Chapter 1: Battle of London

Destiny never waits. It struck Albion like the thunder rumbling across the London skyline, leaving him stranded in a crumbling red phone booth while the world turned outside.

Rain lashed against the glass, blurring the shapes of hurried commuters and glistening streets. His fingers gripped the cold, stubborn handle as if it were the only tether to reality. Was this a trap—or a sign?

"Perfect," he muttered, his breath fogging up the glass. "Trapped in a phone booth. Who am I, Clark Kent? Just when I thought today couldn't get worse."

The thunder rumbled again, closer this time. And something else stirred in the distance—a sound too low, too deep to be human.

He jiggled the handle again, but the door refused to budge. The irony wasn't lost on him; of all the places to be stuck, it had to be here, surrounded by memories he couldn't quite grasp. Memories of stories his father used to tell, of heroes and legends, of swords and destiny. A faint ache tugged at his heart—a reminder of the loss that had set him on this solitary path.

"Come on, Albion," he chided himself softly. "You've faced worse than this."

Albion sighed, pressing his forehead lightly against the cold glass. His eyes flickered briefly, activating the subtle glow of his glasses' interface, he runs his fingers over them. An old photo appeared translucently before him—a grainy, slightly faded image of his father mid-laugh, holding up a half-burnt steak at their annual backyard barbecue. Albion's lips twitched involuntarily, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners.

"Burned it again, Dad," he whispered softly, almost amused despite himself. The ache in his chest tightened gently, a reminder of simpler days—when his biggest worry was avoiding his father's questionable grilling skills.

With a quiet exhale, Albion dismissed the image and squared his shoulders, reality pulling him back sharply. His fingers tightened around the door latch once more.

With a determined shove, he slammed his shoulder against the door. It groaned in protest before finally giving way. Albion stumbled onto the pavement, narrowly avoiding collision with a passerby—a woman clutching a bright red umbrella in one hand and the leash of a curious golden retriever in the other. The dog instantly perked up, tail wagging eagerly as it sniffed Albion's wet boots.

"Easy there," Albion chuckled softly, extending a gentle hand toward the friendly canine. The dog responded enthusiastically, licking Albion's fingertips before the woman tugged lightly at the leash, a mix of apology and amusement in her eyes.

"Sorry," Albion offered with a sheepish grin, meeting her gaze briefly. "Didn't mean to crash your morning walk."

She smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "No harm done. Looks like your morning's already rough enough."

Albion nodded ruefully, pulling his hood tighter as she moved away into the steady rhythm of rain-soaked pedestrians. He watched them go for just a heartbeat longer, envying their mundane simplicity before turning to face the chaotic London streets again.

He took a deep breath, the damp air filling his lungs. The scent of petrichor and concrete mingled with the distant aroma of freshly baked bread. For a moment, he allowed himself to savor the simplicity of it—a fleeting respite from the constant questions that plagued him.

Rain misted over the streets of London, soft and steady, soaking into Albion's hood as he adjusted the fit of his glasses. The faint glow of their interface danced across his vision, a translucent map overlay tracking his path. The morning sky hung heavy with thick clouds, casting the streets in dim, muted light. Albion walked with purpose, his hood pulled low, boots splashing softly in shallow puddles.

It was strange, being back in a world that relied on technology so differently from Avalon. Albion had missed the simplicity of it—the glasses' ability to record, translate, process, and link seamlessly with his thoughts. There was comfort in knowing he'd never forget a detail, never lose track of where he was or what he was doing. Still, Avalon clung to him like a shadow. The runes etched along his forearm burned faintly beneath his jacket sleeve, as though stirred by the rain. Albion clenched his fist, forcing the sensation down. Not now.

Robotaxis zipped past in glowing silence, their routes traced in soft blue across the wet streets. Albion ignored them, his attention snagged by something more grounded: a battered yellow cab weaving through the stream of automation. Its "For Hire" sign flickered faintly, stubborn and defiant.

