The throne room was silent.
Not the peaceful silence of an empty chamber, but the heavy, expectant silence of people waiting. Ministers stood in rigid formation along the walls, their expressions carefully neutral. Advisors clutched documents to their chests, eyes fixed on the floor. Guards lined the entrance, polished armor gleaming in the torchlight, their gazes locked straight ahead.
At the center of it all, on a throne of gilded stone that had sat empty for much of the past decade, sat the King.
Aultcray Melromarc XXXII.
The Wise King, they called him. The Hero who had singlehandedly thwarted the invasion of those barbarians from the north. The man who had led Melromarc through its darkest hour and emerged victorious. A legend. A figure many believed to be infallible.
The truth was... more complicated.
Aultcray's hands rested on the arms of the throne—steady, composed, the hands of a ruler. But they were also old hands. Veined. Trembling slightly, though no one in the room would dare notice. His face, once handsome and commanding, now bore the deep lines of decades of rule. His hair, once the color of burnished gold, had faded to silver-white.
He looked regal.
He looked every inch the Wise King.
But the Vassal Staff that should have rested beside his throne was absent. Had been absent for years now. Not because he had stopped being its wielder, but because the weapon itself had refused to be used by him.
The mighty Hero who had crushed the northern invasion was no more.
Now he was just a mage. A powerful one, certainly—decades of accumulated skill and knowledge didn't simply vanish. But power alone couldn't fill the void where the Staff had been. Couldn't erase the truth that he had been... rejected. Found wanting by the very tool that had made him legendary.
Aultcral pushed the thought aside. Dwelling on the past was weakness. And today, of all days, he could afford no weakness.
Today, he would make a choice.
His ministers shuffled nervously, clearly wondering why they had been summoned. The King rarely held court anymore—age had made him withdraw, made him prefer the solitude of his private chambers to the endless demands of petitioners and nobles. His appearance here, on the throne, in full regalia...
Something was happening.
They didn't know what.
Neither, truly, did Aultcray.
He looked down at his hands. At the ring on his finger—the ring his wife had given him on their wedding day, decades ago. A symbol of their union. A symbol of everything they had built together.
And now he was going to betray her.
The thought should have horrified him more than it did. Mirellia was the love of his life—brilliant, beautiful, fierce. The Queen who had stood beside him through war and peace, through triumph and tragedy. The woman who had given him children, who had shared his burdens, who had made him better than he ever could have been alone.
And he was going to act against her.
Not openly. Not in a way that could be traced back to him. But the orders he was about to give—the instructions he would whisper to the right people, the plans he would set in motion—they would undermine everything she was trying to build. Everything they had built together.
Because there was no choice.
The Devil Shield has to die.
The thought burned in his mind like a brand. That... thing that had been summoned from another world. That creature wearing the face of a hero. The Shield.
He knew the truth. Even if no one else did, even if the records had been sealed and the witnesses silenced, he knew.
The Shield was the symbol of those animals. Those barbarians. Those monsters who had butchered his people, who had raped and pillaged and destroyed everything in their path. Who had taken his little sister—
Aultcray's jaw tightened. He didn't let himself finish the thought. Didn't let himself remember her face, her voice, the way she had looked the last time he saw her.
But he remembered.
He always remembered.
And now the Shield had come again. A new vessel, a new face, but the same cursed power. The same hated symbol. The same threat to everything he had fought to protect.
It didn't matter that he hadn't committed any crimes, hadn't harmed anyone, hadn't done anything to justify the hatred directed at him. He was the Shield. That was enough.
The Shield had to suffer.
The Shield had to be humiliated, dragged through the mud, stripped of everything until he understood—truly understood—the weight of the crimes his symbol carried. He had to be broken. Destroyed. Made to feel even a fraction of the pain that Aultcray's people had endured at the hands of those animals.
And if that meant betraying his wife? If that meant acting against the Queen's carefully constructed policies of reconciliation and unity?
So be it.
Some things were more important than politics. More important than peace. More important than love.
I'm sorry, Mirellia.
Aultcray raised his head. His expression, when he spoke, was every inch the Wise King—calm, commanding, utterly in control.
"Summon the Heroes," he said. "All of them."
His ministers exchanged glances. One stepped forward hesitantly.
"Your Majesty, the Queen had arranged—"
"The Queen," Aultcray interrupted, his voice soft but carrying an edge that silenced the room, "is not here. I am."
The minister bowed hastily. "Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive me."
Aultcray waved a hand. "Go."
