Passing through the enormous gates of Opes was not like entering a prison, as Hayjin had feared, but rather a plunge into an ocean of light, sound, and color that his London mind struggled to categorize. If Exilia was wild and primordial, Opes was its beating, civilized heart: a vertical metropolis where architecture seemed to defy the laws of physics.
The streets were paved with a white stone that emitted a faint bluish luminescence, and above them, suspended glass bridges connected towers ending in crystal spires, which caught the sunlight to refract it into constant rainbows across the city. There was no smog like in his world; the air tasted of ozone, sea breeze, and exotic spices that Hayjin couldn't identify.
Hayjin looked around, observing the magnificence of the main square: there were dwarves discussing magical engineering with elves, children of various races playing with small spheres of light that bounced through the air, and flying dragons soaring through the sky in total freedom.
"It's incredible…" Hayjin murmured, losing himself in the details of a golden frieze decorating the royal family's palace. The lines were so harmonious, the technology so integrated with nature, that his world seemed, by comparison, a prison of smoke and rusted metal. "I never thought a place like this could exist. It's... splendid."
Rhaegalur said nothing, but a flash of satisfaction crossed his gaze. Seeing the wonder in the boy's eyes was confirmation that Alius was beginning to breach his shell of cynicism. He wanted Hayjin to see what there was to protect. He wanted him to understand that this world was not just a danger, but a treasure.
"Come," Rhaegalur said, resuming his walk toward the inner quarters. "The beauty of Opes is vast, but we have a specific destination. And remember: here, you are my son. If anyone asks, your home is the same one where I live, and your only problem is that your father makes you walk too much through the forest."
Hayjin gave an involuntary smile, feeling for the first time a strange, warm sense of belonging, even if founded on a lie. He immersed himself again in the flow of the crowd, letting himself be lulled by the splendor of Alius, while the Mark on his neck, for the first time, seemed a little less heavy.
As soon as Rhaegalur crossed the threshold, the buzz of the crowd seemed to change tone. It wasn't fear, but a wave of recognition, warmth, and respect.
"Welcome back, Silas! It's been a while since you came down from the valley!" shouted a fruit merchant, a portly man who was arranging purple melons on a stall.
"Silas! Did you bring more of that silver oak wood?" asked a woman with hair made of fire petals, greeting him with a wave.
Rhaegalur walked with his head high, responding to every greeting with a genuine smile and a nod. He seemed perfectly at ease, a familiar and beloved figure in that cosmopolitan chaos. Hayjin followed closely behind, trying to make himself small under his hood, feeling like an intruder in that parade of cordiality.
Suddenly, an old flower girl with skin like parchment stopped in front of them, staring at Hayjin with small, curious black eyes. "And who is this child, Silas? Don't tell me you've finally decided to be a father?"
Rhaegalur placed a heavy but protective hand on Hayjin's shoulder. His smile widened, becoming almost fatherly. "He's my son, Miri. His name is Hayjin. He's a bit shy, you know he took after his mother."
"Your son! Oh, what a blessing!" the woman exclaimed, joining her hands. "He has your same deep eyes, Silas. May the light of Exilia always guide him!"
Other people approached, offering small sweets or simple words of welcome. No one seemed suspicious. No one looked at Hayjin as if he were a "Bearer" or a monster. To them, he was just the son of a respected man returning to the city.
As soon as they managed to break away from the crowd and turn into a less crowded alley, Hayjin pulled Rhaegalur by the sleeve, his voice reduced to a feverish whisper.
"Are you crazy? 'Your son'? And another thing why is no one saying anything about this?" Hayjin slightly moved his hood, nervously pointing to the area of the Mark which, though partially covered by hair, was visible to anyone looking closely. "How can they not be frightened? This sign... Cross said it's the fate of the world; they treated it like a known sign in this world... how... how is it possible that these people are so blind?"
Rhaegalur stopped near a fountain where water flowed upward before falling back into a marble basin. He looked at Hayjin with an expression of absolute calm.
"The secret of the Cult of the Mark, Hayjin, lies not only in their power, but in their patience," he explained in a low voice. "They have acted in the shadows for millennia. To the average citizen of Opes, that symbol is nothing more than a strange birthmark or an exotic tattoo from some far-off land. The Cult has scrubbed the history books, corrupted the legends, and ensured that the world forgot their existence. Their plan requires that no one knows what is happening until it's too late to stop them. The people's ignorance is their greatest shield... and it is also your protection, for now."
