Prolog: Nethermere Conquest
Three years ago, Nethermere’s skyline decided it was time for a change—a crack opened up in the sky, not for fresh air, but to introduce the local populace to their new neighbors: a legion of spaceships.
Yes, you read that right.
Not dragons, not flying chariots, but spaceships. Thousands of them, because well, quantity has a quality all its own.
These interstellar tourists came from what they deemed a “higher” civilization, with intentions to add Nethermere to their cosmic collection of conquered lands.
With technology so advanced it made quantum physics seem like toddler's babble, they traversed realms, searching for resource-rich mines as naturally as a river flows to the sea.
Their arsenal? Oh, just your everyday laser cannons, force fields capable of shrugging off nuclear explosions, and AI so smart it could outwit centuries of strategic military thinking.
They faced realms of all sorts, winning some over with the cunning of intergalactic salesmen and bulldozing others with the subtlety of a star going supernova.
For them, Nethermere, with its quaint medieval charm and technology so archaic it might belong in an ancient history museum (they say), felt like a stroll through a cosmic park.
"Crush and occupy," they declared. Straightforward strategy commenced—no need for underhanded methods when facing off against sword-swinging, horseback-riding folks, right?
But suddenly, their invasion ground to an abrupt halt, all thanks to a single man.
King Burn of Soulnaught Kingdom decided he wasn't in the mood for visitors.
Okay now, picture this: spaceships, engines humming with visions of new territories, suddenly blasted into cosmic fireworks. And the culprit?
A man with nothing but his bare fists, a bit of "cruel” magic, and also, well, probably a disdain for unwelcome house guests.
King Burn wasn’t just a man; he was a one-man army, a force of nature.
As these futuristic vessels crumbled under his might, you could almost hear the invaders' confidence shattering into a billion pieces.
Here was a guy who didn't need lasers or AI; he had his fists and spells that made their advanced weaponry look like toys. It was as if an ancient hero, usually seen brandishing a sword in myths, decided to show the universe what real power looked like.
So there they were, a civilization that had conquered realms, brought to their knees not by another advanced civilization, but by a single man from a world they deemed "primitive."
No.
Just maybe, if that man hadn't been born, they would have
That was, however, three years ago. It was a different story today.
Thus, following Burn's cosmic reprimand, our gallant invaders experienced a lightbulb moment. Considering that using force was ineffective, it was necessary to implement "Plan B: Make Friends and Influence People... to Destroy Themselves."
Clever, huh? Instead of employing laser guns, they exchanged grins and handshakes and concentrated on trading strategies. "We apologize for damaging your sky, but let's trade!"
"We'll give you shiny tech gadgets in exchange for... well, the very fabric of your society."
Their products were indeed too excellent to resist.
Imagine having a hoverbike instead of a horse, a perpetual lightbulb in place of a candle, a fusion reactor installed in your ancient royal chariot, and armor with a built-in temperature control system.
Is there anyone who could refuse? Not the aristocrats and nobility, who jumped at the chance to associate with these new, incredibly giving merchants.
The invaders whispered sweet nothings into the ears of the powerful, sowing seeds of distrust and ambition. "Did you see Lord So-and-So's new anti-gravity cloak? Bet you wish you had one. Maybe if you weren't such good friends with Duke What's-His-Name..."
And just like that, the powerful people of the land started eyeing each other like the last slice of cake at a birthday party. The once unified front against the invaders crumbled faster than a cookie in zero gravity.
In three short years, the land was rife with chaos, all because of a few well-placed bargains and baubles.
Let's give a round of applause to our space-faring friends, shall we?
They turned interstellar invasion into a masterclass in manipulation. Well, it wasn’t like they never did so before. It was just classic for experienced space invaders like them.
Who needs an all-out war when you can just get the locals to tear each other apart over the latest intergalactic knick-knacks?
Bravo, invaders, bravo. You've successfully turned advanced conquest into the galaxy's longest and most absurd episode of "Pawn Stars."
Until…
"Do you think King Burn is... you know, a bit harsh?"
"What? He wasn't just harsh; I heard he killed his own brother in the civil war because the man dared to suggest a different wine for dinner! Well, maybe not just that, but I heard it was just over petty things!"
"Really? That's nothing. My cousin's friend told me Burn's cruelty knows no bounds. He banished his aide for buttoning his shirt wrong. Imagine, his aide!"
"Banished his aide? Come on, that's child's play. I heard from a reliable source that he threw a jester into the dungeon for being not funny. Said it was 'high treason against humor.'"
"No way! Well, did you know he outlawed sneezing within a hundred paces of him because he believes it steals his thoughts? That's why nobody dares to even sniffle at court!" Sёarch* The NôvelFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.
"That's utterly bizarre. But it makes sense. I heard he sleeps on a bed of swords to prove he's the toughest around. Claims it gives him 'dreams of steel.'"
"Do you think any of it's true?"
"Who knows? But it sure makes for a good tale. Just don't whisper too loud; the walls have ears, and they might just report back to our dear 'merciful' King Burn."
