In the far north, where the strongest empire in the continent stood proud, the King and a dozen of his trusted supporters gathered for an important meeting.
"The Oracle has spoken," the King of the Aetherion Empire said coldly. "The prophesied child isn't dead."
"Impossible!" a man wearing a mask and a hooded cloak replied. "I saw him die. His body was encased in ice, and he shattered when he crashed to the bottom of the cliff. Are you telling me that he turned into an Undead, or a vengeful spirit?"
King Aetherion XIII looked at the man. A man who should've also died back then.
He was none other than the Paragon of Ice, whom the Guardian of the North had defeated several years ago.
His original body had been destroyed in that battle, but the Paragon of Ice had always been the most paranoid out of all the Paragons.
He feared dying so much that he had used the power of alchemy to create the most perfect homunculus that would serve as his vessel.