Hayjin remained silent, reflecting on the scale of that plan. An organization so powerful it could erase itself from the collective memory of an entire world.
The central market of Opes was a labyrinth of scents that sent Hayjin's senses into ecstasy: blue cinnamon, smoked wyvern meat, and a kind of steamed bread that glowed with a golden light. Rhaegalur moved among the stalls with the naturalness of a local, carefully choosing black ginger roots and large slabs of silver fish.
"Hey, Rhaegalur… why is that part of the kingdom in such a state?" Hayjin asked suddenly, pointing toward the east.
Beyond the splendid crystal spires stood an area where the city seemed to have lost its soul. Marble palaces were chipped by deep gashes, as if giant claws had torn them open, and the streets were blocked by piles of blackened rubble that no one had yet removed.
Rhaegalur sighed, placing a bag of spices in his pouch. "Opes is the jewel of Exilia, but it is a cracked jewel, Hayjin. During the war against the Demon King, this kingdom was one of the primary fronts. Its walls were the first to shake and the last to fall. The royal family…" the man paused, his gaze lost toward the castle that stood bare on the hill, "was massacred in a single night of eclipse. No one remained except two young girls, the daughters of the king and queen. Now Opes is a kingdom without a crown, led by a council of elderly priests who bicker over every coin, while reconstruction proceeds slowly. It is a kingdom trying to walk with broken bones."
Hayjin looked at those ruins with a new awareness. Even in a world dominated by gods and dragons, the void left by power was the same he had seen in the poorest suburbs of his city.
"Do you want to eat something?" Rhaegalur asked, shaking off the melancholy. "You'll be starting to feel hungry, I imagine."
"Actually…" Hayjin admitted, feeling his stomach growl at the mere thought of the silver fish.
They headed toward an inn called "The Dragon's Horn." The interior was warm, saturated with pipe smoke and boisterous laughter. The air was so thick with magical tobacco smoke and stew vapors that it felt as if you could cut it with a knife. The dark stone walls were adorned with skulls of creatures Hayjin had never seen in his biology books, and the wooden floor creaked under the weight of patrons from every corner of Exilia.
Rhaegalur sat with his back against the wall, a position that allowed him to keep an eye on every single exit. Before him, a chipped ceramic jug contained a dark, almost oily beer that smelled of burnt barley and resin. For Hayjin, he had ordered a feast that seemed excessive for a child: slices of rye bread three fingers thick, spread with a salted butter that melted slowly, and strips of mutton sautéed with wild berries that tingled the tongue.
As they waited for the heat of the soup and the scent of roasted meat to materialize on their table, Hayjin rested his elbows on the massive wood, observing the reflection of his childish image in Rhaegalur's beer jug. The hum of the inn was a constant sonic carpet, but his mind didn't stop mapping this new, absurd world.
"Rhaegalur," he began, trying to lower his tone so as not to draw prying eyes. "Earlier you said Opes is in ruins because the royal family was exterminated. But... are there other places? I mean, does Alius end here or are there other kingdoms beyond the walls of Opes?"
Rhaegalur tore a piece of crust from the bread and chewed it slowly, his gaze lost beyond the steamed windows of the inn.
"Alius is a mosaic, Hayjin. A vast and often bleeding mosaic," he replied in a deep voice. "Of course other kingdoms exist, but not all have the same weight on the world's scales. Opes, here in the continent of Exilia, has always been the keystone. It was the political and cultural heart, the seat of the Great Royal Lineage that maintained the balance between nations. Without them, the kingdom is like a body trying to move without a head."
He made a vague gesture with his hand, drawing invisible circles in the smoke-filled air.
"Beyond the borders of Exilia, there are lands governed by different logics. There are some small principalities, where noble families constantly struggle for an extra inch of land, ready to sell themselves to the highest bidder. There is no King there, but a dozen small tyrants who call each other 'cousins' while stabbing each other in the back. Then there are other various Kingdoms like Doeken, for example, ruled by a Queen who claims to descend from the ancient fey, where it seems the law is dictated by blood and magical lineage."
Hayjin listened enraptured, his student's mind accustomed to studying terrestrial geopolitics trying to bring order to that fantastic geography. "So wait… are there other Kings and Queens? Then why don't they intervene to help Opes?"
