Chapter 25: Encounter and crown

The Crown and the Faceless King

The Forest of Wynn was silent.

Not a single trace of the massacre remained.

The blood-stained ground had been washed clean, the mutilated corpses of the demons I had slain were gone, as if they had never existed in the first place. No stench of death, no signs of battle—just an eerie stillness that stretched through the trees like a suffocating shroud.

And yet—

A crown lay upon the earth.

Alone. Untouched. Waiting.

I stepped forward, my boots crunching against the dried leaves as I approached it cautiously. Something about it felt wrong—an artifact out of place, an object that should not be here.

As my fingers brushed against the cold, metallic surface—

A voice spoke.

"Greetings, king of a kingless world."

And in that instant, I was drowning.

The world twisted. My past and present collided in a chaotic storm, memories flashing before my eyes at a speed too fast to comprehend.

—Blood dripping from my hands.

—The sound of a blade plunging into flesh.

—The eyes of an elven king, wide with horror as my dagger found his heart.

—The corpses of thousands, stacked like firewood.

—The endless pursuit of power, of knowledge, of something more.

It was all there. All at once.

The weight of my entire existence crashing down upon me in a single, unbearable moment.

I dropped the crown.

It clattered against the ground, the sound unnaturally muted, swallowed by the unnatural silence of the forest.

And then—

Something picked it up.

A figure emerged from the shadows.

Not a monster. Not a goblin. Not a simple demon.

A king.

Armored. Faceless. Nameless.

A presence that did not belong to this world.

His movements were slow, deliberate. The way he lifted the crown, the way he placed it upon his head—there was a finality to it, a silent declaration of dominion.

And in that moment—

The world held its breath.

The very vibrations of the ground were silenced, as if reality itself dared not disturb the presence of this being.

No words were spoken.

No sound was made.

He saw no man.

He heard no word.

He simply was.

My heartbeat was the only thing I could hear, loud and unrelenting, pounding against my ribs like a war drum.

And I came to a single conclusion.

This was the Demon King of Salvation.

Or was he?

Was it the crown that spoke to me?

Or was it him?

A question with no answer.

And yet, in that silence, in that overwhelming presence, I understood one thing—

I had not yet reached the peak of this world.

The Throne That Calls

The Faceless King stood before me, crowned and silent.

The air felt heavier, pressing against my skin, my bones, my very being. It wasn't just his presence—it was something deeper, something far beyond the mortal senses.

A distortion. A pull.

As if reality itself acknowledged his existence and bent around it.

I wanted to move. To speak. To question. But the words wouldn't come. The air wouldn't let me breathe properly.

He just stood there, unmoving.

And for the first time in a long time—

I felt small.

Not in terms of size, not in terms of power, but in terms of weight.

I had slain a thousand demons, ripped through monsters that could flatten cities, and yet… before him?

I was nothing.

Something deeper than fear settled in my gut. Not terror. Not dread.

Something worse.

Recognition.

Like looking at a storm forming in the distance and realizing you were standing right in its path.

Like standing at the edge of the abyss and knowing that something was staring back.

The Faceless King did not move, did not breathe, did not even acknowledge my existence in a way that made sense. He was simply there, a fixture in this world, a being beyond the petty struggles of men, monsters, or even gods.

But the crown—

The crown had spoken to me.

The voice still rang in my ears.

"Greetings, king of a kingless world."

Was it an insult? A prophecy? A statement of fact?

I didn't know.

But I knew one thing—

This thing, this Demon King of Salvation, was not human.

No, he was something beyond that. Something that had long abandoned such trivial classifications.

And yet—

As he stood there, crowned and silent, I couldn't help but feel like I was being judged.

Not by him.

But by something else.

The silence stretched on, unbearable, suffocating.

Until—

The Faceless King turned away.

Not out of respect. Not out of fear.

But out of disinterest.

And that—

That burned deeper than any wound I had ever received.

It was as if I had never mattered. As if my presence, my power, my very existence was nothing but an afterthought.

And then—

He disappeared.

Not through a portal, not through magic, not through anything that I could comprehend.

He simply ceased to be.

Gone.

Like he had never been there in the first place.

But the crown—

The crown remained.

And as I stared at it, lying on the ground, waiting—

A single thought burned into my mind.

Was this meant for me?

And if it was—

Did i even want it?

The Crown That Waits

The crown sat in the dirt, gleaming despite the lack of light, waiting.

It should have been just an object—a piece of metal forged into a symbol of authority, of power. But as I looked at it, I knew that wasn't the case.

It wasn't just a crown.

It was alive.

Not in the way a person or beast was alive, but in a way that made my stomach turn, like staring into a mirror and seeing something other staring back at me.

It was waiting.

For me?

For another?

For something unseen?

The Faceless King had taken it for himself, placed it upon his head, yet now it lay before me once more, untouched, unclaimed.

Why?

Had he rejected it?

Had he left it here on purpose?

Or had it simply refused him?

The moment I had touched it, my past and present had crashed into each other—memories, visions, feelings—I had seen them all.

Was that its purpose?

A test?

A curse?

A choice?

I clenched my fist, jaw tightening as I forced myself to look away from it, to breathe, to think.

The Demon King of Salvation.

That was what they called him.

A myth, a legend, a ghost—and yet I had seen him with my own eyes.

I had stood in his presence.

And he had ignored me.

Not with malice.

Not with contempt.

