Ash rained from a sky with no sun. Not darkness. Not light. Just the grey in between. A boy stood at the edge of a forgotten village, staring at a statue that bled.
"You feel it, don't you?" said the old man beside him. "The pull."
The boy nodded. "Who was he?" He curiosly asked.
The old man hesitated. Then he laughed, dry and broken. "No one. And everyone. A lie we tried to kill. A god… no. A devil that we failed to bury."
The statue was crude, almost like it had been carved in rage and lividity. A man with broken chains around his limbs. His eyes weren't sculpted, but burnt into the stone. Beneath his feet, something had been scratched in over and over again until the stone cracked.
"From the dust you were formed. To the dust you will return."
"It's just a statue," the boy whispered.
The old man's voice went quiet. "That's what they said last time."
And then the ground trembled. Just slightly. Just enough.
….
Lancelot walked the dusty road to market, a bull plodding beside him on a leash. The beast followed unusually close, almost protectively.
"Why do I always have to do this?" he sighed.
He was tall for his age, with messy orange hair and hazel eyes. Farm life had given him a distinctly muscular build, though he still looked like any other village teen — neither too skinny nor overly broad.
Suddenly, pain lanced through his chest. Lancelot clutched at his ribs, breath hitching as the familiar ache overwhelmed him for several long seconds. It had started when he was a small child, happening twice, sometimes three times a week. Lately it had grown more frequent. He told himself it would pass, the same way he had for years.
It had become a sort of broken lullaby — one he kept humming to himself.
Speaking of which… he began to hum the old song his mother used to sing. The melody was soothing, even if it always felt incomplete, stopping right before the final note.
The walk from their humble cottage to the market wasn't long, but Lancelot hated the noise and the forced socializing that came with it.
To his surprise, no one tried to rob him on the way.
Maybe today will actually be different, he thought as he set up his stand.
BIG, FAT, HEALTHY BULL — 250 GOLD COINS
"Now all that's left is to sell this thing quickly and pray he doesn't show up—"
A hard kick landed between his shoulder blades.
Lancelot staggered forward, then turned to face the person he dreaded most: the duke's eldest son — tall, blonde, dressed in rich attire, flanked by his usual gang of rotten rich friends.
"Well, if it isn't the farm boy himself," the blonde sneered. "Still trying to dig your family out of the debt you caused? You disgust me. Just looking at you makes my skin crawl."
His friends burst into laughter.
Lancelot's jaw tightened. The voice alone made his blood boil. He wanted to punch the smug bastard again, but he remembered what happened last time — more problems for his family, possibly even higher debt. This was the duke's son, after all.
He scanned the group, analyzing their stances.
"Looks like Mr. Richards' inn is going to make good money today," Lancelot said loudly enough for them all to hear.
The gang exchanged glances before laughing louder. "What's with the retard today? Didn't your mother teach you any manners?"
The red-haired boy charged with a wild punch. Lancelot sidestepped and countered with a sharp kick to the face, sending him sprawling. Before the boy could rise, Lancelot stomped down on his head, pinning him.
"Aren't you going to help your friend?" Lancelot asked the rest calmly, though anger simmered just beneath the surface.
They started forward, but the blonde raised a hand. "Did you already forget what happened last time? We'll settle this after the grand announcement. You'd better listen closely, Grieves."
He dragged his groaning friend away, the rest of the gang following.
Grand announcement? Lancelot thought, turning back to his bull, which had calmly sat down without wandering off. He quickly tied it in place and patted its head.
Suddenly, the sound of running feet filled the air. People were rushing toward the podium a short distance away — a raised platform used for announcements, performances, or executions.
Lancelot stepped out from behind his stand, curious. It was far more crowded than usual. He had enough space to move, but the excitement in the air was thick.
A cloaked stranger brushed past him roughly. Lancelot grabbed the person's wrist on instinct.
The hood fell back, revealing a freckled face and striking golden brown eyes. The girl looked at him with pure horror, as if she were fleeing from something terrible.
She tried to yank away, but his grip held firm.
"Mind if I ask a question?" Lancelot said.
"Mind if you let me go?!" she demanded, muscles tense.
Ignoring her protest, he asked, "What's happening over there?"
She glared, but realized he wouldn't release her until she answered.
"It's the declaration of a new Great Adventurer. The second one, to be precise. Now can I leave?"
Another Great Adventurer?
Lancelot's eyes lit up with excitement. He released her and quickly climbed onto the back of his bull for a better view. The animal was used to his antics by now.
The crowd surged forward as a royal carriage arrived. Knights formed two neat lines on either side of the door.
Four figures emerged.
Two wore silver armor with golden accents. The fourth — a woman — wore striking black and crimson armor with a matching cape that flowed behind her like blood. Her red hair caught the light as she scanned the crowd with dark brown eyes.
Lancelot's breath caught.
Holy— It's the Four Ark Knights.
He had always thought they were just myths. Seeing them in person felt… strangely underwhelming. He had expected more.
Then his gaze met the Crimson Knight's.
Her eyes burned with fury and authority. Lancelot felt small under that stare, but he refused to look away first. He stared back, long and hard.
A silent battle of wills.
It didn't last long. The crimson knight eventually turned her head away, breaking the contact.
Ha! Authority my ass!
A small, petty victory, but Lancelot took pride in it.
He studied the other knights. A massive, bulky man with a wild brown beard stood at the back, arms crossed, a battle axe nearly as tall as Lancelot resting beside him.
Mountain Crushing Ivar! He is a bloody giant!
At the front left was a handsome man with short black hair and bright blue eyes that seemed to drink in everything. The girls behind Lancelot squealed in delight when he waved at them.
The last knight was a strikingly beautiful woman with silver-blonde hair and soft red eyes. She wore no armor, only a light blue silk cloak, and floated just slightly above the ground while leaning lazily on a staff.
Lancelot heard the girls behind him hiss with envy. "That witch must be using magic to look that perfect."
He almost smiled.
Suddenly, a rather short and stout man in royal attire stepped forward, holding a parchment.
"Ahem!" he called, but the crowd continued murmuring.
"Ahem!" he tried again, voice high and ignored.
"SILENCE!" a powerful voice boomed, washing over the square like a physical wave.
Lancelot nearly lost his balance. He turned in awe toward the giant knight.
The plump man nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Lady Naryl."
She yawned, looking half-asleep.
Lancelot's jaw dropped. That had come from the elegant woman?
The announcer cleared his throat once more.
"Now! I would like to announce the ceremony you have all been waiting for… ever since the rumors began."
"The rise of a new Great Adventurer. The second to bear that title."
He gestured toward the carriage.
"The royal family will now take over!"
The carriage door opened.
First came a young princess with jade-green eyes and a sweet smile that seemed to captivate every man present.
Then the king, broad and imposing, his thick brown beard nearly hiding his mouth, wearing rich red robes and a heavy golden crown.
The duke followed in a pristine black-and-white suit, a prominent scar marking his face. The duchess and their son walked beside him in matching finery.
Lancelot clenched his teeth at the sight of the duke's son.
The grand announcement was about to begin.