VOLUME 4: ECHOES OF WHAT WAS
Six months had drifted by since Amthar crossed blades with the Demon Lord of the Gaia Demons, Sylvathar, and his monstrous legions. In that span of time, the Kingdom of Solara struggled to breathe again. Recovery within Zones 19, 17, and 16 had been a sluggish grind. Citizens, displaced and weary, spent nearly five months confined in underground shelters, clinging to hope while their shattered homes awaited resurrection.
To hasten the rebuilding, males aged fourteen and above were called upon, their hands turned from pen and play to hammer and brick. Slowly and steadily, the heartbeat of Solara began to pulse once more.
Far across the lands, the Tempest Kingdom bore its own scars. Zone 13 had nearly been erased from the map—but it stood, barely. Reconstruction was swift, taking just under a month’s cycle, but the air still clung to loss. Nothing truly felt the same.
The Dark Knight Academy, Tempest’s pride and pillar, had also endured great ruin. Yet within three months, it had risen from its rubble, showing signs of restoration and progress, though faint echoes of the past still lingered in the halls.
Meanwhile, in the Crescent Kingdom, casualties had been mercifully low. So much so, it took but a single week for its people to return to their homes and live once again in comfort. The sun returned to their skies faster than most.
Within those same six months, talk stirred between the Crescent and Tempest monarchs regarding the reopening of their academies. The idea was met with hope. But after reviewing the records of that harrowing conflict—records soaked in blood, sacrifice, and desperation—Queen Lucy made a resolute decision: her students would not return to class.
During the war, those very same students—young dreamers training to be knights and mages—had stood between death and the defenseless. They had risen to the call with blades too light for the burdens they bore, yet they did so without hesitation, facing dangers they had no business confronting.
Stories spread like wildfire across the Crescent Kingdom, tales of the twin children of Caelum Virellan, who defended not only themselves but their fellow students and townsfolk from the wrath of the Gaia demons. They became names whispered with reverence in the streets and markets.
But they were not the only young guardians of the kingdom.
In Sear, nestled in Zone 7 of the Crescent Kingdom, another tale was told. The tale of Dylan Wellington.
The blond-haired joker—known more for his wit and humor than his might—stood shoulder to shoulder with his father, a retired knight of old. Together, they became shields for their family and the villagers of Sear.
Midway through evacuation, the Gaia demons and their twisted hybrids came crashing through the streets. Panic reigned. But Dylan, usually clad in smiles and sarcasm, became something else entirely—a silent storm.
The young archer’s bow became a blur, unleashing volleys of arrows faster than the blink of an eye. Covered in grime and sweat, his spirit refused to falter. No threat was left breathing beneath his gaze.
And across the sea winds, in the Tempest Kingdom, another soul had risen to the occasion. Percy Granger—third-year student of the Dark Knight Academy and a prince who once loathed his own crown—emerged as a silent force.
His mastery of ice magic was so profound, many dared to whisper his name beside Sylas Wynrow, the cold prodigy of the Crescent Kingdom. In defense of his people, Percy froze two entire districts, turning death into frost-bitten stillness.
Beside him stood other first-years: Charlotte Raven, Maxwell Samson, and Edith Rosewell. Youthful, barely tested, but unshaken. They moved like seasoned warriors, responding not out of duty—but from the rawness of heart.
And in Solara, when the Gaia hordes stormed the kingdom’s heart, it was the constable household of House Hawthorne that met them with fire and steel. Lord Adrian, his heir Asher, and his eldest daughter Nila, were first to the frontlines, rallying alongside the fierce House Blazon.
Thanks to their valor, Zone 15 held longer than it ever should have. It was their stand that gave the other zones enough time to regroup, to hope, to survive.
From all these acts of bravery and sacrifice, the truth could no longer be ignored. Even without gathering, without any summit or treaty, all three monarchs saw the same grim picture: the young had fought like warriors, but they were still children.
Too many had seen death up close. Too many had felt helplessness, loss, and rage. To force them back into structured studies—pretending the war hadn’t left scars—was a foolish gamble.
So, in an act of unspoken unity, King Valemir, Queen Lucy, and King Tharion made the same decision. Academic pursuits would be paused. Lessons would wait.
