Chapter 52: Tyranny of Knowledge

A Throne of Ashes

Sylas sat in silence, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the cold stone of the throne's armrest. The echoes of his movements resounded through the desolate chamber, each sound swallowed by the vast emptiness around him. He exhaled slowly, interlacing his fingers and resting them beneath his chin.

Feros…

The name lingered in his mind like a whisper from the past, stirring something deep within him—something distant yet familiar, like a dream half-forgotten upon waking. He traced the edges of the thought, following it into the recesses of his memory. And then—

Leon.

His eyes darkened as recollections surfaced, fragmented and distorted, yet unmistakably real. Leon. The kingdom lost to time, erased from history as if it had never existed. A kingdom with no grave, no record, no lingering trace except for the faintest echoes in ancient myths. A kingdom whose ruins lay buried beneath the foundations of another.

His heart pounded in his chest as a realization gripped him with an unrelenting force.

No.

It couldn't be.

His lips parted, and his voice, barely above a whisper, carried the weight of centuries.

"Crown, when was the kingdom of Aisha founded?"

A moment of silence. Then, the voice of the Crown of the Fallen answered, its tone as cold and emotionless as ever.

"9,500 years ago."

His breath hitched.

"And when did the kingdom of Leon fall?"

Another pause.

"10,000 years ago."

Sylas's fingers clenched against the armrest. His nails dug into the stone, the weight of the revelation pressing upon his very soul.

So I was right.

Aisha was not merely another kingdom that had risen from the ashes of an older civilization. It was the successor to Leon. The kingdom built upon the remnants of his past. The world had not merely forgotten him—it had erased him.

He leaned back against the throne, eyes drifting to the high, crumbling ceilings above. Ten thousand years.

For ten millennia, he had been nothing more than a shadow—unmentioned, undocumented, wiped clean from every historical record as if he had never existed. He had spent so long believing he had been thrown into an entirely different world, convinced that his very presence here was unnatural, an anomaly. But now he knew the truth.

He had not left his world.

His world had left him.

A bitter chuckle escaped his lips.

Reincarnated ten thousand years into the future.

How laughable.

No wonder there were no books, no inscriptions, no lingering whispers of his rule. No statues, no decrees, no legends passed down from generation to generation. His reign had been obliterated, consumed by the void of time.

And this place—this throne room.

It had seemed familiar the moment he laid eyes upon it. The towering pillars, the intricate engravings, the silent grandeur now reduced to ruin. At first, he had dismissed it, thinking it was merely reminiscent of palaces he had seen before.

But now—now he knew.

It was his.

This throne was his throne.

These walls, once polished and adorned with banners of gold and crimson, had once housed his court. The very air around him, thick with dust and the remnants of history, still carried the weight of his past.

Leon had not simply fallen.

It had been buried beneath the foundations of Aisha.

It had been dismantled, its stones repurposed, its history rewritten. The kingdom that now ruled the land sat atop the bones of the empire he had once built, unknowingly carrying forth the remnants of an age they would never remember.

His throne, his legacy, his very crown—

All reduced to ashes.

Sylas slowly lifted a hand to his head, brushing his fingers against the cold metal of the Crown of the Fallen.

Crown of the Fallen.

How fitting.

A crown meant not for kings, but for those who had been cast down.

He exhaled, his breath steady, but his mind racing. His past was gone. His name, forgotten. His reign, erased.

But he was still here.

And now that he knew the truth—

What would he do with it?

Knowledge had always been, and would always remain, the most powerful constant in the multiverse. Not strength, not divinity, not even time itself could rival the supremacy of knowledge. Power could be usurped. Gods could be slain. Time could be rewritten, unraveled, or even shattered. But knowledge—true knowledge—was immutable. It was the invisible hand that shaped the heavens, dictated the rise and fall of civilizations, and commanded the dead to whisper their secrets from beyond the grave.

Knowledge was the key.

And now, he had it.

But what would he do with it?