He raised a hand, whistling sharply. The cab slowed to a stop, its tires splashing as it rolled to the curb.

The driver leaned out, his face weathered and skeptical. "You sure, mate? Thought everyone your age went for the bots these days."

Albion smirked, pulling open the door and sliding in. "What can I say? I like my rides with personality."

The cabbie chuckled, shaking his head as he guided the car back into the flow of traffic. "Personality, huh? That what they're calling old-fashioned these days? Back in my day, we just called it driving."

Albion let out a small laugh, relaxing slightly into the cracked leather seat. He ran a hand through his damp hair, absently shaking some of the rain from his jacket.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked, flicking the meter on with a practiced motion.

"The National Archives," Albion replied, leaning back.

The cab groaned as it merged into traffic, the windshield wipers squeaking faintly with each pass.

The cabbie glanced at him through the rearview mirror, eyes narrowing slightly. "Figures. Miserable weather, miserable place. What's got you heading there? Crown business?"

"Not exactly," Albion said lightly. "Just looking for answers."

The cabbie snorted. "Good luck with that. The Crown loves keeping its answers buried. You'd have better luck asking one of them reporters up at the gala."

Albion glanced out the window, watching raindrops streak down the glass like tiny rivers. A silence stretched between them, comfortable in its own way, before the cabbie spoke again.

"You ever been to one of those?"

Albion raised a brow. "A gala?"

"Yeah. All that fancy-schmancy nonsense. Bow ties, champagne, people pretending to be important."

Albion smirked. "Not exactly my scene."

The cabbie snorted. "Figures. You've got the look of a bloke who'd rather be in a pub than a palace."

Albion chuckled, shaking his head. "You're not wrong."

The cabbie tapped a finger against the wheel. "You ever get the chance, though—crash one. No one questions a man in a suit. Just walk in like you belong."

Albion hummed.

"Noted."

They turned a corner, and Albion caught sight of the commotion ahead. Workers bustled under umbrellas, rolling out a deep red carpet in front of a grand building. A silver marquee shimmered faintly in the rain, etched with the words MIDNIGHT GALA. Bright floodlights illuminated the scene, casting sharp shadows across the wet pavement.The cabbie clicked his tongue. "Told you. Always some bloody spectacle going on."

Albion shook his head, watching the crowd with mild curiosity. "Good for them."

The cabbie let out a low chuckle, his voice tinged with amusement. "Good for them, he says. Meanwhile, the rest of us are out here dodging potholes and paying sixty quid for a cup of coffee."

Albion smirked. "Sounds like you need a raise."

"Damn right I do," the cabbie muttered as he pulled up to the curb. The Archives loomed ahead, all brutalist architecture and cold concrete.

The cab's brakes squealed slightly as they came to a stop. Albion reached for the door handle just as the cab's meter pinged softly, automatically deducting the fare from his crypto wallet.

"Thanks for the ride," Albion said, stepping out.

The cabbie leaned out the window with a grin. "Don't let them bury you in there, mate. Crown's places are like mazes—easy to get lost in."

Albion gave him a nod before turning toward the building, shaking off the last remnants of warmth from the cab.

As he stepped inside, he realized he might just miss that conversation more than he expected.

Inside, the National Archives was sterile and lifeless, its fluorescent lights buzzing faintly. The air carried the faint tang of cleaning chemicals, mixing with the damp scent of rain-soaked coats. A queue stretched along one wall, filled with tired people clutching papers and muttering to themselves.

Albion stepped in, shaking off the rain from his jacket and absently brushing a few stray droplets from his glasses. He glanced around, taking in the kind of small, mundane details that made places like this feel timelessly oppressive.

A faded motivational poster hung crookedly on one wall, its peeling edges curling like dried parchment. "INFORMATION IS POWER!" it declared in bold, government-issued enthusiasm. Someone had scrawled "Not if you can't access it" just below in tiny, rebellious handwriting. Albion smirked.