Rhaegalur emitted a sound that resembled a muffled growl. "Because altruism is a rare commodity on Alius, almost as rare as the truth. Many of those sovereigns prefer to see Opes on its knees; a weak capital means their kingdoms, however small or insignificant, suddenly seem more powerful. Everyone protects their own garden, ignoring that if the foundations of Opes finally collapse, the earthquake will swallow them all."
The man leaned forward, lowering his voice. "There are kingdoms where the king is little more than a straw symbol, and others where tyranny is so absolute that the people have forgotten the sound of their own laughter. Opes was different. It was hope. That is why the Demon King struck it with such ferocity, and why the Cult crawls among these ruins. They want to ensure that hope is never reborn."
Just then, the waitress arrived with steaming trays, interrupting the history lesson. The smell of spiced meat was so intense it almost made Hayjin's head spin.
"Eat now," Rhaegalur said, returning to his role as the surly woodsman. "Maps of the world are useless if you faint from hunger halfway."
Hayjin grabbed a wooden fork, but his eyes lingered for another moment on Rhaegalur. That "Dragon God" spoke of kingdoms and kings with such exhaustion, as if he had watched every one of those dynasties be born and die.
Hayjin ate with methodical slowness, trying to process the information about the exterminated royal family and the power vacuum in Opes. But his concentration was shattered by a din that exploded in the opposite corner of the room.
As Hayjin devoured his first bite, a crash of overturned chairs and shouting came from a corner of the establishment. The boy jumped to his feet, his hand instinctively moving to the Mark under his hood.
The man at the center of the mocking circle slowly raised his head. He was an image of absolute ruin. His plate armor, once likely shining and engraved with symbols of valor, was now covered in dents, rust stains, and food residue. His cloak, torn at the edges, hung from his shoulders like a dirty shroud. His face was hollowed, with several days of unkempt stubble and eyes so dull they looked like two black holes lost in the void of drunkenness.
Rhaegalur took a long sip of beer without even turning around. "No, don't worry. It's just the usual, pathetic spectacle. A dispute between a so-called 'hero' and the inhabitants of Opes."
"Wait, wait, wait… what do you mean… a hero?" Hayjin frowned, confused. "What do you mean? In my world, heroes are the good guys, the ones who save people, the ones everyone admires."
Rhaegalur chuckled bitterly. "Well, I don't know how it works in your world, but here in Alius, the term has a different meaning. Wait and see. You'll soon understand why they are considered the refuse of society, the worst of the worst."
"Like refuse… I'm not following you…" Hayjin exclaimed, very confused.
"I told you to kneel, you filthy parasite!" a merchant was yelling, red in the face. A group of patrons egged the merchant on. They were ordinary people, artisans and shopkeepers, who seemed to take an almost sadistic pleasure in humiliating this armed man. "You stepped on my feet as you passed and didn't even apologize! Do you think because you carry that old sword you can do whatever you want? Kneel and kiss my boots, immediately!"
The hero raised his gaze, staggering. He had drunk at least ten bottles. "Hahaha, good one, friend, ahahaha… listen, I want to be magnanimous, if you don't get out of my way within three seconds…" he slurred, his hand trembling on the hilt of his sword, "I swear I'll send you to meet your ancestors."
"Look at how arrogant he is!" a woman from the group shouted. "You're just failures who know nothing but how to destroy! The war is over now, you're of no use anymore except for emptying barrels and causing trouble!"
Hayjin watched the scene, disgusted. "Why are they insulting him like that? He still fought for them, didn't he? Why is no one helping him? He looks like he's about to faint. And why call him a hero if they treat him like trash?"
"Fought?" Rhaegalur shook his head. "Because on Alius, Hayjin, the word 'Hero' has become synonymous with 'Tragedy.' During the war, they were created or summoned from other worlds with forbidden magic and forced blessings to be war machines. But now that the Demon King is ash, these people no longer have an off switch."
"Many of them fought during the war… but always under the command of their own kingdoms and magic knights… some because of this became addicted to blood and power. Without an enemy to kill, they've become bullies, mercenaries without morals who demand privileges for battles no one remembers anymore. Some have become armed scum who don't know how to adapt to peace."