The minister hurried out.
The King settled back into his throne, hands steady now, eyes fixed on some point in the distance that no one else could see.
The Devil Shield will pay.
He will make sure of it.
After some time had passed, they were finally summoned.
Aultcray felt it before he saw it—the massive surge of magical energy being sucked from the ley lines beneath the castle. A familiar sensation, though it had been decades since he'd last stood close enough to a summoning to feel it directly. The world itself seemed to hold its breath for a single, stretched moment.
Then the energy released, and they were there.
Four young men, materializing in the castle as if they'd always been standing there. Disoriented. Confused. Dressed in strange clothing from whatever world they'd been pulled from.
Aultcray studied them from his throne, his expression carefully neutral. The Spear Hero was already looking around with wide-eyed wonder, apparently unbothered by the sudden translocation. The Sword Hero, Ren, stood quietly, his eyes scanning the room with the practiced assessment of someone used to evaluating threats. The Shield Hero—
Aultcray's gaze passed over him quickly, dismissively. The Devil's symbol. He would deal with that creature soon enough.
But the Bow Hero...
Before the sovereign could speak, his sharp eyes—seemingly accustomed to assessing threats from a lifetime of warfare—locked not on his face, but on the two dense, crimson orbs silently orbiting his shoulders.
Aultcray's composed expression faltered for a fraction of a second.
Those orbs.
He knew them.
He remembered them.
The battlefield. The northern front, decades ago. Standing back to back with Mirellia as wave after wave of barbarians crashed against their lines. The air thick with blood and magic and screams. And cutting through it all—those crimson spheres, dancing and weaving through the chaos, draining the life from anyone they touched.
Blood Drain. An ability possessed by only the most elite Shadows—assassins trained in the darkest magics, deployed only in the most desperate situations. The kind of ability that required a minimum level of seventy to even attempt, and years of practice to master.
And here was this boy—this newly summoned Hero, who by all rights should still be Level One—wielding it as easily as breathing.
Aultcray leaned subtly toward the official beside him, keeping his voice low. "The Bow Hero. What do we know of him?"
The official—a thin man with nervous eyes—glanced at Noritoshi, then back at the king. "Very little, Your Majesty. The summoning pulled them all simultaneously. The Bow Hero has... not been cooperative with our initial inquiries."
"Clearly." Aultcray's eyes didn't leave the crimson orbs. "Have our people avoid provoking him. For now."
The official paled. "Your Majesty?"
"You heard me." Aultcray's voice was flat. "Pass the order."
A stiff, nervous nod. "Yes, Your Majesty."
Aultcray straightened, his voice booming out to mask the moment of unease. "So, these four young men are the legendary Holy Heroes? I am Aultcray Melromarc the Thirty-Second, ruler of these lands. Heroes, show me your faces!"
His gaze swept across them—the Spear Hero grinning, the Sword Hero assessing, the Shield Hero glaring with barely concealed hostility. But it was the Bow Hero who held his attention.
Those orbs. Still orbiting. Still ready.
Aultcray focused on him directly, addressing the threat head-on. "You, wielder of the bow. The sacred implements you bear are meant for the protection of this world. There is no need for such... overt hostility within these walls. Stand down."
The command hung in the air.
He didn't flinch.
The blood orbs continued their slow, ominous rotation.
Aultcray saw the calculation in the boy's eyes—the same calculation he'd seen in a thousand soldiers over a lifetime of war. Assessing threats. Weighing options. Refusing to surrender the only advantage he had in an unknown situation.
He's not ordinary.
The thought settled into Aultcray's mind with uncomfortable weight. This wasn't a naive boy playing at heroism. This was someone who understood that safety was a luxury, not a right.
"My hostility is a response to an unwarranted kidnapping," The boy stated, his voice cutting through the hall's grandeur. "You speak of protection, yet you provide no assurance. Explain the terms of my presence, or the 'overt hostility' remains."
Silence.
The other Heroes watched, wide-eyed. The officials held their breath. The guards shifted uneasily, hands hovering near weapons no one wanted to draw.
Aultcray's jaw tightened.
He could order the boy restrained. Could have the guards overwhelm him with numbers. But those orbs... they would claim lives before anyone got close. And for what? To prove a point?
He's not ordinary. He couldn't be underestimated.
A compromise was needed.
"Very well." Aultcray's tone shifted—from command to negotiation, the voice of a ruler who understood when to bend rather than break. "You may retain your... precautions. But they must be sheathed. Contain them. Let them not be a visible threat to my subjects, who look to you for hope, not fear." He paused, letting the words settle. "In return, you have my word that no harm shall come to you while you hear our plea. You will have the full explanation you demand."
