A man named Sereth Valmor moved through the long halls of the Alparcan royal castle. His back was straight, his gaze fixed forward, careful not to linger on the armored Knights or the robed Mages lining the corridors. Even a brief meeting of eyes was enough to send a chill crawling up his spine.

  Not because he feared their strength, but because he knew how they saw him, a lowly man with nothing.

  In Alparca, only two kinds of talent were ever truly respected. The talent to swing a blade, and the talent to hurl a spell. Everything else was dismissed as noise. Schemes, information, influence—those were things men like Sereth dealt in, and men like the Knights and Mages scorned his trade.

  Yet despite lacking steel or sorcery, Sereth Valmor had been summoned by the royal family more times than he could count.

  That alone was proof enough of his worth.

  Still, today was different.

  The news he carried weighed heavier than any blade. The king himself had demanded it, demanded truth above comfort, and Sereth did not know how that truth would be received. Would anger flare and end with his blood staining marble floors? Or would disbelief come first followed by denial?

  Anything could happen and in the end, it didn't matter what future awaited him.

  His task was simply to deliver the information that was asked of him.

  Nothing else mattered.

  He passed through a pair of tall double doors into another corridor—one noticeably quieter. There were no guards that were there to watch. And everything felt too silent.

  Sereth let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and quickened his pace.

  Five minutes passed.

  Finally, he stopped before a lone wooden door, unadorned, unguarded despite the fact that the most powerful man in the kingdom stood on the other side of it. Sereth straightened his robes, smoothed a crease near his sleeve, and lifted his hand.

  He knocked.

  Almost immediately, a calm voice answered from within.

  “Come in, Sereth.”

  Sereth had no idea how the king had known it was him at the door, but he did not hesitate. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  At once, he was welcomed with the smell of old paper and ink.

  He found himself inside a library. Bookshelves rose high on every side, packed tightly with tomes that looked older than most kingdoms. Scrolls, journals, and loose pages were stacked in uneven piles. The quiet inside the room felt heavy, almost oppressive.

  Only a single long table stood at the center of the library. And behind it sat the man who ruled all of Alparca.

  King Aurelian Vael.

  One of the few living Magus in the world. A man officially granted the title of Battleforged Magus due to the sheer amount of battles he had been in.

  He appeared to be a little over two hundred years old, with long white hair and a matching beard, yet his face was smooth and untouched by wrinkles. His skin was pale, almost bloodless, but there was nothing sickly about him. His presence alone made Sereth’s chest tighten.

  Aurelian sat calmly, reading through a thick tome, turning pages at an unhurried pace.

  Sereth immediately approached him and bowed deeply.

  “Your servant has come with the information you requested, Your Majesty.”

  The king did not look up at once. He turned another page before speaking.

  “You are late,” Aurelian said calmly. “It has been weeks since I asked for this.”

  Sereth swallowed hard. Just the sound of the king’s voice made his heartbeat spike.

  “I apologize, Your Majesty,” he said quickly. “Lancephil was sealed off for most of the conflict. My merchant network could not penetrate their borders. I only received confirmation once the civil war finally ended.”

  That made the page turning stop.

  Slowly, King Aurelian raised his gaze and looked directly at Sereth.

  “So,” he said, eyes sharp and focused, “it has ended. Tell me—who won?”

  Sereth straightened slightly and answered at once. “Duke Arzan Kellius, Your Majesty.”

  Aurelian’s expression did not change, but the room felt somehow colder.

  “I do not know the exact details,” Sereth continued carefully, “but Hermil was heavily damaged, possibly more than half of it destroyed. The Lancephil royal family is almost entirely gone.”

  He paused briefly before adding.

  “My agents were only able to confirm that Princess Amara is alive. As for the former king, Sullivan Lancephil… his status is unclear. The royal castle was destroyed in an explosion, and no official announcement has been made; no body has been recovered.”

  The silence that followed felt endless.

  But after two minutes, King Aurelian nodded slowly, tapping two fingers against the wooden table. “I had never heard of this man,” he said calmly. “Arzan Kellius. And now he is king. Is he a Magus?”

  Sereth shook his head at once.

  “No, Your Majesty. He is recorded as a fourth-circle Mage. However…” He hesitated for just a fraction of a second. “He defeated Magus Veridia in a duel in Hermil a few months back. After that battle, she disappeared and is presumed dead now.”

