Chapter 27: King of a kingless world (part 2)

As Sylas stepped through the gate and into the third trial, he felt the familiar rush of displacement—his body twisting through unseen currents, space folding in on itself until he landed on solid ground once more. But he was not alone.

Standing a few feet ahead of him was Livia.

Her sharp eyes scanned her surroundings, wary but composed, her posture upright and disciplined. Her presence was unexpected, and Sylas's first instinct was to wonder if she was an illusion or another test of the trial. He narrowed his gaze, studying her carefully, but there was no trickery in her expression—only mild confusion and curiosity. She turned toward him as he approached, arms crossed.

"You too?" Sylas asked, his voice edged with suspicion.

Livia gave a short nod. "I was in the academy one moment, and the next, I was in front of a gate. The same one as you, I assume."

Before either of them could dwell on the oddity of the situation, the crown in Sylas's grip pulsed with energy, its voice cutting through the heavy air.

"Gates were not made for mortals."

Its tone was calm, almost dispassionate, yet the weight of its words sent a chill down Sylas's spine.

"They" created the first gates—portals woven into the fabric of existence. To cross from one realm to another, to step between dimensions like walking through a door… This power is not meant for your kind. "They" alone hold dominion over such things, and what you see before you is but a fraction of what "They" can do."

Sylas and Livia exchanged glances. The crown's words lingered between them like a thick fog. "They." Always spoken in inverted commas, as though the very concept of "Them" could not be properly grasped, not by mortals like them. It was a warning, a whisper of something far greater than even the demons Sylas had slain, far more terrifying than the trials themselves.

And yet, the gate had allowed them passage.

There was no time to dwell on it. They had to move forward.

Deciding to work together, Sylas and Livia pressed on, each keeping a wary eye on their surroundings. The world of the third trial was strange—an expanse of nothingness, a void without stars, without light, stretching infinitely in all directions. And then it appeared.

A being that should not exist.

It stood before them, its body formed from an abyss so absolute that it devoured all light around it. Unlike the void of space, which held distant stars, this thing's body was truly empty—a place where existence itself ceased. And yet, it had eyes. No mouth. No voice. Just eyes that glowed like dim embers against the endless dark.

The ground beneath Sylas and Livia shifted unnaturally, as if it were not made of solid matter at all but was instead something fluid, something alive. Sylas instinctively tightened his grip on the crown, his fingers locking around it as if afraid it might be pulled from him by unseen forces.

The being did not speak. It did not move. It only watched.

And then—

A sudden, violent pull.

The world twisted violently, and before they could react, Sylas and Livia were yanked from the void. Reality snapped around them like a shifting kaleidoscope, and their bodies tumbled through space, their surroundings shifting with the force of an unseen will.

Then, all at once, they landed.

The void was gone.

They were no longer floating in endless nothingness but standing on solid ground—inside an enormous, medieval castle.

The air was thick with dust, ancient and stale, as if time itself had been trapped within these stone walls. Moonlight filtered through shattered stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors across the floor. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves, their contents untouched for what felt like centuries. The scent of old parchment and decay lingered in the air.

There was no movement. No sound. No signs of life.

It was abandoned.

Yet Sylas felt something stir in his chest. An unease that had nothing to do with the trial itself.

Something about this place…

The architecture, the way the shadows bent unnaturally in the corners of the room, the high, vaulted ceilings with their intricate carvings—it was all familiar. He had been here before. But when?

The memories were just out of reach, like whispers behind a closed door.

Livia, ever perceptive, took note of his expression. "What is it?"

Sylas didn't respond immediately. He exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing against the cold stone of the wall beside him, as if touching it would bring the memories back. But nothing came. Just that gnawing sense of familiarity.

"…I don't know," he admitted finally. His voice was quieter than before. "But I think I've been here before."

The crown hummed in his grip.

"Then you already know what must be done."

Sylas's breath hitched. His grip on the crown tightened.

This was no ordinary trial.

And whatever lay ahead—whatever this place had in store for them—was going to test them in ways they could not yet understand.

As Sylas and Livia moved deeper into the castle, their footsteps echoed against the marble floors, reverberating through the grand, hollow halls. The air was thick with an eerie stillness, an unnatural silence that made the place feel more like a preserved moment in time rather than a structure abandoned by its inhabitants. Dust coated the bookshelves and tattered banners hung limply from the ceiling, their once-proud symbols faded beyond recognition.