Oh, you would hope it was just these kinds of silly rumors. In truth, it wasn’t. Or to be certain, it started silly, and it became an image.
The reason for the civil war five years ago started to be questioned.
Everyone thought it was treason against the kingdom, but slowly, they started to think that it was rooted in how horrible of a king Burn was, and his brother wanted to take over the throne from him.
“Y… Your Majesty…”
“They even used my history with my brother, huh?” Burn, sitting on his throne, muttered.
Ranks of ministers, nobles, knights and aides kneeling in front of him in that opulent hall, drenched in sweat.
The man sitting on the throne sneered, “Reports have been quite interesting these days.”
King Burn lounged on his throne, eyeing the sea of kneelers before him.
No one had asked them to kneel, but there they were, sweat pooling, as if the floor had suddenly become the most fascinating aspect of the room.
‘Aaaah, today, the hall’s floor is so cold and refreshing, polished so meticulously that it was squeaky clean… kudos to the palace servants… fuck, I hope I can keep my head…’
Shift.
All bodies stiffened as they heard their King shifted on his seat.
“Heh…”
They heard their king chuckling! A goosebumps ran down their spine, simultaneously.
"Gather round, folks, for the tale of how I, the 'Burn the villain,' apparently won the civil war by being mean to my brother. Because, you know, no one's ever won a war being nice."
There was silence in the room as everyone's ears were tuned to the sarcasm that was dripping from his words like honey.
"And then there are the space invaders. Me? I used a broom to simply chase them away. I mean, that's how interplanetary wars get resolved, right? A classic dust-up."
He took a moment to process the ridiculousness. "But oh, no, let's not talk about saving the world. Let's gossip about how I supposedly throw people into dungeons for looking at me funny. Because, clearly, that's the kind of thing that keeps me all giddy."
The audience shuffled with nervousness. No one dared to get up, their loyaltyᅳor maybe fearᅳanchoring them to the spot.
"Now, I hear these delightful rumors are courtesy of our extraterrestrial friends. Divide et impera, am I right? Ohh, so classic."
Burn's gaze swept over them, as cold and sharp as ever. "So, here we are, playing into their hands, turning against each other over whispers and shadows. Honestly, I expected better. But hey, what do I know? I'm just the tyrant on the throne."
As he leaned back, a calm smirk played on his lips. The message was clear: trust the rumors at your peril. Not just his own nasty rumor, but any rumor.
The hall was silent as they tread the line between rumor and reality, and the razor-thin ice upon which they all skated.
THUD!
As Burn's metal heel descended to the floor after he straightened his crossed legs, the court started to expect something.
With a motion as methodical as the breaking of dawn, King Burn got up from his seat.
Every heart stopped in mid-beat, every eye was fixated on him, and the quiet grew. He spoke, his voice like a razor slicing through the tension, his sigh seeming to carry the weight of the entire universe.
"Enough," he exhaled, his voice resonating against the gold and marble. It was a straightforward statement that seemed to come straight from the gods.
"It would be embarrassing to let these outsiders be. No, it would be my shame," he said again, his tone nonchalant yet loaded with the kind of authority that overthrow murmurs and whispers.
He moved with a certainty that made it clear—this was not a mere shift in strategy; it was a declaration of war, but on his terms.
"Their game is clear," Burn announced, every syllable heavy with resolve, "and I intend to play. Not as a pawn, but as the sole player. Conquer? Yes, but it will be I who conquers."
The air in the hall turned electric, his advisors, ministers, and knights hanging on every word, witnessing the moment that would redefine the fate of their world.
"Soulnaught shall no longer be a mere kingdom," he proclaimed, his stance unwavering, the power of his presence undiminished. "From this day forth, it is an empire, and I, its emperor."
“And I declare war to take over the world before they can.”
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Chapter 1: Personal Red Carpet
Hissing fire.
Small explosions.
Wind carrying the scent of death.
Once a gorgeous site, the battleground was now a masterclass in colors of crimson and burned flair.
Not to be outdone, the sky decided red was actually its color, matching the destructive fireworks display below to perfection.
The battleships and mechas that stole the show have turned into giant lawn ornaments. Did they actually bring the room together? One might suggest?
Once shining in their technologically advanced armor, soldiers now lay trying to make out the not-so-ancient ruins.
And magicians, magicians, magicians! With wands of rare space ore in hand, they lay there definitively demonstrating that magic was not a panacea.
Especially not for war.
Especially not for him.
What? You're asking what odor was that? Ah, indeed, everything was blazing, and the delicious scent of victory permeated the air. Thus, there had been time to enjoy the silence as the last flame had burned out and the last drone had buzzed away.
There was a man standing in the middle of what seemed like the remnants of a cosmic clearance sale.
Not just any man, but one who appeared to have made a false turn while traveling to a post-apocalyptic, high-end photo session.
His white hair, which seemed to be radiating an ethereal light, provided a striking, almost beautiful contrast to the devastation all around it. Those golden eyes, too? Totally unfazed by the mayhem all around him, he shone with the cool assurance of someone who has just discovered the last slice of cake in a conflict zone.