To his right, an elderly woman sighed dramatically, shifting a hefty stack of folders in her arms. "I swear," she muttered to no one in particular, "I'll die before they process a single form in this place." A younger man behind her, dressed in a rumpled suit, nodded solemnly. "You and me both, love."

Further down the line, a bored-looking teenager was slumped against a chair, headphones in, absently flicking through his phone. A faint game notification chimed from his screen—some kind of turn-based strategy. Albion caught a glimpse of the screen. He was losing. Badly. The kid sighed, rubbing his temples.

Albion exhaled slowly. Bureaucracy. The great equalizer.

He moved toward the central information desk, where a young clerk—early twenties, messy hair, and an air of someone deeply underpaid—was scrolling through his display with the enthusiasm of a man contemplating the meaninglessness of existence.

Albion exhaled slowly, resting his hands on the counter. The young clerk—the unmistakable aura of someone who'd long since abandoned any ambitions of customer service excellence—barely glanced up from his display.

"What do you need?" the clerk asked, voice flat, his fingers still idly scrolling.

"Death records," Albion said smoothly. "British citizens. Last eighteen years. Specifically, those who died outside the Dominion."

The clerk didn't even blink. "Outside the United Crown?"

Albion nodded. "Correct."

The clerk frowned, finally looking up from his screen just long enough to appear as though he might care. "Anything foreign's restricted," he said, setting his display aside as if this conversation was already over. "You'll need clearance from Birmingham."

Albion sighed dramatically. "Of course. Because why wouldn't death be classified?" He leaned in slightly. "Look, is there some kind of expedited process? Maybe a, I don't know, 'my father's long dead and I'd like to know why without waiting six months for a stamp of approval' form?"

The clerk gave him the dead-eyed stare of a man who had heard every variation of this complaint before. "No expedited process. Standard request takes three to five business weeks."

Albion resisted the urge to run a hand down his face. "You know, if I needed these records in Avalon, I could bribe a librarian with a good bottle of wine, and they'd have the whole damn archive unlocked in an hour."

The clerk let out a slow, unimpressed blink. "Well, unfortunately, sir, this is London. And we require proper authorization."

Albion feigned surprise. "No! Really? Here I was thinking I'd just walked into a friendly, customer-first establishment. I should've known when I wasn't greeted with warm tea and biscuits."

The clerk's lips twitched. For a brief moment, Albion thought he might actually smile. But then, as if remembering his place in the bureaucratic machine, the clerk shut the amusement down with the efficiency of a guillotine.

"If you need further assistance, sir, you can file an official inquiry," the clerk said, pulling a form from beneath the counter and sliding it toward him like a dealer in a high-stakes poker game.

Albion picked it up, eyeing the absurd length of fine print, footnotes, and checkboxes. He flicked a glance back at the clerk. "Let me guess. The only way to submit this is by post."

"Processing office is in Manchester," the clerk replied, monotone. "But you can pay an extra fee to have it mailed for you."

"Oh, fantastic," Albion muttered. "A bureaucratic scam with an upcharge. The Crown really has thought of everything."

The clerk shrugged. "If you're unhappy with the process, you can file a complaint." He slid over another form.

Albion chuckled dryly. "Do you just have a form for every possible inconvenience?"

"Yes." The clerk nodded, dead serious. "And there's another form if you'd like to contest the inconvenience of those forms."

Albion tapped the counter twice and stepped back. "Alright. You win this round."

Albion didn't leave. Instead, he lingered near the edges of the room, his sharp gaze studying how people moved, how clerks handled the flow of requests. The runes along his arm burned faintly, urging him to act. Albion clenched his fists. Not yet.

He approached a kiosk, navigating its menus quickly. The screen flickered faintly, leading him in frustrating circles until a sharp voice interrupted him.

"Excuse me," a woman said. Albion turned to see a middle-aged clerk with tired eyes and a clipped tone. "You're not authorized to access foreign records."

"Didn't realize I was accessing anything," Albion said, offering a faint smile. "Just browsing."

