Epilogue - Arc 1

In the heart of the vast Empire of Algorythia—beyond the constant skirmishes on its borders with the Kingdom, beyond the bustling port cities driven by trade and the mines tearing rare minerals from the earth's depths—stood Dijkstra, the capital. A city that was not only the administrative center but the perfect node from which roads branched out to every corner of the empire.

Founded atop terrain inexplicably divided into rectangular and square blocks, Dijkstra seemed to have been shaped not by erosion or human hands, but by some ancient and precise force. A logic that defied natural chaos. Its streets and buildings rested on massive stone platforms, each at a different elevation, as if the city had been sculpted by an invisible chisel following a hidden pattern.

From the sky, Dijkstra resembled a mosaic of uneven levels: an urban puzzle where temples, markets, and hanging gardens sat atop raised terraces, connected by gentle ramps or steep staircases. A vast network of aqueducts ran through the city like a circuit, delivering water to all sectors. No one knew who—or what—had created this segmentation. No natural law explained its structure, but after generations, its existence had become dogma.

At the peak of this irregular city rose the Central Palace of Algorythia, a structure so vast it was often compared to a small city itself. Not only was it notable for its size, but also for its intricate design: sprawling corridors, overlapping levels, hidden chambers, and routes that intertwined unpredictably.

Even those who had worked there for years often found themselves lost in its more remote wings.

Down one of those corridors—made of dark marble and absent from all official maps—walked a man whose very presence seemed to tense the silence around him.

He wore a heavy black coat, long enough to brush his calves, moving like liquid shadow with each step. His gait was as silent as it was precise. Obsidian-black hair, perfectly combed, framed a serene yet unyielding face. His eyes, with vertical pupils like a reptile's, glowed with a supernatural gleam beneath the corridor's dim light.

He was Seredh Vantarel, Second Seat of the Rootaris. One of the six pillars of the empire's military power. A name almost no one dared speak—and even fewer understood. His figure embodied the throne's absolute will: where he appeared, the imperial decision became unbreakable law.

He stopped before a smooth, white stone wall—unadorned, featureless. With precise motion, he pressed two fingers to a tiny bump, barely visible. A soft click answered. Then another. A square panel slid backward with the sigh of ancient air, revealing a dark hatch.

Beyond it, there was only shadow.

A hunched figure emerged from the faint smoke, outlined by a bluish light that had no visible source. The silhouette of an old man... or something resembling one. Shrouded in mist, barely human, barely present.

"Have you heard anything?" Seredh asked, his voice as soft as the edge of a dagger.

"No more than what you already know," the old man replied, his voice dragging as if it came from very far away. "But if the Emperor has summoned all the Rootaris... then the balance has begun to shift."

His tone had a hint of playfulness, as if speaking to an old friend who enjoyed cruel jokes.

"Such shifts in balance are part of my daily routine. You know what I mean," Seredh replied, his voice calm, almost enigmatic.

The old man leaned closer to the opening.

"You're referring to that new prophecy from the Optim Council, aren't you? That again... I suppose even you need some tale to keep you entertained through the decades. Hahaha..."

"You should know better than anyone. If we took every prophecy seriously, the Empire would've collapsed at least ten... no, a hundred times."

"Who knows, maybe this time is different—"

"Different?" the old man echoed, curious.

"Just a hunch."

"Intuition, huh?" the old man repeated, letting the echo of the word float for a few seconds. "Well then... Want to know why everyone's been summoned this time? The fronts with the Kingdom are heating up more than usual. Maybe the Emperor is already thinking of settling this once and for all. Who knows what scheme is spinning in that head of his now..."

"You think he'll deploy us offensively? You know that's not within the terms of my contract."

"He hasn't discussed it with me," the old man replied with a faint chuckle, "so probably not... though he's been more restless than usual lately. Let's hope he doesn't get himself in trouble again. I don't have the energy I used to for cleaning up his messes... though it does bring back memories."

"By the way," he added mischievously, "looks like I'm going to win our little bet."

"There's still time... so who knows," Seredh murmured. "There are no secrets that don't eventually come to light."

