, concealing the deep scars within him that had yet to fully heal.

"Alright man, if you say so." Ricky said, looking forward as Alexander remained quiet, staring up at the huge castle enshrouded in a thick barrier.

Alexander had been so out of it that they had already reached the famous Castle Le Fey, and now, everyone was waiting. 

The convoy stood watch as Ricky took a step forward. Morgana, in her true form, sat on her balcony, observing the scene with a fierce intensity.

This was it. All the effort she had poured into freeing herself had led to this moment, and it felt surreal to see one of her greatest enemies willingly release her. But she didn't complain.

For today would be remembered in the future of Camelot, the day Morgana was finally free from her prison.

"You ready?" Ricky asked Morgana, looking up while unsheathing the ebony blade.

"I've only been waiting a couple centuries," Morgana lightly joked, though there was an undeniable urgency in her tone, the desire to step foot outside her castle almost palpable.

"Well, a deal is a deal," Ricky said, raising a smile as his sword crackled with a red intensity.

"Here goes nothing."

Meanwhile In New York,

"What if we tighten the budget-"

"No, we absolutely need this to rework the ventilation system," Chores said, sighing heavily as he stood before none other than the CFO, Samuel Frost.

"We don't have enough. We need to cut or pause its construction," Samuel pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly frustrated as he hated being in this position, but it seemed they had no choice.

Usually, when they needed more funds, they'd turn to Ricky, who had the uncanny ability to pull out bars of gold from thin air.

Ricky's wealth seemed endless, stored away in his mysterious pocket dimensions. 

He'd already invested $10 million in cash into the company, propping it up in the face of numerous setbacks and of the 450 gold bars he'd taken from that Sicilian fault, he'd used 15 already.

But to Samuel's disappointment, Ricky had to leave, as he always did, leaving him and Chores to deal with the lingering setbacks of the company.

Though, it was hard to complain too much since every time he looked at his paycheck, the large sums staring back at him kept his complaints in check. 

It was a difficult balance between frustration and gratitude, but the pay was more than enough to keep him pushing forward, dealing with the problems that Ricky often left behind.

"What if we move things around-"

"Chores, Slick already told us that the workers cannot be touched, and the construction on your combination of those four sectors into one mass production cycle is heavily siphoning our funds." Samuel revealed, watching Chores chuckle and rub the back of his neck.

"How much-"

"It's 65%, the workers are 20%, and the other 15% is on all the equipment that we are overspending on to expedite the shipping process." Samuel adjusted his glasses, handing Chores a piece of paper as he bit his lip.

The ventilation system was a big aspect in their plans since it wasn't just about providing fresh air; it was crucial to the overall efficiency of the entire operation. 

With the new production cycle integrating multiple sectors, air quality was an essential factor in maintaining optimal conditions for the workers. 

Chores wanted to revolutionize what America thought of factories, a vision that Ricky threw money at,

But without it, in his plan, the machinery could overheat, the workers could become fatigued more quickly, and the entire system could collapse under its own weight.

But that wasn't all, the ventilation system also had a strategic purpose beyond just function. 

It was tied to security, keeping certain areas sealed off and limiting access as the design had been carefully laid out to ensure that no one could tamper with sensitive operations, especially when dealing with large investments like the gold bars Ricky had put into the project.

As much as Samuel could see the potential, he couldn't ignore the growing pressure on their budget.

"I'm sorry Chores, I really am since I know how much work you've been putting into this but I can't-"

"No, no, you're not at fault." Chores rubbed his face, tapping the table they were both sitting at since right now, he was in Samuel's office.

"It's my fault, I shouldn't have started right when Ricky left but just waited." Chores shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose since this was really important ot him.

This factory, this company, it was Chores' way of proving himself. 

It wasn't just a business venture; it was his declaration to Ricky, to everyone around him, that those long years spent refining himself with Daedalus research, his studies, and the Covens alchemy department hadn't been in vain. 

Chores was ready. 

Ready to stand on his own, to take the world by storm, to show that he could do something significant, something that mattered not to the people around him, but to the world.

Chores was ambitious, young, and burning with a relentless drive. 

His desire to prove his worth was palpable in every action, every decision but there was an unsettling impatience beneath his ambition. 

He wanted to be great now, to show everyone immediately what he was capable of, and that need to prove himself often led him to push harder than anyone else could understand. 

It wasn't that he didn't believe in the process; it was that he believed he could push past the waiting, the refining, and leap straight into the outcome. 

He wanted it all, right now.

And yet, he always needed more time. 

