It

No one knew the true story of The Next General. Over the years, countless tales were written, each offering a different version of the legend. Some books claimed The Next General was a god who had descended from the heavens during the nation's darkest times, bringing salvation in an era of relentless war. Others described The Next General as an immortal being, neither male nor female, an entity beyond human understanding so much so that most accounts simply referred to them as It, they tried their best not to offend The Next General because it was never recorded that It had died. No one wanted The Next General to appear before them just because they had written a book and referred to It incorrectly.

But if there was one detail consistent across all the tales, it was The Next General's attire: a striking combination of black and red warrior's robes, symbolizing both power and bloodshed, a dark face mask that covered half of his face, a jetblack hair that was bound in a ponytail and at their waist, two glowing red swords rested, one on each side, their eerie light said to pulse like a heartbeat. And perhaps the most defining feature of all was their piercing blue eyes, cold and unyielding, like the calm before a storm. It was a color never seen, one that left an unforgettable imagination to those that had never seen someone with blue eyes and most even believed the eye colour doesn't exist and it was only The Next General that had blue colour eyes. Almost the whole Nation population had dark eye colour and less that one percentage had claimed to have seen a lighter shade of brown eyes but none had claimed to had come across blue eyes.

Yet, amidst the many interpretations, one truth remained unchanged: The Next General was a being of unparalleled power, a force that had reshaped history. And then, after securing victory in the final, all-consuming war, the war that had forged the peace of today, It vanished without a trace, leaving behind only myth and unanswered questions.

The rumor that the real tale would finally come to light, to be told by the man called Goblin, caused the grand hall to be packed beyond capacity. Every seat was occupied, every space filled with eager spectators. Even the Magistrate, the esteemed owner of the inn, had made a rare appearance. He sat on one of the elevated platforms reserved for the wealthy, his presence commanding silent acknowledgment from those who recognized him. It was well known that he rarely visited the House of Stories, yet that night, he had come. Some whispered among themselves, glancing at the well-lit compartment where he sat, confirming their suspicions, he had arrived for one reason only: to witness the real tale of The Next General.

The high platforms were equally brimming with spectators. Their compartments, usually reserved for privacy, now held more than their usual occupants. In the dimly lit shadows of these exclusive spaces, figures lurked, their identities obscured. Those seated below could only speculate who might be watching from above, but none dared crane their necks to look. The weight of expectation hung in the air like an impending storm.

Large windows framed the vast hall, all thrown wide open, allowing the chilled night air to flow in without restraint. The contrast between the cool breeze and the warm glow of the hall's golden lanterns created an almost dreamlike atmosphere, where reality and performance seemed to merge.

Then, the bell rang. A single, sharp chime.

The hall, once filled with murmurs and anticipation, fell into a tense hush. This was the moment they had been waiting for, the Light of The House had begun. The audience expected the Goblin storyteller to take the stage, but as the curtain lifted, gasps of surprise rippled through the crowd. Instead of the Goblin, a woman stepped forward.

She was dressed in flowing robes of light pink and white, the fabric so sheer it seemed ethereal, yet it modestly concealed her skin, anyone could tell she was a dancer. Beside her stood another woman, garbed in delicate shades of purple, a silver flute pressed against her lips. Behind them, a single drummer sat poised, his hands raised dramatically above his instrument, ready to command the night with his rhythm, smile plastered on his face just to show how much he seemed excited for the night.

The performance began in graceful synchrony. The dancer moved first, her hips swaying in slow, hypnotic waves, the silk of her robes flowing like water. The flute's melody soon followed, sharp, clear, piercing through the air like a spell cast upon the audience. Then came the deep, resonant beat of the drum, punctuating each movement with authority.

It was mesmerizing.

Yet, amidst the entrancing performance, uncertainty began to creep into the minds of the spectators. The Goblin had not yet appeared. Was this an elaborate prelude, or had something changed? But their doubts were soon forgotten as the entertainment carried on, each act more enthralling than the last.

The final musician, a man playing the gupin, a rare and delicate stringed instrument bowed deeply before departing, and as he left, the hall darkened. The curtains fell, the lights dimmed, and anticipation reached its peak.

Then, the curtain rose once more.

A single man now stood on the stage. He was dressed in black and deep crimson robes, his face partially concealed by a dark mask that covered his nose and mouth, lending him an air of mystery. A long sword was strapped to his side, its polished hilt gleaming under the dim lights. In front of him sat a large, ornate chair. Their identity remained concealed, their eyes obscured beneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed, dark hat. Their attire resembled the legendary descriptions of The Next General, yet subtle discrepancies stood out, only a single sword hung at their side, and the hat itself was an ill fit for the infamous figure. The audience, holding their breath, scanned the scene with growing anticipation, searching for the elusive Goblin.

From somewhere in the crowd, a voice broke the silence.

"It's The Next General…"

The words were spoken in awe, barely above a whisper, yet loud enough to spark a wave of murmurs. Then, as if realizing they had spoken too loudly, the voice hushed itself, leaving only an echo of intrigue behind.

From the shadows at the side of the stage, another figure emerged.

It was the Goblin.

Draped in oversized, tattered robes of deep black, his form seemed to float rather than walk, moving with eerie stillness. A stark white mask concealed his entire face, leaving only his long, silver-gray hair to flow freely down his back. The air around him felt heavier, thick with the weight of his presence. Without a word, he moved to the grand chair and settled himself into it, the mask made his face unreadable.

Then, the man in black stepped forward.

With a swift motion, he unsheathed his sword. A sudden burst of flame erupted along its length, illuminating the stage in flickering gold and crimson. The audience inhaled sharply never before had they seen a blade alight with fire.

The swordsman swung twice, the flames dancing in his wake before vanishing as suddenly as they had appeared. Then, without hesitation, he pressed the cold steel of his blade against the Goblin's neck.

A collective gasp filled the hall.

This had never happened before. The Goblin was never threatened. This was not part of any previous tale. Tension coiled in the air, thick enough to be felt.

Yet, the Goblin did not flinch. His voice, when he spoke, was unwavering.

"I met you when I was ten years of age."

His tone was firm, unwavering, as though the blade mere inches from his throat was no more than a whisper in the wind. The weight of his words settled over the hall like a heavy shroud.

Most of those present widened their eyes in shock, while some stood with their mouths agape. It was just as they had suspected the goblin knew The Next General, and now he had confirmed it. But what was unfolding before them was even more bewildering than they had imagined.

"I know your story," he continued, his gaze unfaltering. "So I will not speak falsehoods."

Though he was addressing the audience, it was clear that his words were meant for the man standing behind him, the swordsman who had threatened him, the embodiment of The Next General himself.

Then, without another word, the swordsman sheathed his sword, turned, and disappeared into the shadows.

The audience sat frozen, their minds racing with questions. Had they just witnessed an act or something far greater?

Could The Next General still be alive?

Was that even an actor?