"Hahaha... still a sore loser, as always, old friend."

Without another word, Seredh pressed the hidden mechanism again. The wall closed with a soft whisper of sliding stone. The passage fell silent.

It was time to move forward.

Seredh stopped in front of the double doors of the imperial hall. Made of polished black wood and covered with arcane engravings, they were the threshold to the heart of power. He took a deep breath... and opened them.

The throne room was majestic. Pillars of black crystal held up the golden vault, and every detail seemed crafted with a perfection that bordered on the unreal. There, before him, stood four other figures.

Beings who could not be ignored. Their mere presence was oppressive.

Creaaak. Creeeak.

A deep voice echoed from the back of the chamber.

"You're late, Seredh. That's not like you," said an imposing figure, clad in armor so thick it looked like a living war furnace.

Perseverance. Brutality. Trauma.

George Stack Ironveil, Fourth Seat of the Rootaris, spoke with a calmness that weighed more than the steel of his armor. The grinding from within his suit echoed like breaking bones, as if unease—or withdrawal—compelled him to make involuntary tics with his own body. Because of these traits, he was known as "The Witherer" on the battlefield.

Each step from the armored George made the plates groan as if an old war machine were slowly awakening. His presence filled the room like the echo of a forgotten war.

"Come on, come on... don't be so harsh on him. A little change in rigid Seredh isn't so bad once in a while."

The carefree voice was like a gentle breeze in a field of corpses. It came from a young man leaning casually against a column, with dark horns peeking through his messy hair. His relaxed air clashed with the latent tension in the room.

Instinct. Freedom. Kindness.

Teyver Wildtrack, Sixth Seat of the Rootaris, smiled as if he were chatting beside a campfire instead of standing in the imperial throne room.

"That 'change' only wastes our time. He could avoid it during important meetings."

From a corner, a female voice cut through the atmosphere like a knife. She was a young elf with black hair, long ears, and dark garments. Her expression was harsh, her tone bitter.

Cynicism. Lethality. Resentment.

Velka, Fifth Seat of the Rootaris, observed everything with a mix of contempt and vigilance. She didn't seem interested in pleasing anyone.

"Don't be so heartless, Velka," Teyver replied in a relaxed tone, shrugging. "After all, Seredh wasn't even the last to arrive..."

Velka didn't respond. She simply raised a finger and pointed at the empty air, as if she knew exactly what was about to happen.

At that moment, a magic circle manifested where she pointed. Flames danced in the center of the room, first forming a silhouette, then defined features, and finally, an entire figure emerged from the combustion.

Teyver was caught off guard. Not even he had anticipated that entrance.

Golden hair. A dress red as fire. A refined bearing. An aura that smelled of expensive incense and scrolls sealed in gold.

Elegance. Ambition. Greed.

Althena Cache Goldfix, Third Seat of the Rootaris, made her appearance upon that fiery circle as if she were stepping onto a stage in the imperial theater.

"Hm... you're late, Seredh," she said with a sharp smile, eyes like porcelain daggers. "Trying to compete with me for the last to arrive? I'm sorry, dear, but that title is mine by natural decree."

Her voice had the exact cadence of a noblewoman trained from the cradle to dazzle, command, and humiliate all at once.

Before Seredh could respond, a deeper, soft, and strangely serene voice interrupted.

"Silence. The emperor will arrive soon."

There was no one in the hall who didn't recognize that voice, nor a soul who dared contradict it.

The young male voice did not shout, yet it shook the air.

Feral nature. Silence. Loyalty.

Sasha Thornprax Portus, First Seat of the Rootaris, spoke with narrowed eyes, as if each word were a sentence. Tall, young, and savagely imposing, his figure resembled that of a feline statue, ready to pounce at any moment. His face remained serene—not due to lack of emotion, but because his soul had been trained to transcend them.

His pointed ears and white tiger tail were not mere ornaments. They were marks of a meticulously engineered heritage.

The House of Thornprax, one of the most feared and revered bloodlines in the Empire, was renowned for its strict practice of selective breeding. For generations, they had sought to pair only the strongest, the most skilled, the most efficient.