But with complete indifference.

Like I was beneath notice.

That stung.

But it also told me something important.

If this Faceless King—this Demon King of Salvation—was the one being blamed for my own slaughter, then the world had no idea who or what he actually was.

And if he wasn't responsible for those dead demons—

Why had he been blamed for them?

Was it just a convenient excuse?

Or was there something bigger at play?

I needed to find out.

But first—

The crown.

I turned back to it, still resting in the dirt, waiting.

Still watching.

And in that moment, I knew—

If I picked it up again, if I so much as touched it—

I wouldn't be the same.

I would change.

And I wasn't sure if I wanted that.

But another thought followed, creeping in like a whisper.

What if you already have?

As Sylas stood there, staring down at the crown, the thought crept in like a whisper slithering through the cracks of his mind.

What if you already have?

It was subtle at first, like an intrusive idea that didn't quite belong to him, yet the longer he dwelled on it, the more it settled into his consciousness—something planted, something not his own.

And then, as if confirming his suspicion, the familiar, emotionless hum of Fog—that detached, machine-like voice—spoke, delivering its statement in its usual cold, factual tone:

"Lucius said this to you."

Sylas blinked, the weight of realization pressing down on him all at once.

Lucius.

That bastard.

A scowl tugged at his lips as he exhaled sharply, the irritation already setting in. Of course, it was him.

"Lucius," Sylas said flatly, voice filled with clear annoyance, "cut it out."

Silence.

A long, heavy pause.

Then—

"What ever do you mean?"

The voice was everywhere and nowhere, laced with that infuriatingly casual amusement that only Lucius could manage. It wasn't just a voice—it was a presence, a knowing smirk wrapped in sound, a deity's unbothered chuckle woven into words.

Sylas rolled his eyes. "Don't act innocent. You're putting thoughts in my head again."

"Now, now," Lucius chided, tone light yet mocking, "I wouldn't say I'm 'putting' thoughts in your head. Merely… nudging you toward certain realizations."

Sylas crossed his arms. "That's just fancy wording for manipulation."

"Oh, please," Lucius scoffed, "manipulation sounds so sinister. I prefer—"

"No."

"Guidance?"

"Lucius."

"Divine inspiration?"

"Lucius."

"The gentle hand of an omniscient being leading his dear protagonist toward enlightenment?"

Sylas pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling through gritted teeth.

"Cut. It. Out."

Another pause.

Then—

"Fine."

Lucius did not sound remotely sorry. If anything, he sounded like he was holding back laughter.

Sylas exhaled, dropping his hand. "Good."

But before he could relish in the temporary silence, Lucius spoke again.

"I still think it's an important question, though."

Sylas ignored him.

He was done entertaining Lucius's nonsense for today.

Instead, he turned his focus back to the crown before him, watching it closely.

Lucius's interference had derailed his train of thought, but the core of it remained. The crown was not normal. It had chosen to speak to him. It had reacted to him.

And despite the Faceless King taking it before, it was back here now.

Was it testing him?

Calling to him?

Or was there something else at play?

One thing was certain—

If he touched it again, something would change.

And despite everything, despite knowing Lucius was likely watching him with that irritating, knowing grin—

Sylas found himself hesitating.

As Sylas picked up the crown once more, the world around him blurred, like reality itself had been peeled away layer by layer. The sensation was unlike anything he had ever experienced—one moment, he was standing in the blood-soaked clearing where the crown had first appeared, and the next, he was somewhere else entirely.

Before him loomed a gate.

Not a mere portal, but something far beyond that.

A Gate—a structure that transcended the basic concept of space and time, something that allowed travel not just between locations, but between dimensions, realms, even metaphysical states of existence.

It stood tall, an obsidian monolith, ancient carvings of indecipherable symbols pulsating with a dull, eerie light. The sheer presence of it weighed upon him, pressing into his mind, his soul, as if reality itself bent in reverence to its existence.

And then—

The crown spoke.

"King of a kingless world…"

The voice was neither loud nor quiet, neither deep nor high—it was something absolute, a voice that didn't just speak, but declared. A voice that did not simply vibrate through the air but embedded itself directly into his consciousness.

Sylas stiffened, instinctively gripping the crown tighter.

"If you enter this Gate, it will take you to the Tower of Trials. There, you shall face five trials. Time works differently within—one month inside is but a single minute in your world."

Sylas felt his heart thud once, twice, a slow rhythm of consideration and calculation.

A month.

A single minute.

This was—ridiculous.

If this were true—if time truly flowed like that—then this Tower wasn't bound to the conventional laws of physics, space, or causality. It was something separate, something deliberate.

Who built it?

For what purpose?

Why was he being brought here?

And most importantly—

What exactly were these trials?

His instincts told him that this was no ordinary place. It was designed for something more, something specific.

He narrowed his eyes, studying the Gate. It wasn't forcing him in. There was no compulsion, no strange magic dragging him through—this was a choice.

A test, before the trials even began.

A moment of hesitation meant doubt. Doubt meant weakness.

Weakness was unacceptable.

Sylas exhaled sharply.

His body was sore from the previous night, his mind still heavy with thoughts of the Faceless King, of the mass slaughter he had committed against the demons, of the growing need to become stronger.

If this Tower could offer that strength—

Then he had no reason to refuse.

His grip tightened around the crown.

Without another word, without another thought, he stepped forward—

And entered the Gate.