Chapter 14 – Strike the Heavens First

Crownless King: The Heir of the Forgotten Throne

Chapter 14 – Strike the Heavens First

Three long days had elapsed since the enigmatic Seraphim Zero had inexplicably vanished from existence, leaving a lingering uncertainty hovering in the air like a dense fog.

During this period, Kael, the once-relentless warrior, found himself ensnared in a restless cycle of wakefulness. He hadn't managed to steal more than an hour of sleep each night, yet it was not driven by the gnawing pains of physical wounds nor the icy grip of fear that usually shadows the hearts of men in perilous situations. No, what tormented him was something much rarer and far more formidable—an overwhelming surge of conviction, a fierce belief in the rightful course of action that burned brightly within him.

Nestled within the ruins of Leyforge, Seris could be seen sitting cross-legged, her figure silhouetted against the soft glow of a small, cold flame that flickered weakly beside her. Engaged in the meticulous act of sharpening one of her daggers, she appeared calm and composed on the surface, but the truth lay beneath—her wounds were healing mostly, at least on the physical level. There lingered an echo of pain in her silence, a remnant of the traumas she had endured, a ghost that haunted her thoughts.

As Kael approached, the air around him crackled with the remnants of chaos; his coat bore the marks of soot and the charred remnants of ancient runes—a testament to battles fought recently. He could feel Seris's eyes on him, even though she did not raise her gaze.

"You're planning something," she stated flatly.

Kael let out a deep breath, allowing the weight of his intention to settle in the air between them. "I'm done reacting," he replied with a newfound steadiness in his voice. "I want the Twelve to understand what it feels like to experience fear."

This proclamation caused a moment of hesitation in her actions, causing her to momentarily break from her task.

He extended a hand, revealing a scroll that bore the marks of urgency. As she unrolled it, her expression shifted into one of focus, her eyes narrowing as she examined the detailed contents.

A map lay before her, a meticulously crafted design detailing the locations of ley-gates, the blind spots of the Citadel, and amidst it all, a singular name circled vividly in red:

Taking in a deep breath, Seris released it slowly, her disbelief evident in her tone. "You're insane."

In response, Kael offered her a faint smile that seemed to hold the weight of a thousand burdens.

"Good," he replied, the gleam of his determination striking through. "Because I'm not just trying to survive anymore." He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to echo in the silence that enveloped them. "I'm going to break their sky."

In a moment of clarity that cut through the chaos of their plans, Tarin explained the significance of Sanctum Prime with a precision that could not be disputed:

"It's not merely a fortress; it's their cathedral—the oldest structure that still maintains a direct link to the Twelve. This edifice was erected above a ley well that sinks deeper than anything else remaining on this continent. Here, they don't just house knowledge."

He leaned in closer, the intensity of his voice rising as he shared the essence of what sanctum truly meant.

"They store power."

And Kael, with each beat of his heart and every breath he took, realized that if he could reach that power—

If he could disrupt the very core of their strength—

He wouldn't merely send a message; he'd overturn the entire board upon which they played their game.

Their plan was straightforward, yet filled with risk. They intended to enter through the ancient scholar tunnels that snaked beneath the earth, a labyrinthine pathway leading to the Citadel's innermost sanctums. The objective was to breach the outer ring at nightfall, slipping through the shadows like ghosts into the ley-core to unleash a memory pulse strong enough to fracture the nullfield surrounding the sanctum.

It was a plan that did not boast perfection. But he thought, it didn't have to be flawless either.

Kael recoiled from the notion of perfection; he craved noise. He craved the kind of chaos that would shatter their complacency.

On the night they chose for their audacious mission, dark clouds swallowed the moonlight, cloaking the atmosphere in an oppressive gloom. The wind howled with ferocity across the ancient stone bridges as Kael, accompanied by Seris and Tarin, deftly maneuvered past the first gate.

Every wall of the interior was a masterpiece, bleeding elegance, while intricately carved arches hummed with protective wards that whispered tales of their makers. Yet, amidst this ornate beauty, none of it held any relevance in this moment.

Kael had already tasted something far more valuable—he had touched the Vault, and he understood now that Sanctum Prime was nothing more than a cathedral erected by the trembling hands of cowards.

They navigated the twisting passages and arrived at the ley-core chamber in a mere twelve minutes, a feat accomplished in tension-laden silence. However, as if sensing their intrusion, alarms erupted—their warning not coming from mechanical noise but rather from memory detection.

The moment Kael stepped into the core, a powerful force stirred within him—

The crown that hung heavily on his back roared to life.

He Saw Everything.

Visions flooded his mind; the history of the first Twelve unfurled before him—the pact they had so treacherously broken, the innocent children they branded with their marks, the kings they hollowed out, and the very sky from which they had bled.