The result: elite warriors capable of sweeping away entire squadrons with their mere presence.

And Sasha was the pinnacle of that lineage. The strongest being in the empire.

The silence that followed his words was as heavy as molten lead.

Then, Seredh took one more step forward.

And all the Rootaris were gathered.

The hall was steeped in solemn stillness.

And then, the silence broke.

"He's not coming," Althena replied.

"That's our Emperor," grunted George Stack Ironveil, his voice as coarse as metal scraping stone. "He makes us wait longer than it takes to conquer a city."

Sasha didn't reply. He merely glanced sideways at him, as if the words had weight... but no purpose.

"Waiting is no punishment if one uses it to reflect," said Seredh Vantarel calmly, hands clasped behind his back. "This meeting will shape the course of the Empire. It is only natural that the Emperor takes his time."

"Reflect?" Althena Cache Goldfix interjected, crossing one leg over the other as she smoothed an invisible crease on her scarlet dress. "Such an expensive word. Some of us have financial empires to manage in addition to the military one."

Teyver Wildtrack let out a small laugh.

"Oh come on, Althena. You're minting gold even while breathing. Can't you take a day off?"

"Unlike you, I don't spend my days petting wolves in the mountains," she replied with a cutting smile.

"I don't pet them. I train them. Which is more than I can say for some nobles who only train their accountants," Teyver shot back, still as casual as ever.

From one of the corners, leaning against a pillar, Velka sighed, arms crossed.

"Can we stop with the salon chatter? I came here to hear orders, not witness an ego contest."

George turned his helmet slightly toward her.

"Coming from you, that sounds ironic. Orders, you say? Don't you mean... steal them? With those long ears of yours, you must catch every whisper in the Empire. Forest bitch."

A pause.

The atmosphere shifted.

What had been sarcasm now turned into something sharp—tense, edged, lethal.

The air grew thick. The jokes died.

"Got something to say, Witherer? Say it to my face," Velka snapped, unmoving.

"I don't need to say a thing. The facts speak for themselves. Even you must've heard what's been going on in the south... with your kind."

Velka faced him head-on. Not a single step back.

"They're not my kind. I don't care what they do. Or are you even want to blame me for the losses in the skirmishes with the Kingdom? The ones you led—where you lost men like breadcrumbs."

"Spare me the stories. No one's buying your act. Once a traitor, always a traitor. Until they take your head. We should toss this filthy rat out before she poisons the Empire's secrets."

Velka took a single step forward. Just one. But it was enough to make the tension stretch like a rope about to snap.

"One more word, and we'll see how much blood you can lose before you stop talking."

Teyver raised both hands, uneasy, in a conciliatory gesture.

"Hey, hey... How about we save the threats for our enemies? It's not like we're short on those, right?"

George didn't move, but the tension in his shoulders said enough.

Velka didn't either.

Althena rolled her eyes and let out a frustrated sigh.

"Pathetic. I almost expected more class from the high seats."

Seredh, for his part, simply observed. His expression was the same as always—impassive, like a statue carved by the centuries.

Then Sasha spoke.

"Enough."

It wasn't a shout. It was a decree.

And as if his voice had pulled the very air out of the room, everyone fell silent.

"The Emperor is about to enter."

And at that very moment...

The doors at the far end of the hall opened slowly.

Immediately, a deep rumble echoed through the room. The windows, bathed in sunlight just moments ago, were suddenly plunged into darkness. As if twilight had fallen to its knees before a greater will, night descended. The torches and candles lit themselves, one by one.

A faint aroma drifted through the air. Incense, burnt metal... and a dry whisper of old blood.

All the Rootaris knelt without hesitation, with a respect laced with devotion.

And then they saw him.

Power. Dominion. Madness.

Poynterion Algorithm Althean Caelum.

Eternal Emperor of Algorythia.

He moved forward with slow steps, hunched over, leaning on an obsidian staff carved with ancient symbols. His figure resembled that of an old man on the brink of collapse, and yet, his mere presence filled the room like an eclipse.