The boy considered this. Aultcray could see him weighing the offer, calculating the risks, searching for the trap.
Then, with a thought, the two blood orbs shot toward Noritoshi's free hand, merging into a single, fist-sized sphere held loosely at his side. The immediate threat was gone—contained, but palpably present. A promise held in reserve.
"Then speak," The Bow finally said, his stance still guarded. "I am listening."
Aultcray nodded slowly. "Now then, I shall begin. This country—no, this entire world—stands on the brink of destruction."
He launched into the explanation he'd prepared—the Waves, the prophecy, the need for Heroes. His voice was steady, practiced, the voice of a king delivering vital information.
But part of his mind remained elsewhere.
On those crimson orbs. On the boy who wielded them. On the impossible fact that a newly summoned Hero had just demonstrated mastery of a technique that should have taken decades to learn.
Who are you, Bow Hero?
And what else can you do?
The questions would need answers. Soon.
But for now, Aultcray played his role—the Wise King, the benevolent ruler, the leader guiding lost souls through a crisis.
Behind his eyes, however, other plans were already forming.
The Shield would suffer.
And anyone who stood in the way of that... anyone who might prove a complication...
Aultcray's gaze flickered to the boy he now knows as Noritoshi, then away.
We'll see.
The private chapel was silent, lit only by the soft glow of enchanted candles. Aultcray stood before the altar, his back to the door, hands clasped behind him. He didn't turn when he heard the heavy footfalls approach.
"You summoned me, Your Majesty."
Biscas—the Pope of the Three Heroes Faith—moved with the deliberate grace of a man accustomed to reverence. His white robes whispered against the stone floor as he came to stand beside the king, his aged face illuminated by the candlelight.
"I did." Aultcray's voice was quiet. "We need to talk. About the Heroes."
Biscas's expression didn't change, but his eyes sharpened. "Is there a problem with the summoning? I was told it went smoothly."
"The summoning itself was fine. Four Heroes, exactly as prophesied." Aultcray finally turned to face him. "But one of them is... different."
"Different how?"
Aultcray's jaw tightened. "The Bow Hero. Noritoshi Kamo. He's not what we expected."
Biscas waited.
"When he arrived, he immediately manifested blood orbs. Floating spheres of crimson, orbiting his shoulders like guards." Aultcray's voice was carefully controlled. "I recognized the technique. Blood Drain. An ability possessed by only the most elite Shadows—assassins trained in the darkest magics. It requires a minimum level of seventy to even attempt."
Biscas's eyes widened slightly. "And this Hero is Level One."
"By all rights, yes." Aultcray nodded. "And yet he wielded it as easily as breathing. As if he'd been doing it his whole life."
The Pope was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was thoughtful. "An anomaly."
"Exactly."
"You're concerned."
"I'm more than concerned." Aultcray moved away from the altar, pacing slowly. "The other Heroes are predictable. The Spear is enthusiastic and easily led. The Sword is cautious but isolated. The Shield—" His voice hardened. "The Shield will be dealt with. But the Bow..."
He stopped, facing Biscas directly.
"He assessed the situation immediately. Calculated threats. Refused to surrender his only advantage. Negotiated from a position of strength despite being outnumbered and in an unfamiliar environment." Aultcray's eyes were grim. "That's not the behavior of a naive boy thrust into a new world. That's the behavior of someone who's been in life-or-death situations before."
Biscas stroked his chin thoughtfully. "You believe he's a threat."
"I believe he's unpredictable. And unpredictability in someone with unknown capabilities..." Aultcray shook his head. "I need to understand him. His limits. His intentions. His weaknesses."
"You want him watched."
"I want him understood." Aultcray met the Pope's eyes. "And I need people who can do that without being detected. People who are skilled enough to observe without being observed in return."
Biscas was silent for a moment. Then, slowly, a thin smile crossed his weathered features.
"The Church has... resources. Shadows of our own, trained in the same arts as the Crown's. Perhaps even better." He paused. "You want me to assign them to the Bow Hero?"
"I want you to learn everything about him. His habits, his routines, his conversations. Who he trusts. What he fears. Where his loyalties lie." Aultcray's voice was hard. "And if he proves to be a complication... I want to know that before it's too late."
Biscas nodded slowly. "It will be done. I'll assign our best. They'll tail him day and night, observe from the shadows, report everything back."