There he was, standing like he owned the place, probably contemplating the eternal question: "To brunch or not to brunch?" amidst the carnage.
As fires raged and remnants of what once were fluttered in the acrid breeze, he remained as nonchalant as someone deciding on a latte or tea.
It was all as expected, of course. After all, he was him.
There stood Emperor Burn. His nonchalance let him seem as if he thought the blood soaked ground was his personal red carpet.
Not one to miss a beat in the political drama of Nethermere, he had turned his battlefield into a statement piece.
He said, clearly amused by the chaos around him, "You allow those outsiders to entice you with flashy technology and create wedges between us."
"You could have sworn loyalty to me, but you prioritized technology over people. What a disappointment, Wintersin Empire."
His sword, reduced to a glorified stick, was lying mounted on the blood-soaked ground.
"Ah, my faithful companion," he groaned, his shoulders bearing the weight of the world, or at least the weight of the destruction of his weapon.
This was a guy who had seen entire civilizations collapse and innumerable enemies perish, yet he grieved over a chunk of metal like a little child grieves over a broken toy.
"It's been quite the party, hasn't it?" He smirked as he made a joke, directed at nobody in particular.
But alas, it was the end of the road for his sword, a loss that seemed to sting more than the countless assets and lives he had laid to waste.
"More than any siege or skirmish, it's you, my trusty blade, that I'll pine for. What's an emperor without his sword? Just a man with a very expensive piece of metal, I suppose."
His sword started to crumble to dust.
It reminded him of the civil war some years ago. He killed his brother with his own two hands.
“You’re not the king’s son! I, Clarent, am his only son!”
It was before those invaders came.
Despite not being the real son of the king, he still killed his brother, the one with the real royal bloodline. Well, it wasn’t like he knew before that he wasn’t of the bloodline. He was raised as one nevertheless.
Burn recalled how it was similar to today. The red sky, the body scattered about… except the space junks and fancy tech he destroyed.
“It has been an eventful decade…”
Yes, since he was crowned the King, killed his brother for his rebellion in the civil war, stopped the invaders, and declared himself the emperor of the Soulnaught Empire.
Even if time turned back to a decade ago, he would still do the same.
He would change nothing.
With the collapse of the Wintersin Empire, the entire continent now lay within his grasp. And soon the world too…
Just as Burn was about to call it a day on the battlefield, hoping to catch up with his troops who were off having their own little skirmish elsewhere, a shadow flickered.
A woman.
Burn’s first reaction to it—no, his first thought when he saw what it was was… ‘beautiful’.
Blocking his path, she drew her blade with a flourish. Then, in a move that would leave even the most avant-garde playwright scratching their head, she screamed his full name—"Caliburn Soulnon Pendragon!"
SLICE!
Burn widened his eyes.
As she stood there, blocking his way, her face twisted in a visage of pure hatred, eyes ablaze with a fury that could ignite the very air. Then, with a sudden, eerie calm, she drew her blade across her own throat.
SPLAT!
Blood spilled on the already blood soaked ground. Red on top of the red, yet it looked redder than the charred ground.
Her face changed at that very instant, from hatred to a frantic, disturbing smile, as if, in her dying breath, she had accepted some sinister, twisted triumph.
It had a lasting influence, carving a raw, emotional anguish into her features before giving way to a terrifying peace.
And Burn—
***
Chirp…! Chirp chirp…
Rustle…
“Ugh!”
BLINK!
Burn suddenly opened his eyes, finding himself in the familiar surroundings of his room, on his bed.
“A dream?”
It was as if time had folded upon itself; one moment he was on the battlefield, and the next, he was here, the transition as seamless as a blink.
Remarkably composed, he stood up, his brain reeling with confusion. Drawing the boundaries of his reality with the brushstrokes of a dream, his thoughts kept going back to the vivid picture of the woman he had seen.
She was ethereal, an almost unearthly embodiment of beauty. Her beautiful blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders in a graceful manner, framing her face like liquid sunshine.
Her lofty stature and sharp, curvaceous figure conveyed a contradiction that combined strength and tenderness in equal measure. She moved with grace and fluidity in every motion, giving the impression that she was untouched by agitation or hurry.
Her eyes were the most noticeable feature; they were a deep blue that, on the clearest of days, matched the sky. They radiated a radiance, a brilliance that appeared to overwhelm her surroundings and overwhelm everything else in their shadow.
Burn observed a range of emotions reflected in those eyes, including fierceness, despair, resolve, and an eerie depth that suggested she held secrets as enormous as the oceans.
Burn sat on his bed, her appearance imprinted in detail in his memory with unexpected precision. Even though it might have been a dream, she felt as real to him as the air he breathed.
He felt confused, but also as though something precious had been taken from him by waking. He couldn't quite put his finger on it.
No.
She cut her own throat in front of him.
She robbed herself from him. Even in a dream—
KNOCK-KNOCK!
The door to his room was opened, and a man he knew as his closest aide entered.
“Your Majesty, the preparation for the war is complete.”
Burn raised his eyebrows. “Huh?”
Wasn’t the war… already over?