His skin, thin as parchment desiccated by centuries, barely seemed to contain the energy within his body. His hair, long, white, and tangled, hung down like rotting roots over his shoulders. His eyes, with no defined color, opaque like curdled milk, burned without flame: a brilliant, mad spark—the gaze of one who has seen too much... and still keeps watching.

When he spoke, his voice was an ancient murmur: a forgotten prayer, recited by a dying machine.

—Good, Good... I see you have answered the call, Rootaris. Whole... more or less.

His gaze danced over them, slow, inquisitive, as if stripping their souls with each blink. His fingers trembled, spasmodic, gesturing theatrically, as though caressing the strings of a shadow theater.

—The kingdoms tremble... the races stir... and nature yawns with a hangover. What divine asymmetry. What sweet disorder. Chaos. Order. Outcome.

Anyone could have mistaken him for a senile old man. But the Rootaris knew. Beneath that facade lay the sharpest mind on the continent. And for that reason, none dared to interrupt him.

—The purpose of this meeting... —he continued, raising one hand— is none other than to assign you the role you shall play in the next act of this world.

Althena Cache Goldfix, always a step ahead of the melody, inclined her head slightly, as if she had already divined the correct question before it could be spoken.

With a sharp smile, she asked:

—What is the title of this new scene, Your Majesty?

The emperor burst into sudden, shrill, grotesque laughter that bounced off the marble walls like an empty shell.

—Ha, ha, ha, ha! Good, good... Althena, my dear great-granddaughter... the imperial blood still sings in your marrow. How wonderful. Let's see... this act shall be called...

He paused, savoring the air.

—"The Fall of the Kingdom."

A heavy silence followed his words. A symbolic chill seemed to settle over the hall. Everyone understood the weight those words carried. After all, the emperor's metaphors always became reality.

Poynterion always spoke in riddles: in acts, in tales, in theatrical metaphors. Not just as a defense mechanism against betrayal—since it cast doubt on the veracity of the information—but because he also found it romantic to do so.

—The Convergence of the Eclipse —he said, naming the meeting— to be held at the druidic sanctuary, in two months' time... There, the Empire shall play its card: a ravenous seed will be planted in its depths, and before it blooms, the Kingdom shall have already bled dry. There will be no need to spill a single drop of wine... to fill the empty vessel.

He laughed again, a laugh that seemed to carry echoes.

Then George, the Fourth Rootari, requested to speak, his voice as heavy as his armor.

—Your Excellency... why not lay siege to the Kingdom directly? We have enough military assets to crush it twice over. What sense is there in keeping the lines... frozen?

The emperor looked at him. A gaze both empty and devastating.

—Ha... ha... ha... Foolish, foolish... so foolish.

So blind. So crude. So petty. So erratic. So wrong. So imprecise. So ridiculous. So irresponsible.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

So... boring.

Where is the art in a move painted in only one color?

He reclined slightly on his throne.

Even in chess, the simplest players seek only checkmate. But true strategists know that elegance lies in subtlety: to win without moving the queen, to bring about collapse with a single nudge, to let the enemy stumble on their own. To think that defeating a rival is enough to win... is to ignore that there are always more enemies on the board, waiting for their turn.

—Do you think I have sat here for over a century... just to win?

Do you believe my finger points at the map like someone rolling dice?

No. I do not seek victory. I seek meaning. An entertaining world. A memorable story.

Poynterion slowly raised his staff and concluded, with a crooked smile:

—In the end, the victors write history. But tell me, George... isn't it better to carve a truth with a sword... than write a lie with a pen?

—I... I apologize for my naivety, Your Majesty.

—Good, Good —said the emperor, releasing a laugh that seemed to rise from a rusted throat—. I won't blame a warrior for thinking like a warrior. Ha, ha, ha! Good, good...

Silence fell like a heavy cloak after his laughter.

And then, with slow, ceremonial movements, the Emperor raised a bony, trembling hand.

"Well then, Rootaris—chosen of the Empire—it is time I show you your paths," he whispered with a voice that seemed to come from a deep, bottomless well.

"Now, listen to the wind among the ruins of tomorrow... for there, your roles lie hidden."