"Step away from the kiosk," she said coldly. "If you need assistance, file a request."

"Right," Albion muttered, stepping back with his hands raised. "Wouldn't want to upset the bureaucracy gods."

The woman gave him a sharp look before returning to her desk. Albion's jaw tightened.

Albion made one last attempt, this time riding the elevator to the third floor. When the doors opened, he stepped into a dim corridor lined with rows of filing cabinets and shelves. Labels marked the cabinets in fading text: Domestic Deaths, Special Circumstances, Foreign Records.

A drawer labeled Foreign Deaths: Special Cases caught his eye. He tugged at the handle. Locked.

"Figures," he muttered.

The runes beneath his sleeve burned brighter now, an insistent hum in the back of his mind. Albion shoved his hands into his pockets, forcing himself to ignore it.

A stern-looking woman at a desk glanced up as he approached. "Excuse me," Albion said, his voice calm but sharp. "I'm looking for some death records. British citizens. Outside Europa."

"Do you have clearance?" she asked flatly.

"Not exactly," Albion admitted. "But it's personal. My father."

"Restricted records," she said. "You'll need clearance."

Albion's patience snapped. "Is that your answer for everything?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Security," she called sharply.

Two security guards flanked Albion, each gripping an arm as they marched him toward the exit with the overzealous determination of men who had been waiting all day for something interesting to happen.

"You really don't need to do this," Albion muttered, dragging his feet just enough to be an inconvenience.

"Next time, follow the rules, kid," one of the guards grunted.

"Rules are for people who don't know how to bend them," Albion shot back. "Besides, I was just browsing. Didn't even touch anything."

"You were in the restricted archives," the other guard said, exasperated. "Trying to open a locked drawer."

Albion clicked his tongue. "Allegedly."

They pushed through the double doors, the cold London drizzle greeting them like an insult. One of the guards made a show of dusting off his hands, as though removing some imaginary grime from dealing with Albion.

"You're officially banned from the National Archives," the taller one said.

Albion raised his eyebrows. "You ban people from a public archive?"

The shorter guard smirked. "You'd be surprised how often it happens."

The doors slammed shut behind him, leaving Albion alone on the wet steps. He stood there for a moment, raindrops pooling on the brim of his hood, exhaling a slow breath.

Great. Back to square one.

Then, that feeling returned. The faint pressure at the base of his skull, like a set of eyes pressing against his spine. Someone was watching him.

His gaze flicked upward. A shadow retreated from one of the upper windows of the Records Office, just barely out of sight.

Albion's fingers twitched. He wasn't alone in his search.

Albion pulled his hood tighter against the persistent drizzle, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. The streets of London moved at their usual rhythm—umbrellas bobbing through the crowd, neon signs blinking against wet pavement, the distant rumble of robotaxis weaving through traffic.

For a moment, nothing felt urgent. Just the city, alive and indifferent.

A warm scent drifted from a nearby bakery—fresh bread, butter, maybe cinnamon. Albion slowed instinctively, drawn toward the simple, human comfort of it. Behind the rain-streaked window, an elderly woman sat at a small table, hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea. She stared out at the world, absentmindedly breaking off a piece of pastry, her expression unreadable.

He envied her, just for a second.

A child ran past him, laughing, their tiny red rain boots splashing through puddles. Their mother followed a step behind, breathless but smiling, pulling up her scarf as the wind shifted. Albion caught himself watching them, a strange knot tightening in his chest.

He missed normalcy.

Just for a moment, he let himself imagine what it would be like—to be that child again, to be the man in the café, to be anyone else but himself. Someone who didn't have runes burning under his skin, a prophecy stalking his every step, a destiny he never asked for.

But fate never let him pretend for long.

A sharp static hum cut through the air, faint at first, like a frequency just beyond human hearing. Then the streetlights flickered, casting long, fractured shadows across the wet pavement.

The scent of cinnamon vanished.

