Continent of Xandorath - 02

Anthon rested for a few more hours, allowing his body to recover from the brutal toll it had endured. His strength had dropped two tiers from his peak due to his injuries.

"Thankfully, this area is relatively safe. It's well-hidden, making it difficult for anyone to find," he thought, his gaze scanning the dark cave around him.

"The Continent of Xandorath, huh? This place is nothing like Earth. A land filled with mysteries… A continent so vast that even at my strongest, I wouldn't be able to traverse it so easily," he muttered to himself.

Continent of Xandorath

A landmass ten times larger than Earth's former Pangea, Xandorath is home to countless beings aside from humans. Ancient rumors speak of elves, dragons, fairies, demons, and other intelligent races dwelling within its borders. The very air is rich with mana, nurturing beasts and monsters far stronger than any creature on Earth. Some of these beings possess bodies harder than steel, making them just as formidable—if not more so—than the knights and magic casters of the world.

"I need to restore my strength before searching for my wife and daughter," Anthon murmured, his fists clenching.

He already had a clue about their whereabouts. The man who had rescued them mentioned that his wife was a princess. That meant they had likely gone to the Kingdom of Veyltharion. If she was royalty, it explained why she had been protected… but also raised more concerns.

His mind drifted back to the "hero" wannabe who had attacked them. The strike he had unleashed upon Maristelle was powerful—so powerful that it could have destroyed her core or even killed her.

Anthon's chest tightened.

"She might already be…"

No. He shook off the thought. There was no point in dwelling on the worst-case scenario. He had a chance to set things right.

"I'm sure my wife and daughter resent me now," he muttered bitterly. "But I won't run from it. Since our memories have already merged… his mistakes are mine now. I will correct every single one."

His eyes burned with conviction as he stood.

"I don't care about being a hero. I won't sacrifice my loved ones for some grand cause. If protecting my family means becoming a villain, then so be it."

Anthon rummaged through his storage ring, pulling out a sword before fastening it to his waist. With careful steps, he began to explore the cave, noting that it was much larger than it appeared at first glance.

Deeper within, he found water dripping from stone formations above. The droplets collected into a vast, crystal-clear underground pool. Stepping closer, he peered into the glistening surface.

The ripples settled.

A face—unfamiliar yet undeniably his—stared back.

A warrior's body, sculpted through battle, powerful but not monstrous in size. Every inch of him spoke of relentless training, honed skill, and a natural talent for combat. His skin bore scars—silent remnants of the countless victories and near-deaths he had endured.

A clean-cut mane of dark hair, not too short but still well-kept, framed his face. Handsome, yes, but hardened—the face of a man who had once stood at the pinnacle.

But his eyes...

Once, they had burned with arrogance and untouchable pride.

Now, they flickered with something else.

Regret.

A quiet sigh escaped his lips.

"This body… is too perfect for someone like me."

Even now, he radiated an aura that put others at ease, a presence so commanding that men would follow without hesitation. It was cruel, in a way.

The world had once hailed him as a future hero.

But all the power in the world hadn't stopped him from destroying the people he should have protected.

Anthon knelt beside the water, scooping a handful to his lips. As soon as the liquid touched his tongue, a soothing warmth spread through his body, easing his lingering aches.

His eyes widened.

"This water… it has healing properties?"

He stared at the pool, realization dawning.

"This must be one of the rare wonders of the world—the Earth's Tear."

Legends spoke of it. A water so pure it could heal even the most grievous wounds.

Anthon hurriedly took out a flask from his ring, filling it to the brim.

"If this can heal me… maybe it can help her recover too."

A numb, fleeting hope flickered in his chest.

*Two Days Later

"I think it's about time I set out."

Anthon stretched, testing his movements. The soreness was completely gone. His body felt lighter, more agile. Though his strength had regressed by two ranks, he could still move unseen while searching for his family.

More importantly, the hidden injuries were gone.

"I might not be at my peak, but I can still fight if I have to."

With a final glance at the cave that had given him sanctuary, he stepped into the unknown.

A Kingdom in Uproar

Meanwhile, rumors of Anthon's death spread through Sanctaris like wildfire.

Some stories claimed his best friend challenged him to a duel and won. Others dismissed the idea entirely.

"That's ridiculous. How could a man like him be defeated so easily?"

"You underestimate arrogance. It can be deadlier than any blade."

"I heard it was an intense battle."

"You're all wrong!" another man interjected. "It only took one move. My source is reliable—my friend's friend's cousin is a third-tier knight in the royal castle!"

The capital buzzed with divided opinions—some rejoicing, others mourning the loss of their Holy Knight.

The Mansion of Alveric

The grand hall of House Alveric gleamed under golden chandeliers, their soft glow casting long shadows across the polished marble floors.

Lavish crimson banners adorned the walls, each embroidered with the emblem of House Alveric—a symbol of honor and power. The air was thick with the scent of fine wine and expensive perfume, the distant melody of a harp blending with the laughter of noblewomen.

At the center of it all, seated on a throne-like chair, was Lucien Alveric.

Draped in a regal white cloak embroidered with silver, he exuded an aura of divine purity. His golden hair shimmered under the candlelight, framing his angelic features like a halo. Around him, noblewomen fawned and giggled, draping themselves over the armrests of his chair, their eyes filled with admiration and longing.

Yet beneath the brilliance of his holy aura, something was… wrong.

His smile was too measured, his gaze too calculating. The way his fingers idly tapped against his goblet, as if waiting, plotting.

"The transmission artifact has its limits," he mused, swirling the wine in his glass. "Even if it teleported him, the strain would have been too much for his body."

A chilling smirk tugged at his lips.

"I'm sure he's dead by now."

His voice darkened.

"Find him. Bring me his body."