His gaze drifted first toward Seredh Vantarel, the Second Seat.

The old emperor inclined his head slightly.

"To you, sentinel of ancient promises, I grant the keys to the mausoleum. Remain. Watch. Not for me... but for him. Should he ever awaken... let it be without haste.

The palace is your cathedral. Your prison. Your trench."

Without needing a gesture, Seredh bowed his head even lower. He obeyed.

Poynterion slowly turned his face toward Sasha Thornprax Portus, the First Rootari.

"Son of strength, I send you to the cold whisper of the North. There, bonds are sweet and treacherous like honey.

Go, walk the thin ice, and listen for cracks... before it breaks."

The semi-human figure nodded solemnly.

Then, the emperor's eyes found the Fourth Seat—George Stack Ironveil.

"The withered iron hammer, you will follow the dance you already know. Do not change the tempo. Do not rush the climax.

Kings love masks... so smile at them while you sharpen the knife beneath the table.

And when the music stops... deliver them their nightmare."

George did not answer with words. He only clenched his fists inside his gauntlets.

"My granddaughter of gold and ash..." he said almost affectionately, looking at Althena Cache Goldfix.

"There's a mouse at court chewing on the threads of the loom.

Hunt. Smell. Disguise your intentions with perfume and power.

If you find it... don't kill it yet. Let its echo lure other cheese-lovers."

Althena offered a sharp smile.

"As you command, Your Majesty."

Poynterion then turned to the Sixth Seat—Teyver Wildtrack.

"Shepherd of teeth and claws... the East roars. The clouds have already begun to bleed.

Go. Silence their nests. Make them forget how to fly."

Teyver scratched his chin, relaxed but no less attentive. He gave a subtle nod.

At last, his colorless eyes settled on Velka—the Fifth Rootari.

"Thorn without a garden... two months ago, a raven brought word from the South: the duke, torn from his seat like a weed among stone.

Since then, we've sent eyes... none returned to see.

Now we know who holds the city: pointed ears, southern winds."

Poynterion leaned forward slightly, with a slowness that bordered on painful.

"So tell me, Velka... are you still with us? Or do you whisper with your kin among the trees?"

A pause.

"Go south. Enter unseen. And bring me the head of their leader.

Let there be no doubt where your roots truly bloom."

Her shadow seemed to grow denser, sharper. With a resentment almost tangible, Velka responded to the emperor's command:

"As your wish your Majesty, Those foolish, spoiled elves of the South... leave them to me."

And with that, the gathering of the Rootaris came to an end.

End of the Epilogue.

Character Information

🩸 Runa (Kobayashi Arata)

🪶 Nicknames: Chief, Princess, Bloodthirsty Elf of the South

📏 Height: 162 cm

⚖️ Weight: 47 kg

🎂 Age: 27

🌿 Race: Elf

🚺 Gender: Female

📊 Attributes (with full equipment)

💪 Strength: 63/100

🏃 Agility: 77/100

🛡️ Constitution: 60/100

📚 Arcane: 7/100

🔥 Willpower: 20/100

✨ Sacred: 33/100

🌑 Abyssal: 0/100

🍀 Luck: 51/100

⚖️ Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

🧠 Mindset: 60% Pessimistic / 40% Optimistic

🖋️ Description

An extremely strong elf with the traits of a warrior. She has white hair and red eyes; her beauty stands out even among elves. She possesses knowledge from another world but lacks basic understanding of this one.

Due to her peculiar situation and natural selfishness, she seeks to reach the pinnacle of power to satisfy her hunger for freedom. She is not a villain, but neither is she a savior.