Yet, something was wrong. The space around them did not feel real. It was as if they were walking through an illusion, an imitation of reality rather than reality itself.

The crown in Sylas's grip pulsed, its voice resonating in his mind.

"This place is not as it seems. You walk not through ruins but through a memory."

Before Sylas could process the meaning behind those words, a sudden whistle cut through the stagnant air.

An arrow.

It shot toward him at lethal speed—aimed directly for his heart. Yet, just as it should have struck, the arrow passed through him like mist, dispersing into the air as if it had never been real to begin with.

Livia reacted instantly, stepping into a defensive stance, but she too noticed that nothing around them had changed. There was no threat. No attacker.

Sylas exhaled sharply, gripping the crown tighter. "What the hell was that?"

The crown's response was immediate.

"You are inside the memory of a past king."

Sylas's eyes widened slightly. He looked around again, this time with renewed understanding. The castle, the stillness, the dust that never stirred—none of it was truly here. They were walking through the past, seeing events that had already happened, reliving them as passive observers.

The crown's hum deepened, as if pleased by his realization.

"I am not merely an artifact. I am a key to the past, a vessel of remembrance. Those who hold me may witness the lives of the kings who once wore me. Their triumphs. Their losses. Their ruin."

The words sent a shiver down Sylas's spine.

And then—something clicked.

"One of the Seven Treasures…"

The realization struck him like lightning.

This was the Crown of the Fallen.

One of the legendary Seven Treasures, powerful artifacts that carried histories, abilities, and burdens beyond mortal comprehension. He had heard of them before, whispered myths of artifacts so old and so powerful that even time itself bowed to their influence.

But this wasn't just a realization—it was a problem.

Because he couldn't control the crown.

He wasn't sure why. It had chosen to show him this memory, but what if it decided to trap him inside it? What if he couldn't leave? What if the past began to bleed into his mind, twisting his thoughts, warping his perception?

For now, it was fine.

But how long would it stay that way?

Livia studied him, noticing the way his grip had tightened. "Sylas?"

He shook his head, forcing the thoughts away. "Later. We need to see this through first."

And so they did.

The memory played out before them like a stage performance—scenes unfolding, people moving, speaking words they could not hear, reenacting a past that had long since been buried. The castle was no longer still. It was alive, filled with figures clad in royal garb, elven nobility speaking in hushed tones. There was tension in the air, thick and suffocating. A feeling of unease, of impending disaster.

Then, the invasion began.

Humans.

They stormed the castle with steel and fire, cutting down elven guards who tried to defend their king. The grand halls were tainted with blood, the intricate elven tapestries torn from the walls, their books burned, their sacred relics stolen. The elves fought desperately, but they were outnumbered, their magic unable to hold against the sheer brutality of the invaders.

Sylas and Livia could do nothing but watch.

They were phantoms in this moment, unable to intervene, unable to change what had already been decided by time.

Then, the throne room came into view.

The elven king stood at the center, his long silver hair disheveled, his emerald-green robes tattered and soaked with blood. But his eyes—those defiant, unyielding eyes—did not waver. He was unarmed, abandoned by his remaining guards, but he refused to kneel.

The human general approached, a sneer curling on his lips as he raised his weapon.

A sword? No.

A knife.

Sylas's stomach twisted.

To execute a king with a sword was an act of war. To do so with a knife was an act of disrespect. A deliberate insult to the fallen ruler, to humiliate him in death, to strip him of his dignity.

The knife was plunged into the elven king's chest.

He did not scream. He did not beg.

He only stared at his murderer, as if cursing him with his last breath.

The crown—the same crown Sylas now held—slipped from his head, rolling onto the floor, coated in the blood of its fallen king.

Then, silence.

The castle faded back into its ruined, abandoned state.

The memory had ended.

Sylas exhaled slowly, his grip on the crown never loosening. He now knew what had happened here. He had seen it. Felt it.

Livia crossed her arms, her expression unreadable. "That wasn't just history," she murmured. "That was vengeance. The humans didn't just conquer—they humiliated them."

Sylas said nothing.