More time to refine the designs, more time to perfect the plans, more time to comb through Daedalus' research to improve his blueprints. 

Time was something Chores never seemed to have enough of, and that troubled those around him. 

People, especially those closest to him, could see the strain building in his shoulders, the sleepless nights, the obsessive energy that consumed him. 

But Ricky, always the steady force, believed in him. 

Ricky had faith in Chores' potential, even if the path wasn't as straightforward as they all hoped.

Lucky, the back, the Luciano family, and literally everyone else warned that it was reckless, that throwing money into the project without fully knowing the outcome was a dangerous gamble. 

But to Ricky, that money in the storage system was just that, money sitting there, unused. 

And sitting idle was worse than anything as he would rather put it to work, invest it, invest in Chores dreams.

But that complete trust was almost burdening Chores.

Chores wanted to prove to Ricky that he was right, that his trust wasn't wasted on him, and it was slowly killing him.

Chores would spend hours that turned into days, days into months, as he tirelessly honed every detail, refined every blueprint, and yet it was never enough. 

He could always see something more, some flaw, something else to improve.

What was supposed to be a testament to his capability had, ironically, become his greatest burden. 

Because no matter how much time he spent, no matter how much he poured into the work, Chores couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't yet perfect, and he wouldn't stop until it was.

"Just give me more time, just a little bit more time," Chores pleaded with Samuel, his voice softening as he watched the cold man sigh heavily.

Though others saw Samuel as distant and harsh, Chores had always felt a sense of camaraderie with him. 

Despite Samuel's unapproachable demeanor, the two had developed a strong working relationship, and Chores respected him more than he let on.

"Two weeks, I can spare you two weeks, nothing more." Samuel said, rubbing his forehead since that was all the time he could spare.

"I promise Samuel, I'll find the money and-"

Knock

Knock

"Grandma?" Samuel suddenly asked, the knocking of the door interrupting Chores who turned back to see his gradman, Morgana Frost.

"Hello dear-ah, am I interrupting something?" Morgana asked, smiling lightly before her cold eyes reflected the image of Chores.

"Yes Grandma, I'm currently talking with my boss-"

"Oh, no, it's no trouble." Chores suddenly held up his big hands, chuckling slightly while backing up.

"Chores, we still need to go over the rest of the budget-"

"Later, go be with your grandma." Chores smiled, warmly gesturing towards Morgana who waved at Sameul who pinched the bridge of his nose.

"And besides, I need to deliver dinner for Barko anyway since he never leaves his lab," Chores added, shaking his head. Samuel frowned but nodded in understanding.

"Fine, but don't miss the 5 o'clock ferry," Samuel warned, raising a finger at him as Chores gave a light smile, nodding back before turning to leave.

"Who is that dear, your friend?" Morgana asked, a tinge of hope in her voice as Samuel looked down at a couple of papers.

"Something like that." Samuel nodded, causing Morgana to smile since to her knowledge, Samuel doesn't have any friends.

Samuel had always been an isolated soul, closed off from all forms of interaction, his focus consumed by his studies. 

So, seeing him form a connection with someone, especially someone like Chores, genuinely brought a sense of relief. 

It was rare for Samuel to let his guard down, and the fact that he had begun to trust and work alongside Chores meant something, even if he didn't always show it.

"Grandma, I really need to finish-"

"Dear, I really need to speak with you," Morgana said, her gaze unwavering as Samuel furrowed his brows and looked up at her.

"Then-"

"Not here," Morgana interrupted, opening a portal and gesturing for Samuel to follow as he let out a light sigh, not exactly eager, but knowing that it was best to get whatever this was over with.

"Fine, but I cannot stay for long," Samuel said, standing up and walking toward the portal as he stepped through, he was met with an odd scene.

Before him stood his mother, father, aunt, brothers, sisters, cousins, all of them clad in golden robes, each marked with a distinct symbol, one only found at the gates of Camelot. 

The sight made Samuel freeze, his mind racing to process the meaning behind this unexpected gathering.

"What is this-"

"Hello, young Samuel," An orb placed at the center of the mass congregation spoke gleefully revealing itself to be Merlyn, its voice carrying a strange, unsettling warmth. 

Samuel turned his head, his heart skipping a beat as he saw his grandmother slowly donning a golden robe, her presence somehow more commanding than he remembered.

"We have much to discuss."

Author's Note: I f*cked up in eariler chaps and forgot that Alexander's mentor wasn't Socrates but Aristole, mb and I'm sorry if their was any confusion