🧬 Traits

🎲 Gambler

⚡ +Initiative

🐍 --Cynical

🗡️ +Leadership

🪞 -Selfish

🌌 +Transmigrant

🩸 Roderick Holder

🪶 Nicknames: Commander

📏 Height: 182 cm

⚖️ Weight: 95 kg

🎂 Age: 29

🌿 Race: Human

🚹 Gender: Male

📊 Attributes

💪 Strength: 24/100

🏃 Agility: 17/100

🛡️ Constitution: 20/100

📚 Arcane: 7/100

🔥 Willpower: 11/100

✨ Sacred: 8/100

🌑 Abyssal: 0/100

🍀 Luck: 25/100

⚖️ Alignment: Neutral Good

🧠 Mindset: 40% Realistic / 40% Optimistic / 20% Pessimistic

🖋️ Description

Former commander of the city of Bytea. Born as an ordinary villager, he dreamed of becoming one of the strongest in the empire. He trained tirelessly until a semi-human warrior took him under her wing and subjected him to an extreme regimen, shaping him into an elite officer. However, routine and lack of progress caused him to abandon his ambitions... until an unexpected event reignited his inner fire. Now, though aware of his limits, his will to improve has been rekindled.

🧬 Traits

+Tenacious

+Alert

-Alcoholic

+Military Experience

-Loyal

🩸 Zami (Velka)

🪶 Nicknames: Fifth Rootari, Absolute Assassin, Thorn Without a Garden

📏 Height: 180 cm

⚖️ Weight: 72 kg

🎂 Age: 65

🌿 Race: Elf

🚺 Gender: Female

📊 Attributes

💪 Strength: 32/100

🏃 Agility: 47/100

🛡️ Constitution: 34/100

📚 Arcane: 23/100

🔥 Willpower: 17/100

✨ Sacred: 20/100

🌑 Abyssal: 0/100

🍀 Luck: 23/100

⚖️ Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

🧠 Mindset: 70% Realistic / 30% Pessimistic

🖋️ Description

Fifth Seat of the Rootaris. Her origins trace back to the southern elven lands: those born outside the barrier, but conceived within it, bear the curse of black hair. Velka was ostracized from birth and eventually exiled.

Rejected by both the forest and the empire, her life was marked by abandonment and violence. She discovered her natural talent for killing and rose to become one of the empire's most feared enforcers. She doesn't fight out of loyalty, but for convenience. She despises masks and heroic speeches—only efficiency earns her respect.

🧬 Traits

+Natural Assassin

+Stealth

-Cursed

+Adaptability

--Misanthrope

-Vengeful

________________________________________________________________________________

🩸 Lynell

🪶 Nicknames: Reinell's Sister

📏 Height: 175 cm

⚖️ Weight: 65 kg

🎂 Age: 43

🌿 Race: Elf

🚺 Gender: Female

📊 Attributes

💪 Strength: 7/100

🏃 Agility: 8/100

🛡️ Constitution: 10/100

📚 Arcane: 7/100

🔥 Willpower: 16/100

✨ Sacred: 29/100

🌑 Abyssal: 0/100

🍀 Luck: 35/100

⚖️ Alignment: Neutral Good

🧠 Mindset: 90% Optimistic / 10% Realistic

🖋️ Description

A blonde-haired elf from the Lughwood Forest. She is an ordinary villager, marked by the loss of her parents. She only fully trusts her brother Reinell and her friend Celine. Kind and helpful, her way of thinking is simple and sincere, though she sometimes struggles to understand the emotions of others. She knows nothing of the outside world, and while she doesn't desire to explore it, she would do so—only if guided by a friend.

🧬 Traits

+Kindnes

-Dependency

+Intuition

+++Child of Destiny

-Schizophrenia

📦 Item Information🧥 Cloak of the Hidden King

Rarity: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Epic

Type: Cloak / Back Equipment

🎯 Granted Attributes

+10 🌀 Agility

+6 🍀 Luck

+6 🛡️ Constitution

+4 💪 Strength

🌀 Passive Ability:

Shadows at Your Back

– All damage taken from rear attacks is reduced by 20%.

🕶️ Active Ability:

Step Between Veils

– The user can activate Partial Invisibility every 20 seconds.

While in this state:

— Moving or using abilities will cancel the partial invisibility.

While under partial invisibility, the user may choose to activate:

🔹 Complete Invisibility (Duration: 30 seconds)

— Allows movement and dealing damage without breaking the state.

— Using abilities cancels the complete invisibility.

🕒 Cooldown: 5 minutes