"They cannot be detected."
"They won't be." Biscas's confidence was absolute. "Our Shadows have decades of experience. A newly summoned Hero, no matter how skilled, won't perceive them."
Aultcray studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded.
"Good. Keep me informed."
"I will, Your Majesty." Biscas bowed slightly. "Is there anything else?"
"No." Aultcray turned back toward the altar. "That will be all."
The Pope withdrew silently, leaving the king alone with his thoughts and the flickering candlelight.
The next morning, Aultcray sat in his private study, a cup of tea growing cold at his elbow as he read the report delivered by Biscas's personal courier.
His expression darkened with every line.
The Bow Hero detected them.
Six of the Church's best Shadows—operatives with decades of experience, trained in the most sophisticated concealment magics—had been assigned to tail Noritoshi Kamo. They had maintained their distance, followed protocol, done everything by the book.
And he had known they were there from the moment they started.
The report detailed everything. The garden in the middle of the night. The blood rain—apparently the same blood the Bow Hero had launched into the air during his arrival, now returning to earth and somehow still connected to him. The way he'd used those falling droplets to detect the hidden figures. The calm, unwavering authority in his voice when he'd called them out.
"All of you who are hiding. You can come out now."
Aultcray set the report down, staring at nothing.
The Shadows had revealed themselves. They'd had no choice—the Bow Hero had made it clear they were detected, and pretending otherwise would have been insulting. According to the report, they'd knelt, identified themselves as operatives of the Church, explained their purpose, answered his questions.
And then he'd dismissed them. Calmly. Almost politely.
"No need to tail me again."
"That also means no hiring a third party to do it for you."
Aultcray read the line again.
No need to tail me again. That also means no hiring a third party to do it for you.
Simple. Direct. A straightforward command.
The Bow Hero didn't want to be followed. He'd made that clear. And he'd anticipated the obvious loophole—if the Shadows couldn't tail him, perhaps someone else would be hired to do it instead. So he'd closed that loophole preemptively.
Aultcray nodded slowly. Practical. Sensible. The kind of precaution anyone with something to hide might take.
Nothing more.
He continued reading.
The Bow Hero did not return to his room immediately. He remained in the garden for approximately one hour, during which time he practiced what appeared to be blood manipulation techniques. His control is extraordinary—beyond anything our operatives have witnessed in decades of service. He shaped the blood into weapons, shields, tendrils, and fine mist, each transformation instantaneous and precise.
He also appeared to be experimenting. Several times he paused, frowning at the blood as if expecting one result and receiving another.
Recommendation: Extreme caution. The Bow Hero is not merely powerful—he is adaptive. He learns. He improves.
Aultcray set the report down, staring at the wall.
Adaptive. Learning. Improving.
That was the concerning part. Not hidden messages or clever deductions—just the simple, undeniable truth that the Bow Hero was growing stronger, and they had no idea how strong he might eventually become.
He'd have to watch that one carefully.
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The royal chambers were opulent in the way only true power could afford—silk drapes, gilded furniture, a bed large enough for six people to sleep comfortably. But Malty Sophia Melromarc, First Princess of the realm, paid none of it any attention.
She stood at her window, staring out at the garden below, her reflection ghostly in the glass.
Behind her, on a small writing desk, sat a stack of papers. Plans. Schematics. The careful orchestration of events that would begin tomorrow—the moment the Heroes were allowed to form their parties.
She'd spent weeks preparing this. Every detail accounted for. Every contingency planned.
She would present herself as Myne, a simple adventurer with nowhere else to go. She would join the Shield Hero's party—that pathetic, hated creature who no one else would accept. She would earn his trust, become indispensable, and then...
Then she would destroy him.
A single accusation. A tearful confession. The word of a sweet, innocent girl against the word of the Devil's Shield.
It would be perfect.
It would be easy.
And yet...
Malty's fingers pressed against the cool glass.
Noritoshi Kamo.
A report. One of many that crossed her father's desk, copied by servants who knew better than to question why the Princess took such an interest in intelligence matters.
This one was different.
This one made her smile.
The Bow Hero detected six Church Shadows within hours of their assignment. Identified their presence without visible effort. Dismissed them with calm authority. Demonstrated blood manipulation techniques far beyond what should be possible for a Level One Hero. Practiced for an hour afterward, showing control and adaptability that surpasses any known mage or Shadow operative in the kingdom.
Recommendation: Extreme caution. The Bow Hero is not merely powerful—he is adaptive. He learns. He improves.
