The classroom hummed with soft murmurs and the occasional tapping of digital pens against alloy desks. Holo-scrolls hovered in the air above the students' workstations, displaying images of an ancient battlefield—charred plains, broken banners, the remnants of colossal war-beasts strewn like forgotten titans.
At the front stood Professor Beli, draped not in the garb of a scholar, but in a long black coat—faded at the shoulders, embroidered with gold thread that caught the morning sun. Her hair, once wild and golden, was streaked with time now, but her eyes held the same fire that had once lit battlefields.
Behind her, the central screen flickered to life, displaying a muralized rendering of Veryan City during its final stand: flames in the sky, streaks of magic, silhouettes locked in combat. And in the middle of it all—him.
The man whose name the world still whispered.
Beli stepped forward, her voice calm, steady, reverent.
The sky, once torn by fury and divine fury, had fallen still. The strongholds of Anbord, once bastions of light and legacy, lay in ruin. At the heart of the battlefield—bloodied, broken, yet undefeated—was Ethan Smith.
He wasn't born to rule. He wasn't raised to be a god. He was a man. A soldier. A brother. A husband.
And in the city of Veryan, beneath the burning heavens, he fought the Heretic King Luciel—not for vengeance, but for the soul of the world.
His body shattered. His spirit beasts—Galeno, Angitia, Maverick, Stygian, Sage, Onyx—faded into him, dissolving like echoes into silence. The Sync was broken.
And still, he drew breath.
Not because of power. But because of will."
She paused. The students leaned forward—eyes wide, breaths held.
"They say when the battle ended, kings from across the continents lowered their banners—not in defeat, but in allegiance. Even the last remnants of the Blade Clan, who had followed Luciel into madness, were spared.
Because even in a coma, Ethan's ideals reigned.
No crown was placed on his brow. No formal rites were performed.
The King had been chosen—not by lineage, not by ceremony—but by sacrifice."
Harley turned slowly, her eyes drifting to the open window. Outside, the spires of the Nexus Citadel shimmered beneath the layered skies of Antrim.
"They called him the King in Crimson.
The Hammer of Blood and Creation.
He sleeps beneath the halls of Blackstone Citadel. Unaging. Undying.
And though two decades have passed, the world waits.
Because kings return when they are needed most."
She turned back to the class, her voice soft but firm.
"It's been 20 years since the great Battle at Veryan City… and we all believe…
He will come again, one day."
Then came the barrage—student voices like stones skipping across water.
"Is that just a legend?"
"But how can someone sleep for twenty years and live?"
"Are you saying he's... still alive?"
Harley smiled—but it wasn't the smile of a teacher humoring fantasy.
"Because I believe," she said simply.
But inside her mind, where memory and longing lingered like a slow-burning flame, her thoughts whispered:
"Very soon. Honey will finally wake up. I can't wait."
I didn't expect anything special today.
History classes were usually dull—holograms, facts, dates, treaties, timelines. All the usual rhythms of war and peace our world had memorized. We were in Modern Mythos & Historical Warfare, seated in a large, sun-drenched amphitheater inside the Aetherion Academy, the best school in the capital.
But when Professor Beli stepped into the room—everything shifted.
She didn't dress like the other teachers.
Just a crimson longcoat that looked older than any of us, with strange threadwork that shimmered like it remembered fire. When she walked in, the room went silent, like something—or someone—had just shifted the very air.
Like someone telling you the truth about something the world had tried to forget.
"The war was over," she said, eyes locked on the horizon outside the window.
"And the man who saved our world lay broken beneath the skies of Veryan."
That's when the holograms lit up.
Flames raining from the clouds. Titans falling like mountains. Ethereal dragons and glowing beasts dissolving into streaks of color and blood. And at the center of it all—him.
He wasn't what I expected. Not some perfect, clean-cut hero. He looked… tired. Scarred. Worn. But in the way monuments look worn—like they've endured everything and are still standing.
Professor Beli's voice got softer as she described the end. The spirit beasts vanishing into him. His wives weeping over his body. His soul slipping into silence. I thought I saw her eyes shimmer—but maybe it was just the light.
"Even in his coma," she said, "his ideals ruled the battlefield. His name united kingdoms. He bled for all of us. He asked for nothing."
Like I was hearing something sacred.
And then she said it.
"It's been 20 years since the great Battle at Veryan City.
He will come again, one day."
Someone behind me whispered, "That can't be real, right?" Someone else scoffed. Another raised their hand, voice quivering, "But how do you know? He's… he's just sleeping? Still?"
The professor just smiled.
A quiet, peaceful kind of smile. The kind you only see on someone who knows something they're not telling you.
And then, just for a second, I saw it in her eyes.
The kind that spans wars. Time. Death. Memory.
And then she looked away—but I swear, I heard her thoughts like a whisper that wasn't meant for us:
"Very soon. Honey will finally wake up. I can't wait."
I walked out of class that day feeling like I had seen a ghost.
That the King in Crimson still breathed somewhere deep beneath the citadel.
And that someday… he'd rise again.