For now, healing would come first.
Within those same six months, two long-silent souls stirred back into the realm of the waking—each regaining consciousness a month after the war’s end.
Sheila Granger, the radiant princess of the Crescent Kingdom. And Mabel, elite Royal Corps agent of the Tempest Kingdom—and protector of Liam Hunter.
During Sheila’s coma, King Valemir and Queen Elanora had waited in quiet agony, dread clawing at their hearts. Though the healers kept assuring them that Sheila’s vitals were strong and her recovery was inevitable, the precise moment she would wake remained an aching mystery. They feared that they might never hear her voice again.
According to the reports received, Sheila’s body had healed entirely from every wound she sustained after being taken by Eliv Borges, the former Primordial Mage of the Crescent Kingdom, and delivered to Sylvathar’s hands. Her physical vessel was untouched, flawless—as though she’d never seen battle.
But beneath that surface, something was wrong.
When Liam had emerged at the infirmary camp in Ilis alongside Mabel and Sheila, the healers quickly noticed a disturbing change. Sheila’s light magic—once pure and potent—felt altered, diminished and tampered with. Based on their assessments, her magical potential had been slashed in half. What she once could’ve become, what brilliance awaited her future, had been dimmed into something lesser.
Yet, as days passed, something began to change.
Her magic... was restoring itself.
Not all at once, but slowly, steadily—her light reawakening. A restoration so rare, so impossible, that the Crescent Kingdom chose to say nothing. They locked the truth within palace walls and quietly launched an investigation into this strange miracle, fearful of what others might do with such knowledge.
When Sheila finally awoke, it was gentle—a slow inhale, calm and unburdened. But peace fled quickly. Her mind was seized by the vivid memory of two Crescent Knights falling before her... and of Berg Thuden’s death, etched forever behind her eyes. The image crashed down upon her like a tidal wave, sending her into a panic. That single moment was enough for her parents to realize the true depth of her trauma. Their daughter had survived... but she had not returned unscarred.
Meanwhile, in the Tempest Kingdom, Mabel awoke under a sky not so different. But unlike Sheila, her recovery came with something far more intense—an Ascension. The very moment she drew breath again, it was as if her entire being had been reborn. Her health was fully restored, yes—but more than that, her internal myst pathways had been reforged, her core purified, her senses sharpened. She felt clean and... new.
When the report reached Queen Lucy, she did not wear surprise. She had seen this before—once, and only once—when Aesmirius first seized control of Liam’s body. That same pulse, that same strange awakening had followed. Mystica had proposed it was tied to Aesmirius triggering Liam’s Ascension. Yet now... it had happened again. To Mabel.
Lucy understood what it meant—but only partly. The details escaped her, but the implications were loud. Mabel wasn’t just alive—she had returned stronger.
Before the war, and during it, Mabel had long held the title of a 7-star mid-tier mage—highly respected, yet not the peak. But now, by every measurement of myst flow and output, Mabel had crossed into high-tier status. Her potential had surged, unmistakably.
And while Mabel herself couldn’t explain what had changed within her, she had no interest in pondering it—not yet. What mattered most to her wasn’t her Ascension. It was Liam.
The very moment her mind had fully cleared, the moment her will returned to her body, Mabel’s first words were about Liam. In that unflinching, focused way she always approached her duties, Mabel asked not where she was, nor how long she had slept—only this:
But Liam had yet to stir.
Not in that first month after the war... nor the five long months that followed.
His body, while intact, was recovering at a snail’s pace—far slower than anyone had anticipated. Even Mystica, who had watched over him the first time Aesmirius overtook him, could not make sense of it. She had expected a steady recovery. Perhaps even another Ascension. But neither came. Just silence.
And still, Liam breathed.
What confirmed that he was not lost was the spark of life still flaring inside his mind.
Dove Velhare, the ever-irritating genius of alchemy, had used her unique magic to examine Liam’s mental state. Her findings were... unsettling.
His brain wasn’t just active—it was behaving exactly like someone who was fully awake.
His consciousness was operating at high function, as though he were up, walking, speaking and living.
That raised a question none could answer.
If Liam’s body slept, but his mind did not...
What, in the name of the gods, was he doing in there?