New Height

Hopeful approached the great boundary wall that separated the south from the north of Higna. The landscape shifted as he drew nearer: the rolling plains gave way to the jagged cliffs of the great divide. The wall stretched across the horizon, towering and impenetrable, a divide between two separate worlds, yet ruled by one king. As Hopeful came closer, the colossal structure loomed like a silent sentinel, its purpose more than just military—it was a symbol of the separation that defined them.

At the base of the wall stood the enormous gate, its frame sculpted from obsidian stone and reinforced with iron. It was an imposing sight, its height so great that it seemed to reach up and touch the sky. Guarding the gate were armored war-tanks, stationed like sentinels, their mechanical forms unnervingly still, but with engines that hummed softly beneath the surface, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.

As Hopeful approached, a series of heavy metallic doors creaked open, revealing a team of soldiers standing watch at the entrance. Their faces were cold and unmoving, as if the border had been a place where human emotion had no place. They glanced over the approaching figure of Hopeful's war-tank form, and one of the soldiers stepped forward, his voice an abrupt command.

"State your name and purpose, traveler," he said, his tone sharp.

Hopeful's war-tank rumbled softly, its systems adjusting as he spoke, his voice modulated through the machine's communications system. "I am Hopeful, called by the King of the North," he said, his tone firm and unwavering. From the south, where he lived, a king existed, but he was only a decorative figure, a subject to the King of the North, ruling according to northern dictates.

The soldiers exchanged glances. One of them nodded, stepping to the side to retrieve a large tome from a shelf by the gate. The book was thick, bound in ancient leather, and it looked like it had been opened thousands of times. The soldier flipped through the pages carefully, his eyes scanning each entry until he paused, his finger tracing down the list.

"Hopeful," he muttered. "Yes, here you are. The King has ordered your passage."

Without another word, the soldier stepped aside, and the massive gates creaked open. As Hopeful rolled through, the gates seemed to respond to his arrival. A deep, resonant voice echoed from the walls themselves, as if the very structure recognized him. "Hopeful," it intoned, acknowledging his presence with a sense of gravity.

The gates shut behind him with a thud, and Hopeful continued onward, his war-tank surging forward with a speed that left the land blurring past him. The world outside seemed to bend to his will as he sped through the northern lands, the speed of his machine matching the pace of his racing thoughts. For days, he traveled at nearly 320 miles per hour, the northern front growing ever closer.

At last, he reached the private warzone of the King. The land here was different—almost untouched, as though it had been prepared for a different kind of battle, one far removed from the wars made in the south. The air was thick with tension, but there was a strange serenity about it, too.

Hopeful slowed as he approached another towering gate, this one even grander than the first. The aura of the place felt different—more personal, more intimate. At this gate, too, war-tanks stood guard, though their movements were less rigid, as if they were anticipating something—or someone. As Hopeful approached, the guards stepped forward.

"State your name and purpose," one of them called out, his voice filled with authority.

"I am Hopeful, called by the King," came Hopeful's reply, calm but resolute.

The soldier nodded and consulted another book, one even older than the previous. He flipped through the pages with practiced ease. "Hopeful," he murmured, his eyes scanning the list. "Ah, yes. The King is expecting you."

The gate slowly creaked open, and as Hopeful passed through, the air seemed to shift. There was a sweet, almost intoxicating fragrance in the air—an aroma that filled his senses with warmth, comfort, and a strange kind of peace. It came from the very soil, the plants that thrived in this private warzone, and from the palace itself. It was an aura unlike anything he had encountered before.

The King's palace loomed ahead, an immense structure that sat like a throne in the center of this domain. It was smaller than the great citadels he had seen before, but there was something majestic about it. The palace was surrounded by fields of carefully cultivated flora and great tanks that moved in an elegant, almost choreographed pattern. The sight of them gave Hopeful pause—these were no ordinary war-machines. They were sculpted with purpose, designed not just for destruction but for something else entirely.

As he approached the palace gates, a sense of anticipation gripped him. He entered, and the scene inside the palace unfolded before him. The courtiers were present, gathered around the King's colossal throne. Elders and nobles sat in their designated places, while the King's counselors whispered among themselves, engaged in quiet conversation. But when Hopeful stepped into the room, the atmosphere changed. Every eye turned to him, a sudden hush falling over the gathering.

At the far end of the room, the King sat on his throne, a figure of power and stature. His form was rotund, his presence imposing. He wore white garments that seemed to glow with an otherworldly light, and atop his head sat a golden crown, symbolizing his authority. His gaze swept over Hopeful, recognizing him instantly. The King's voice rang out, deep and commanding.

"Welcome, Hopeful," he said, his tone both welcoming and weighty. "You have arrived."

Hopeful felt the weight of the King's gaze, but he did not look away. His attention remained fixed on the monarch, the man whose decisions shaped the future of this war-torn land. The courtiers resumed their activities, as though his arrival had been a mere interruption in their routine.

Hopeful continued his walk toward the throne, his eyes never leaving the King's figure. Despite the beauty of the place, the tanks, the scent of the warzone—his thoughts were centered on the King, on his call, and on what was to come. Would the King's summons change everything for him? Or would it lead him toward the destiny he had long sought?

As Hopeful drew closer, the King's voice boomed again. "Hopeful, you have traveled far, and your journey has only just begun. But know this—your purpose here is not simply to witness. You have been called for something far greater."

The courtiers, the nobles, the counselors—all fell silent once more. Hopeful could feel the weight of their collective gaze upon him, but his mind was consumed with the King's words.

"I have been waiting for you," the King continued, his voice calm but filled with meaning. "And now, it is time for you to choose. Will you join me in this fight, not as a mere warring tank, but as something more?"

Hopeful's heart raced as the King's words reverberated through him. This was no ordinary warzone. This was not simply about victory or defeat. This was about something larger—something that transcended the boundaries of battle. Something that could change the fate of both the north and the south, and perhaps even the future of Higna itself.

"I am ready," Hopeful said, his voice steady, his purpose clear.

The King relaxed his back, as he adjusted himself, and smiled, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Good. Then let us begin."