The hero staggered, trying to grab an empty bottle on the table. "I... I defended Silver Pass…" he slurred, his voice thick with alcohol. "While you were hiding... under your beds... I was losing my comrades in the flames…"
"Silver Pass was ten years ago, you old drunkard!" a man yelled at him, throwing a crust of dry bread that hit him on the forehead. "Today your comrades are just flies buzzing around you! Apologize to the gentleman or we'll call the magic knights!"
The hero flinched. Something, deep within that alcoholic fog, seemed to snap. His hand, gnarled and covered in scars, moved to the hilt of his sword with an instinctive motion—a muscle reflex that years of peace had failed to erase.
"You want apologies?" the hero roared, and suddenly his voice lost the weakness of drunkenness, becoming a guttural thunder. "You want me to kneel? I'll make you kneel... before death."
The hero, tired of the insults, roared in rage. In a fluid movement despite his drunkenness, he unsheathed his sword. The blade emitted a sinister metallic glow. "That's enough! I'll cut the heads off all of you, insolent worms!"
The sound of metal sliding out of the scabbard was a lethal hiss that silenced the room. The blade was long, heavy, with runes that lit up a sickly red, feeding on its master's rage. The crowd took a step back, terror finally replacing arrogance.
The merchant turned pale, his legs shaking visibly. "No... wait... I was only joking…"
But the hero was beyond reason. He raised his sword above his head, ready to bring down a blow that would have split the merchant and the table behind him in two. Hayjin jumped up, his heart hammering in his chest. "Rhaegalur? What are you do—"
The blow swung with lethal speed, aimed at the merchant's neck. Hayjin held his breath, convinced he was about to witness a massacre.
But Rhaegalur vanished from his side.
An instant later, the "Dragon God" was standing between the hero and the crowd. He had not drawn any weapons. He had simply raised one hand, intercepting the sharp blade with the tip of a single finger.
There was no sound of footsteps, nor any perceptible displacement of air. Rhaegalur simply appeared before the hero as if he had always been there. As the sword came down with the force of a sledgehammer, Rhaegalur didn't dodge, nor did he parry with a weapon.
He raised his left hand and extended his index finger.
Clang.
The sound of metal hitting Rhaegalur's skin rang out like a bell. The sword stopped abruptly, vibrating violently, unable to advance a single millimeter.
The impact was so violent that the inn's windows vibrated. The shockwave of the blow, blocked inches from the merchant's head, blew out half the candles in the room. The hero, despite his size and the force of the blow, remained frozen in place, his arm muscles trembling under the effort of pushing the blade. But Rhaegalur's finger was a pillar of granite. The skin of his finger wasn't even scratched; on the contrary, it was the sword blade that showed a small crack at the point of contact.
Hayjin remained petrified, the piece of bread still in his hand. He knew Rhaegalur was strong, but stopping a steel swing with a finger surpassed his every understanding of reality.
Hayjin stood with his mouth open, breath caught. "A finger. He stopped a sword with a single finger." The realization that Rhaegalur was hiding a power that went beyond all imagination hit him with the force of a speeding train.
"If you really want to kill each other," Rhaegalur said in a gelid voice that brought absolute silence to the inn, "I'd prefer you did it outside the walls of Opes. You're ruining my son's dinner."
The hero's eyes bulged, trying to pull back the sword, but it was as if it were stuck in a diamond vise. "And who the hell are you, you filthy old man? Let go of my blade or I'll disembowel you piece by piece!"
"Remove that finger immediately... or I'll tear you apart, you old bastard! You don't know who you're facing! I am a First Rank Hero!"
Rhaegalur tilted his head, his golden eyes glowing with a dangerous light. The two stared at each other, the hero trembling with alcoholic rage and Rhaegalur calm as a millennial predator.
"I don't want any trouble, so you'd better leave here immediately," Rhaegalur whispered. "But I warn you: I am not as tender as these merchants."
Hayjin watched the scene, heart racing. He had just understood that in the world of Alius, the line between hero and monster was as thin as a silk thread, and that the man he was traveling with was the only thing preventing that thread from snapping.
The two remained motionless, eyes locked into each other's. The tension in the inn was so high it felt as if the air itself might catch fire. Hayjin watched, paralyzed, realizing that in that moment there was no longer any trace of Silas the woodsman. Before him was Rhaegalur, the Dragon God, a being looking at a "hero" of the current world as an adult would look at a bothersome insect.