Albion stopped walking.

The crowd slowed too, as if an invisible force had pressed down on them, some ancient instinct warning them of a shift in the air. People turned, confused, searching for the source of their unease.

Then the sky split open.

Albion's breath hitched.

At first, it was just a shimmer, like heat rising off pavement. Then it ripped apart—a wound in the sky, jagged and unnatural, pulling inward like a great inhaling breath. A deep, swirling chasm of blue fire spread outward, the fabric of reality peeling away as if some great force was tearing down a veil that had existed for centuries.

A pulse of light flickered at its center—not warm, not inviting. Cold. Ancient. Wrong.

Inside the rain-streaked café window, an elderly woman let out a sharp gasp, her frail hands trembling. Her teacup slipped, shattering against the tile.

Someone screamed.

"Not now," Albion whispered. "Please, not now."

But the sky wasn't listening.

The streets of London fell still. People turned skyward, their faces cast in an eerie glow, eyes widening with a primal unease.

"What in the world is happening?" a man nearby exclaimed.

Albion followed their gaze.

The gray sky churned like a disturbed ocean, its clouds folding in on themselves, writhing and pulsing. The air thickened, heavy as iron, pressing against Albion's ribs, the weight of it almost unbearable. A low hum filled the space between breaths—not sound, not exactly. Something older. Something that did not belong here.

A child began to cry, the wail slicing through the unnatural stillness like a razor.

Then, the first pulse hit.

A wave of invisible force rippled outward, shattering windows, sending umbrellas spiraling into the sky. A bus skidded sideways, slamming into a row of parked cars as its driver lost control.

People flinched, stumbling back, the pressure ringing through their skulls like the toll of an ancient bell.

"Is it a storm?" someone asked, their voice quaking.

"That's no bloody storm!" another yelled.

The clouds parted violently, as though torn apart by invisible hands.

From the chasm of fire and void, a single spark emerged.

It was small, almost insignificant, but impossibly bright. Albion squinted, his glasses dimming the glare, but it was still too much—as if the light were burning through reality itself. The air crackled with an electric charge, sending a static hum crawling across Albion's skin.

A dog barked furiously, then yelped and cowered, its owner pulling it close.

Then, the spark expanded.

Its edges pulsed, stretching and writhing, forming a perfect circle of seething blue flame. The flames did not flicker; they ate away at the air itself, warping the space around them, devouring the laws of physics.

A man clutched his chest, gasping. "It's the end of the world!"

The second shockwave hit.

This time, it was stronger.

The blast rattled street signs, tore loose newspaper stands, knocked people to the ground. Some were flung backward, slamming into shop windows or onto the wet pavement.

And yet—Albion stood still.

His mind raced, fragments of stories rising to the surface—tales his father once told. Of prophecies, of realms beyond Earth, of a war that had raged before time had a name.

"You were born for this, Albion."

He clenched his fists. He didn't want to be.

But fate never gave him a choice.

The portal twisted—widened.

The air curdled, thick with the scent of sulfur and decay.

Albion's runic burns ignited beneath his jacket sleeve.

He barely registered the screaming, the chaos.

Because he could feel it now.

That ancient, terrible power reaching through the void, clawing its way into their world.

A presence vast, unstoppable.

The streetlights flickered violently. Their glow warped, bending as if space itself were unraveling. Albion's vision blurred, the edges of reality smearing like wet paint.

And then, it emerged.

A shape unlike anything human—something that did not belong in this world.

A mother grabbed her child, sobbing as she ran for her life.

A man fell to his knees, whispering prayers to gods that would not answer.

Albion exhaled slowly, stepping forward.

For a moment—

The world held its breath.

The portal seethed, its edges rippling as though reality itself was rejecting the intrusion.

Then, something stepped through.

Albion felt it before he saw it—the wave of heat radiating from the rift, thick and smothering, accompanied by a screech so unnatural it warped the very air.

