Alaric Past-1

"It actually worked?!" Julius muttered.

Seated upon the Forbidden Throne in the Celestial Hall, Julius was invincible. His mere thoughts became reality, his desires manifesting without effort. Yet, the full extent of the throne's power remained elusive. It was immense, divine even, but its ability to alter material reality was… limited. Until now, it had only allowed him to summon believers. But this—this was different. The crimson stars that dotted the celestial ceiling—what secret did they hold?

He exhaled slowly, shifting his gaze to the girl suspended mid-air, energy coiling around her form like sentient tendrils. Her arms, her face—blackened, as if a layer of impurity had surfaced upon her skin.

Julius narrowed his eyes. Were these the 'impurities' being drawn from her veins? Was this the process of purification through the Forbidden Throne?

Alaric, however, grasped the situation far more keenly. This is real… but at what cost? He observed the way the darkened filth gathered upon her body, forced out by the overwhelming power surging through her. The sheer intensity of it was unnatural. A normal purification must be done gradually, over several days, to prevent the body from collapsing under the strain. If this continues… she'll die.

Alaric's gaze flickered toward the towering throne, toward Julius, seated there with an air of distant authority. His thoughts churned with uncertainty—Was this being truly divine? Or merely an illusion of godhood? Either way, hesitation meant death.

He made his decision.

"My lord, please stop!" he called out urgently.

Julius blinked. Stop? Why?

Alaric pressed on. "The purification is working, but her body is too frail. She cannot endure such overwhelming power all at once. It must be done over time, lest she perishes before she can even grasp her new strength."

Perish?

Julius inhaled sharply, a flicker of unease crossing his features. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He had intended to purify her, to gain her faith as a future believer, to gradually accumulate enough devoted followers to solidify his dominion over reality itself. If she died, it would all be for nothing.

Damn it. Is she really about to die from the sheer force of the energy coursing through her? In hindsight, it made sense. She's a pampered noble girl with no physical resilience, let alone any affinity for mystical energy.

Julius clenched his jaw. He had to confirm her state. Then, an idea slithered into his thoughts.

"I want to see her face up close."

His vision shifted. In an instant, he was gazing at her features in stark clarity—the contorted expression of pain, the tremors of agony racking her body. No, she really would die if this continued…

He exhaled sharply. If this place grants my wishes… then—

"I want her purification to succeed—without her dying."

A pulse of green radiance flared into existence, wrapping around the girl in soothing waves. The rigid tension in her body melted away, her strained grimace easing into a peaceful stillness, as though she had slipped into a deep and tranquil slumber.

Julius let out a slow breath, a grin creeping onto his lips. It worked.

"Good. Good… I had no intention of letting my first would-be believer die," he murmured to himself.

His gaze flickered toward Alaric. Yes, I need to secure his faith as well.

Julius could sense the man's lingering wariness. Unlike the girl, Alaric was not so easily swayed. There was no reverence in his eyes, only scrutiny—hesitation, resistance. That would not do.

"I need to astonish him. To make him believe."

Julius exhaled, allowing power to seep into his voice.

"You look upon me with doubt. Tell me—who do you think I am?"

His words thundered through the Celestial Hall, reverberating with an almost tangible force. A mere whisper of the Forbidden Throne's might.

Alaric stiffened. This… this overwhelming presence… Sweat beaded on his brow. His grip tightened around his sword, yet his hand trembled. Instinct screamed at him—I cannot fight this. Whether he is truly a god or merely a sorcerer who has transcended the Eighth Circle… I do not stand a chance.

Yet, despite the suffocating power pressing down on him, he did not lower his weapon. He did not kneel.

Julius observed him with intrigue. He resists? Even in the face of this power? Why?

He narrowed his eyes. What lies within his soul that grants him such unyielding will?

The answer was simple. If I wish to understand him… I must peer into his past.

A thought drifted into his mind.

"I want to see his memories."

And in the next instant—he did.

A flood of visions not his own surged through his consciousness.

A name echoed in his mind. Alaric Wolfe.

A city—Rose City, nestled along the northern coast of the kingdom. A thriving port where merchant ships of all kinds converged. A man—Alaric's father, a renowned trader in the fish import and export business.

"Alaric Wolfe, head to the port and meet your father!"

"Of course! One day, I'll be a great merchant too—just you watch!"

"Be careful on your way, Alaric."

"I will, mother!"

Julius's eyes darkened. I see… I am witnessing his childhood.

Too slow. Too many memories to sift through.

"No. I need only his most defining moments—the ones that shaped him."

The scene shifted.

A ship, adrift upon dark waters. Men clad in strange garb, armed with wicked blades. A figure at the helm—a pirate, his eye veiled by a black bandana.

They encircled Alaric and his father, the latter standing his ground, fiery red hair tousled by the salty wind.

So this is Alaric's father…

A sneer curled across the pirate captain's lips.

"Did you truly think you'd get away with it, Wolfe?" His voice was laced with mockery. "Diverting our trade routes? You have some nerve."

Alaric's father stood firm. "I refuse to condone your ways. Stealing from honest traders—where is the honor in that?"

"Honor?" The pirate laughed, dark amusement glinting in his eye. "Honor won't feed us, Wolfe. The world is cruel."

With a flick of his wrist, a hidden whip lashed out—severing Alaric's father's arm.

A scream of agony split the air. Blood splattered across the wooden planks.

Alaric—seventeen at the time—stood frozen, horror twisting his features as his father's severed limb thudded to the deck.

Yet, despite his pain, the man did not falter. He turned to his son, voice strained but unwavering.

"Alaric—run. Flee into the sea. The Night God will protect you."

"But, father—! You're not coming with me?"

"Go. Now." His father lifted his remaining arm. Upon his palm, a mark gleamed with eerie radiance. "I am a believer of the Church of the Night. Do you truly think I will fall so easily?"

Julius inhaled sharply.

That mark… It's the same as mine.

His fingers curled unconsciously.

What connection does this man's father have to the legacy of the ancient kings?