Sylas sat upon his throne, fingers once again interlocked beneath his chin, his mind spiraling through the implications of what he had uncovered. He was a man displaced—not in space, nor in some alternate universe, but in time itself. Ten thousand years. A kingdom erased, a past buried, a life rewritten. He had no doubt that forces beyond his comprehension had conspired to ensure that his history was forgotten. Someone had done this.

But who? And why?

That was the missing piece.

For all his newfound revelations, for all the gaps he had finally filled in his fractured understanding of reality, he was still blind. There was still more to uncover, more to tear from the grip of those who had sought to erase him.

And one name stood at the forefront of his thoughts.

Livia Rose.

The woman who had betrayed him.

The woman who had plunged a blade into his chest without hesitation, her face betraying neither guilt nor remorse as his vision faded into oblivion.

A flame flickered in his crimson gaze. His voice, cold and sharp as tempered steel, broke the silence.

"Crown, identify where Livia Rose currently is."

The Crown of the Fallen, ever the impartial and unwavering observer, responded in its usual monotone.

"Denied."

Sylas's fingers twitched.

Denied?

His gaze darkened, his thoughts turning inward. The Crown had never once refused his orders before. It had granted him insight, warned him of danger, and even laid bare the knowledge of a world that had tried to bury him. But now—it refused him?

Why?

"Crown," he said slowly, his voice laced with restrained curiosity, "list all relevant rules."

A moment of silence. Then, the voice of the Crown spoke once more, cold and unfeeling.

"Number 1: No information of Elder Gods allowed."

Sylas's jaw tightened. Elder Gods. He had encountered one—or at least, something beyond mortal comprehension. A being that existed outside of the very notion of existence itself. A creature whose presence could twist the minds of lower-dimensional entities into submission. If the Crown itself forbade him from acquiring knowledge about them… then there was something even more dangerous than he had anticipated.

"Number 2: No requesting of another person's location."

His fingers curled into a fist. So that was why it had refused him. He could command the Crown to raise the dead, to show him history long forgotten, to pierce the veil of time itself—but he could not find one person. That restriction was deliberate. Who had placed it there? And why?

"Number 3: No romantic or sexual advice."

Sylas blinked.

He stared at the air as if the words themselves were mocking him.

…What?

Of all the rules—of all the grand, cosmic, universe-altering edicts—that was one of them?

He nearly scoffed aloud. It was absurd. Incomprehensible. He could unravel the mysteries of the multiverse, bend the will of the dead, and yet—if he so much as asked the Crown how to impress someone, it would refuse him?

His lips curled into a half-smirk.

Yet, as ridiculous as it was, it also carried a deeper implication.

If there's a rule, there's a reason. If there's a reason, there's a story.

Who had made this rule? Had someone tried before? Had someone, long ago, attempted to use one of the Seven Treasures for something as petty as love or lust? Or was this rule simply a leftover from a civilization that no longer existed, its meaning lost to time?

It didn't matter. Yet.

He exhaled and continued listening.

"Number 4: Crown of the Fallen's ability to manipulate time can only be used once every day."

Time. That alone was enough to solidify the Crown's power. It could alter time. That meant he had access to an ability that most beings—mortals, gods, and perhaps even rulers—would kill for. And yet, there was a limitation. One use per day. Whoever had forged this artifact had ensured that its power could not be exploited endlessly.

A safeguard.

Against him?

Or against the world?

"Number 5: No creating skills that aren't allowed."

And there it was. The final rule. The restriction that suggested there were limits.

Limits to his power. Limits to his creativity. Limits that someone had deliberately put in place. But if there were limits, then that meant there were boundaries. And if there were boundaries—then there were ways to break them.

Sylas leaned back against his throne, his gaze distant yet sharp.

The Seven Treasures.

Artifacts powerful enough to shake reality itself, scattered across the multiverse. He had obtained one, and even with it, he had only begun to scratch the surface of its true potential.

But now—he had knowledge.

The real question was: how would he use it?