But inside, the weight of the crown in his hands felt heavier than before.

As the human foot soldiers ransacked the castle, they moved with the unrestrained greed of conquerors who knew no consequence. Priceless elven relics were tossed into sacks like common trinkets, delicate paintings were slashed apart for sport, and statues that had stood for centuries were shattered beneath the weight of their weapons. The grand library, once a sanctuary of knowledge, burned—thick, acrid smoke rising into the rafters like a funeral pyre for an entire civilization.

All of it was done under the command of the vice general.

Sylas's eyes locked onto the man standing at the heart of the destruction. He was clad in ornate silver armor, a crimson cape draped over his shoulders, watching the devastation unfold with an air of satisfaction. His face was stern, impassive—yet familiar.

A flicker of recognition sparked in Sylas's mind.

Where had he seen this man before?

The realization hovered just out of reach, taunting him. But he didn't have time to dwell on it.

His grip tightened around the Crown of the Fallen.

A slow breath. A steadying exhale. Then, with deliberate intent, Sylas placed the crown upon his head.

The moment the cold metal touched his skin, a surge of power coursed through him. His body tensed as foreign memories flooded his mind—not his own, but those of the fallen kings before him. He saw flashes of battlefields long lost to time, felt the weight of past betrayals, heard the dying whispers of rulers whose names had been erased from history.

And with this knowledge came something more.

A new command over death itself.

Sylas lifted his hand, fingers curled as if grasping at the strings of fate. The air around him shifted, darkened—the temperature plummeted, and an unnatural stillness spread through the ruined throne room.

Then, the dead rose.

Elven warriors who had fallen in battle stirred, their broken bodies lurching upright, their vacant eyes filled with a silent, vengeful purpose. Their armor, rusted and bloodstained, clanked as they moved. Some were missing limbs, their bodies torn apart by past wounds, yet they stood. Awaiting orders.

Sylas lowered his raised hand.

And they attacked.

The undead warriors surged forward with unnatural speed, their decayed blades slicing through flesh and steel alike. The human soldiers, who had once laughed as they desecrated the castle, now screamed in terror as they faced the wrath of those they had slaughtered.

One soldier barely had time to react before an undead elf drove a sword through his gut, twisting it with inhuman precision. Another tried to flee, only for skeletal hands to drag him to the ground, his final cries drowned beneath the sound of gnashing teeth.

The once-proud banners of the elven kingdom, which had been discarded and trampled upon by the invaders, were now soaked in the blood of the very men who defiled them.

The vice general finally turned, his expression shifting from cold calculation to something resembling horror.

He recognized what was happening.

This was no ordinary necromancy.

This was vengeance made manifest.

The undead moved with precision, not mindless thralls, but warriors carrying out their king's final will. They did not just kill—they punished. Limbs were severed, throats torn open, men impaled upon the very spears they once wielded. There was no mercy. No hesitation.

War crimes had been committed by these men.

Now, justice was being delivered in kind.

One soldier dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, begging for mercy. The elven knight standing before him did not respond. With a single, swift motion, he beheaded the man, his blade cutting through flesh and bone like paper.

Sylas watched it all unfold, his expression unreadable beneath the weight of the crown.

He had never wielded this kind of power before.

But it felt right.

For the first time since stepping into this castle, he felt like he understood the true purpose of the Crown of the Fallen. It was not merely a relic of history. It was a reminder.

That those who trampled upon the dead would one day be dragged down into the grave alongside them.

And Sylas?

He was the one to make sure of it.

Sylas had now solidified his status with the Crown of the Fallen. He could feel it—this ancient relic had fully acknowledged him as its wearer, its new master. The connection between them was no longer just symbolic. It was binding.

And with that realization came understanding.

The title it had given him—"King of a Kingless World"—was not just a poetic phrase. It was a fundamental truth woven into the very essence of the crown itself.

A kingless world was one where the throne had been shattered, where kingdoms had fallen, where rulers had been erased from existence, leaving behind only echoes of their past.

And yet, the Crown of the Fallen endured.

It did not belong to any kingdom, nor did it serve a single ruler. It was a relic of the past, a fragment of something greater, yet it held onto one purpose.

To crown a king where there was none.

To bestow rule upon the one who bore its weight.