But amidst the tumultuous wave of revelations, he saw something else emerging—a door.

Buried deep within the sanctum, it was sealed tight, guarded fiercely, yet pulsating with a primal life of its own.

Kael's voice dipped into darkness, conjuring an urgent weight as he turned to his comrades. "Change of plan," he declared, his tone as grave as the revelation he had just encountered.

Tarin blinked, confusion etched across his face. "What?"

"We're not merely disrupting their well," Kael pressed, his gaze fixed intently on the hidden stairwell that lay obscured behind the grand altar. "We're going deeper."

Seris's grip tightened on his arm, the urgency in her voice rising. "Kael—whatever lies beneath there wasn't part of our plan."

Kael paused, turning to meet her gaze. His eyes shimmered with a gold-silver intensity, unyielding in their resolve.

"I'm not following plans anymore," he stated calmly, his voice almost soothing in its honesty.

The door was imposing, constructed from an unforgiving stone, devoid of any runes or protective wards. It bore only a solitary handprint, carved into its surface centuries ago.

Resolute, Kael stepped forward, placing his hand against the stone, feeling a connection spark at their contact.

In an awe-inspiring moment, the stone seemed to melt away as the door whispered softly:

"Welcome back, Crownless."

Inside, they were greeted by sights that could rattle even the stoutest of hearts:

A sword encased carefully within a glass prison, its purpose ominous and historical.

A name was scrawled in gold—elegant yet tainted.

And a body lingered in stasis, preserved in death.

The sword shimmered, a relic steeped in fractured memory—the weapon that belonged to the very first Crownless. Crafted not from mundane steel but forged from the raw essence of regret itself.

With awe and trepidation, Tarin exclaimed, "That's not just a weapon. That's a relic sin."

Kael approached the glass, reaching out to touch it lightly. The moment his fingers grazed the surface, the crown surged wildly within him.

The blade cracked open.

Suddenly—

Kael found himself in a place far removed from the confines of stone and shadow. He stood on a battlefield woven from stars, glimmering constellations stretching endlessly in all directions.

Before him stood Seyra Veynn, alive and unscathed, her presence radiating power and grace.

"You found it," she stated softly, a hint of recognition playing across her features.

Kael nodded resolutely, a fire igniting within him. "I'm going to finish what you started."

Seyra tilted her head slightly, her expression shifting to one of profound understanding.

"Then take it," she said. "But grasp this truth—once you draw that blade, you relinquish your identity as a boy with fire."

Her words lingered in the air like a sacred decree. "You will become the flame—they were right to fear."

Kael held her gaze, unwavering in his conviction.

And without flinching, he replied with a clarity that resonated deep within him:

"Good."

The battlefield faded away into nothingness, dissolving like a mirage in the heat of a desert.

Kael found himself standing once more in the heart of the Cradle Vault—an ancient sanctum pulsing with the echoes of history and power. The air was thick with the remnants of past battles, and the very walls seemed to hum with energy. In his grasp, he clutched the hilt of his formidable blade, its metallic surface glinting ominously in the dim light. But that wasn't all; the Crown, an intricate piece of regalia wrought from dark metals and encrusted with shimmering gems, pulsed rhythmically atop his brow, its aura radiating an unsettling blend of strength and foreboding.

And for the very first time—

The Twelve, those once-unflinching bastions of authority and control, felt a deep and primal fear creeping into their hearts.

In the grand hall where the Council convened, a sudden chaos erupted as the glass masks, which had shielded the identities of the Twelve, fractured one by one with sharp, echoing cracks. Each shattering lens elicited gasps of disbelief, the sound reverberating through the chamber like a death knell. An elder, his voice a mix of aged wisdom and raw anxiety, screamed in despair, "He has the First Flame!" His words hung in the air, heavy with dire implications.

Another voice rang out, youthful and filled with bitterness, each syllable laced with a palpable sense of regret: "We waited too long." The unspoken truth of their procrastination loomed large, tangible in the tense atmosphere, as the weight of their complacency became undeniable.

Then, from the highest seat, enshrined in shadows and authority, a chilling whisper permeated the room—a command that dripped with urgency and dread: "Begin the Leviathan Protocol." The gravity of those words cast a dark pall over the assembled Council, for the Leviathan Protocol was a last-resort mechanism designed to cope with world-ending threats.

This was no ordinary confrontation; on this day, the stakes had escalated to an unfathomable height, and the very fate of the realm hung in the balance. A hushed dread swept through the assembly as the reality settled: "The world dies… or the Crownless does." The dichotomy stood starkly before them, a brutal choice between preserving their crumbling legacy or sacrificing a young man who represented a new hope, albeit one fraught with peril.

To be continued...