The creature moved with grotesque elegance, six twisted limbs flexing in unison, its massive claws raking at the space around it—as if testing the fabric of the world it had entered.

The cow's head opened its mouth, emitting a low, guttural moan, its blindfold dripping with what Albion could only describe as liquid shadow. The goat's head, adorned with a golden diadem, scanned the crowd with unsettling intelligence, as though selecting prey. The third head—featureless except for a gaping maw of endless teeth—twitched violently, sensing magic in the air.

Then, a voice reverberated through the streets.

A voice that came from nowhere and everywhere at once.

"Witness. Despair. Kneel."

The words weren't spoken in any language Albion knew, yet their meaning was seared into his mind with brutal clarity.

His breath hitched. His runes burned.

People stood frozen in horror.

Then, the first scream cut through the silence.

The creature moved.

A blur of muscle and shadow, too fast for something so large. A single clawed limb swept through the street, ripping through cars, sending debris flying.

A mother clutched her child, her scream lost in the rising wave of terror as the crowd erupted into blind panic—shoving, trampling, clawing their way toward safety.

Albion shoved forward, his body moving before his mind could catch up.

The beast's many eyes snapped toward him.

For a moment, the world froze.

Then, a pulse of energy burst from the creature, sending waves of shimmering distortion outward. Albion threw up his arms as the shockwave shattered nearby windows, raining shards onto the fleeing masses.

His ears rang, but he saw one thing clearly—

The creature's massive claw rising, poised to strike the woman and child.

No time.

Albion lunged, throwing himself in front of them, arms outstretched.

"Run!" he shouted, his voice raw but firm.

The claw came down—

And his runes flared.

A barrier of pure light erupted from his skin, clashing against the creature's strike with a sound like thunder meeting steel.

The impact sent Albion skidding backward, his boots carving through the pavement. The force rattled through his bones, threatening to crush him under its sheer weight.

But he held.

The creature hissed, recoiling as steam rose from where its limb had touched the barrier.

For the first time, it hesitated.

Albion's knees buckled, but he stood his ground. He met its gaze.

"Right," he muttered, clenching his fists. "Guess we're doing this the hard way."

The beast shrieked, snatching pedestrians with grotesque relish. Their screams cut through the storm, fueling Albion's surging anger.

Enough.

He tore back his sleeve, revealing the intricate runes burned into his forearm.

At the center was a particular symbol—almost like a dragon, intertwined with ancient script. His father had told him it was a birthright tattoo, but deep down, Albion had always known it was more.

His fingers traced it. His blood burned.

"Excalibur."

A sharp pain shot through him as the runes ignited.

Searing light burst from his skin, curling into the air, filling his veins with energy so overwhelming it nearly brought him to his knees.

Wind spiraled outward, pushing back the darkness.

The legendary sword appeared.

It hovered before him, forming from nothing, from everything—silver steel lined with pulsing runes, its sapphire gemstone gleaming like captured starlight.

Albion reached out.

The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, a shockwave rippled through the battlefield.

The creature staggered. It could feel it.

So could Albion.

The sword felt… right. Like it had always been waiting for him.

A slow, confident smile tugged at his lips.

"Well." He exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Now."

The beast's many eyes narrowed.

Then, it lunged.

Albion moved instinctively, rolling sideways, Excalibur slicing across—

The blade met flesh.

A screech tore through the air as black ichor spewed from the severed limb, sizzling against the pavement.

The monster recoiled, its heads snapping in discordant agony.

"That had to hurt," Albion quipped, adjusting his grip.

The creature twisted, enraged. Its form shimmered, shifting like a mirage. Then—

It was gone.

Albion barely had time to react before something massive struck him from behind.

The impact sent him hurtling through the air.

His body crashed against a car, denting metal, his ribs screaming in protest.

Through the ringing in his skull, he heard the voice again.

"Witness. Despair. Kneel."

Albion coughed, gripping the car's edge as he forced himself upright.

The beast loomed above him, breathing deep, tasting the air.

Tasting his magic.