That was why Sylas had been called "King of a Kingless World." Because in a world where no king remained, whoever wore the crown became king.

Not of land.

Not of people.

But of the forgotten.

This was no ordinary artifact. The Crown of the Fallen was one of the Seven Treasures, and its power was unique. Unlike ordinary necromancy, which bound the dead to a summoner's will, the Crown of the Fallen worked differently.

It did not raise mindless corpses.

It did not turn the dead into puppets.

Instead, it acted as a conduit.

The mana of the wearer flowed into the crown, intertwining with the lingering remnants of past rulers, past warriors, past kings. It connected them all, weaving together the present and the past in an unbreakable thread of authority.

And when necromancy was invoked, when Sylas commanded the dead to rise, something far more terrifying occurred.

The soldiers who returned did not obey him.

They obeyed the final will of their fallen king.

Each undead warrior did not simply attack blindly. They remembered. They fought with the same conviction they had in life. They carried out the last wishes of the ruler they had once sworn loyalty to. If they had died in agony, if their kingdom had been betrayed, if their king had fallen without justice—then they would seek vengeance with the same determination as when they drew their final breath.

And Sylas, as the wearer of the crown, was the one who awakened them.

It was as if he had opened the floodgates to the past, allowing the anger, the pain, the unfinished battles of fallen kings to manifest through him.

That was the burden of the Crown of the Fallen.

To wear it was to inherit the weight of history itself.

Every soul that had ever perished under its rule, every warrior who had ever drawn a sword in the name of a kingdom now lost, every ruler who had ever fallen—they all lived within the crown.

And now, Sylas had become a part of that lineage.

Not by birthright.

Not by blood.

But by the simple fact that, in a world where no king remained, he had placed the crown upon his head.

He was the King of a Kingless World.

And as long as he wore that crown, he was never truly alone.

As the weight of the Crown of the Fallen fully settled upon Sylas's head, its power surged through him like an unrelenting tide. He could feel its influence expanding beyond just raising the dead—it was a relic of dominion over life and death itself.

With this crown, he could command the fallen, summon them from the abyss of the past, but more than that… he could dictate the flow of existence.

A terrifying realization settled in.

The Crown of the Fallen was not just a tool of necromancy.

It was a throne of judgment.

And now, Sylas was seated upon it.

He extended his hand outward, fingers curling as his mana intertwined with the ancient energies of the crown. His thoughts shifted, his will reshaping the very fabric of reality—because with this artifact, he was not bound to the normal laws of space.

The Crown of the Fallen allowed its wearer to create Gates.

Unlike ordinary teleportation magic, which required precise calculations, immense mana reserves, and complex sigils, the crown made it effortless. The Gates it created were portals of authority, an extension of the crown's ability to connect past and present.

Sylas did not need to know the precise location of his target.

He only needed to know who they were.

The General.

A man who had led the human army into this castle. A man who had ordered the destruction, the plundering, the desecration of the elven kingdom. A man who had watched as an elven king was slaughtered like an animal, with no honor, no dignity.

The moment Sylas thought of him, the crown responded.

A dark rift tore open before him—a Gate. But unlike traditional portals, which shimmered with arcane runes or elemental energy, this one was void-like. A swirling vortex of shadow and cold, the absence of life itself.

This was a Gate of the Fallen.

A doorway into the past's unfinished vengeance.

Livia took a step back, watching the sheer dominance of the power Sylas had just wielded. She had seen magic, witnessed formidable sorcery, but this?

This was something else entirely.

Sylas did not hesitate.

He stepped forward, entering the Gate.

—And emerged within the heart of the enemy's stronghold.

The air was thick with the scent of steel and sweat, the flickering torches casting erratic shadows upon stone walls. He had arrived within a war room, where battle plans were laid across wooden tables, where war-hardened men strategized over conquest.

And there, standing at the center, clad in polished armor, was the General.

A man whose name did not matter.

A man whose fate was already sealed.

Sylas did not speak. He did not warn.

With the Crown of the Fallen upon his head, his very presence commanded the dead. Shadows stirred. The torches flickered violently as figures began materializing from the very walls—warriors, soldiers, the fallen souls who had perished by this man's hand.

They rose, their forms wreathed in the chilling embrace of undeath.