Malty set the report down, tapping her finger against her lips.
The Bow Hero.
Noritoshi Kamo.
She'd read everything available on all four Heroes. The Spear Hero—enthusiastic, gullible, easily led. Useful, but limited. The Sword Hero—competent, cautious, but distant. Hard to manipulate when he kept everyone at arm's length. The Shield Hero—pathetic, hated, already doomed. Hardly worth her time.
But the Bow Hero...
Powerful. Smart. Adaptive. The kind of person who could actually do something with the resources of the throne behind him.
The kind of person who could make her Queen.
Malty's smile widened.
Her younger sister, Melty, was the favored child. The one everyone whispered would inherit the throne. Sweet, kind, beloved Melty, with her innocent eyes and her pure heart and her utter lack of ambition.
It was disgusting.
But if Malty had a Hero at her side? A Hero who actually mattered? Not the Shield—nobody wanted that. But the Bow? The one who'd already proven himself capable of things that should be impossible?
The nobles would fall over themselves to support her. The Church would have to reconsider its positions. Her father—
Her father could adapt.
She turned from the window, crossing to the desk. Her fingers traced the edge of the top paper—the plan. The beautiful, intricate, foolproof plan that would destroy the Shield Hero and cement her position as the kingdom's most valuable asset.
Then she picked it up.
And tore it in half.
Then again.
And again.
Until the pieces fluttered to the floor like snow.
Her handmaiden, standing silently in the corner, gasped softly. "Your Highness! What are you—"
"The plan is off." Malty's voice was calm. Dismissive. As if she'd merely decided to change outfits.
"But—your father—the King expects—"
"My father," Malty interrupted, turning to face the woman with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, "will adapt. As he always does."
She moved toward the door, pausing only to glance back at the scattered pieces of paper.
"I'm going to join the Bow Hero's party instead."
The handmaiden's mouth opened and closed soundlessly.
Malty's smile widened. "Don't look so surprised. A princess must follow her heart, after all."
She walked towards her father's study, paper and pen in hand.
"I'll need a new approach," she murmured to herself. "Can't be Myne the helpless adventurer with this one. He'd see through it in seconds."
No. This required something more sophisticated. More... genuine.
Or at least, genuine-seeming.
She began to write.
New plan.
Target: Noritoshi Kamo, Bow Hero.
Objective: Secure his trust. His loyalty. His... affection, if possible.
Method: TBD. Must account for his apparent perceptiveness. Simple manipulation won't work.
Expected outcome: With a Hero of his caliber at my side, the throne is mine. Melty doesn't stand a chance.
She paused, tapping the quill against her chin.
First step: Join his party. As myself, or as a persona he won't immediately see through?
Something to consider.
She set the quill down, staring at the words.
The throne will be mine.
And Noritoshi Kamo is going to help me take it.
She entered her father's study. She has to be quick as there's only a few hours left before the heroes selection began.
He stared at his daughter.
"You're doing what?"
Malty sat across from him, legs crossed, looking utterly unbothered by his obvious displeasure. "I'm joining the Bow Hero's party. As an adventurer. Myne, remember? That's the cover."
"The plan was for you to join the Shield Hero."
"The plan has changed."
His jaw tightened. "Malty. We discussed this. The Shield Hero must be isolated, discredited, destroyed. Your role in that is—"
"Is boring." Malty waved a dismissive hand. "The Shield Hero is pathetic. Broken already, practically. He doesn't need me to destroy him—he's doing it himself, just by existing." She leaned forward, something sharp entering her voice. "But the Bow Hero? He's interesting."
"Interesting."
"He detected the Church's Shadows. Did you know that? Six of their best, and he knew they were there the moment they started watching." Malty's eyes gleamed. "He's powerful. Smart. Careful. And he doesn't trust anyone."
He was quiet for a moment. Then, "You want to earn his trust."
"I want to be near him." Malty's smile was feline. "The rest will follow."
"And what of the Shield Hero?"
"What of him? Let him rot. He's not going anywhere." She stood, smoothing her dress. "But the Bow Hero? He could be useful. As an ally, if I play this right. Or as a weapon, pointed wherever I choose."
She moved toward the door, then paused.
"Oh, and Father? Don't interfere. I know you have your own plans for the Shield—something about revenge for Auntie? I don't care. Keep it away from my project."
The door closed behind her.
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Hey guys. Author here. What do you think about these last few chapters so far?
Also, I don't remember the Shadows saying they're from the Churches👀