And for the first time in his life, the General felt fear.

"What… what sorcery is this?!" the General's voice wavered, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword.

Sylas did not answer.

Instead, he raised a single hand—and with that simple motion, the dead obeyed.

A dozen fallen warriors lunged, spectral weapons clashing against steel as the General's soldiers scrambled to react. Panic overtook the room. The once-mighty strategists, who had plotted the destruction of a kingdom, now collapsed under the weight of their own sins.

Steel clashed against nothingness, for no blade could cut what was already dead.

Screams echoed through the chamber as the vengeance of the fallen came to claim what was rightfully theirs.

The General fought, but in the end, his sword fell from his grasp. He staggered back, his polished armor now splattered with the blood of his own men, his once-commanding presence reduced to a terrified wretch.

Sylas stepped forward.

His crimson eyes burned beneath the weight of the crown, his judgment absolute.

The General tried to speak—perhaps a plea, perhaps a curse.

It did not matter.

Sylas raised his hand once more.

And the dead devoured him.

No body remained.

No legacy endured.

Only silence.

Sylas turned away, stepping through the Gate once more.

The war was over.

As Sylas stepped through the Gate of the Fallen, the void-like portal behind him collapsed into nothingness. The air around him felt lighter, the suffocating weight of battle left behind in that war room drenched in blood and vengeance.

Livia was waiting.

She stood at the edge of the ruined castle's hall, arms crossed, her sharp gaze assessing him the moment he reappeared. She had seen everything. The way he wielded the dead, the effortless way he commanded death itself. But what unnerved her the most… was how natural it all seemed to him.

She exhaled, breaking the silence.

"You did it."

Sylas reached up, his fingers brushing against the cool metal of the crown that still sat upon his head. Slowly, deliberately, he removed it.

And immediately, the world felt different.

A weight lifted from his mind, his body. The presence of the countless dead—their whispers, their lingering will—faded into silence. It was only now, with the crown no longer touching his skin, that he truly realized the extent of its power.

"Congratulations, King of a Kingless World," the Crown of the Fallen spoke, its voice echoing through his mind, even though it was no longer on his head.

Sylas turned the artifact in his hands, watching how the dim runes engraved upon it pulsed faintly.

"I see it now," he muttered, half to himself.

"See what?" Livia asked.

Sylas let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "Why it keeps calling me that."

He turned the crown so she could see the inscriptions along its inner lining, the ancient carvings written in a long-dead language. His voice was calm, but there was something distant in his tone—like he had finally solved a puzzle that had been nagging at him all this time.

"This crown belonged to a fallen king. It was meant to be worn by rulers who lost everything. A relic of the past, waiting for someone else to bear its weight."

Livia frowned slightly. "And that someone is you?"

Sylas smirked, tossing the crown into the air before catching it again. "Apparently. The world has no king, so the crown chooses one. But here's the thing…" He twirled the crown once more in his hand.

"It doesn't just make me a king. It makes me the king of a world that no longer exists. A king of the dead."

Livia glanced at the crown, then back at him. "So what happens when you put it on?"

Sylas exhaled through his nose. "The mana of the wearer fuels the crown. When necromancy is used, the fallen obey. They aren't just resurrected—they act according to their last will, their unfinished orders."

His fingers curled around the metal. "It's not just a tool. It's a kingdom, waiting for its king."

Livia let that sink in, her expression unreadable. "That's dangerous."

Sylas laughed under his breath. "Isn't everything?"

She rolled her eyes, but there was a flicker of concern behind them. "What if it controls you? What if, next time, it doesn't let go?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned the crown in his hand one last time before tucking it away.

"Then I'll make sure I'm the one in control."

Livia didn't seem convinced, but she let it go—for now.

Just then, the air shifted.

A hum of ancient magic vibrated through the stone beneath them. At the center of the ruined hall, another Gate began to manifest—this one different from before. The edges were jagged, flickering in and out of existence, as if struggling to maintain form.

The fourth trial.

Sylas exchanged a glance with Livia. She rolled her shoulders, adjusting her grip on her sword. "Another trial already? No break?"

The crown chuckled in his mind. "A king does not rest."

Sylas sighed. "Of course not."

With one last glance at each other, they stepped forward.

And together, they entered the fourth trial.