  That made the king pause as if he was looking for any deceit on his face.

  Sereth knew, from long years of observation, that Veridia was one of the very few Magus King Aurelian genuinely respected. And the topic of her death wouldn't go right with him. Not because he liked her, but only because he would have wanted to kill her himself.

  As he expected, Aurelian’s eyes narrowed soon.

  “And why,” he asked, “was I not informed of this?”

  Sereth swallowed. “I… do not know for certain, Your Majesty,” he said carefully. “But the civil war overshadowed everything else. Both events occurred very close to one another. It is possible your messengers prioritized reports about the war itself.”

  The king scoffed softly.

  “My messengers are incompetent,” Aurelian said coldly. “That is precisely why I summoned you.”

  He leaned forward slightly.

  “Now,” he continued, “speak of the matter you were actually sent here for.”

  Sereth stiffened. This was it.

  The moment that might very well cost him his life. He drew in a breath, but before he could speak, the king spoke again.

  “So,” Aurelian said flatly, “My son is dead.”

  Sereth’s eyes widened. “How do you know that, Your Majesty?”

  The king let out a short, humorless scoff.

  “Your body language tells me everything,” he said. “If he were alive, you would not be hesitating this much. You would not be choosing your words so carefully.”

  He met Sereth’s gaze directly.

  “What happened?”

  The calmness in his voice was unsettling. It did not sound like a man who had just been told his son was dead.

  Sereth answered after a few seconds.

  “Prince Aldrin was the first to fall,” he said. “We were unable to confirm it at the time because all information channels were sealed during the war. However, he is alive. He has been captured and imprisoned.”

  Aurelian did not react.

  “Alongside him are several high-ranking nobles from his faction. All of them are being held under heavy guard.”

  Sereth hesitated, then continued.

  “But I found no mention of Prince Vhailor and one of my men confirmed he died during the battle,” he said quietly. “None of the Alparcan soldiers we sent with him returned either. From everything I was able to gather, Duke Arzan—King Arzan now—still holds the prince’s body.”

  King Aurelian’s eyes flickered.

  “He did not conduct a funeral,” the king said.

  Sereth shook his head.

  “No, Your Majesty. I found nothing indicating that. If I had to guess, he is holding the body as leverage. He intends to negotiate with you.”

  The king nodded once.

  Silence settled over the library.

  It stretched, thick and suffocating. Sereth barely dared to breathe as King Aurelian stared into the distance, his eyes eerily calm. There was no visible anger on his face, and Sereth felt a brief, foolish sense of relief.

  Then his gaze dropped.

  The king’s hands were clenched tightly against the table, fingers pressing into the polished wood as if he were holding something back.

  At any moment, he could be dead—right then and there, his head could be separated from his body and no one would mourn when it did. The thought passed scarily through his head and continued to get worse with every passing second.

  Minute after minute passed.

  Just when he thought the King wouldn’t say anything further, he spoke.

  “I took a gamble,” he said. “And it cost my son his life.”

  His voice did not waver.

  “I believed Aldrin was capable,” he continued. “Too capable to end up rotting in a dungeon for the rest of his existence.”

  He lifted his gaze and looked directly at Sereth.

  “Are you certain Vhailor fell to this Arzan,” he asked, “and not to someone else?”

  Sereth straightened instantly.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. I am certain. I do not know whether Prince Vhailor was lured into a trap, but I am sure of one thing—he fell by King Arzan’s hand.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The king nodded once more.

  “Very well.”

  He rose from his seat, picking up the book he had been reading. As he crossed the library, he slid it back into its place among the shelves with practiced ease.

  Unable to stop himself, Sereth asked, “What will you do, Your Majesty?”

  King Aurelian did not answer at once. He stood still, his hand lingering on the spine of the book before he finally spoke.

  “That,” he said calmly, “will not depend on me.”

  He turned slightly.

  “It will depend on Arzan, and on what he chooses to send to my court. He will make contact. I am certain of that.”

  The king’s eyes hardened before he moved towards the door.

  “When he does, I will give him my answer. Only then will it be decided whether Alparca marches to war again.” He paused at the doorway. “For now,” Aurelian added, “I must inform an old woman who has many years of

  grief ahead of her.”

  With that, the king left the library.

  Sereth remained where he stood, staring at the empty space he had left behind, wondering whether there would be another war incoming in the near future. And thankful that his head was still intact.

  ***

  The meeting with the nobles dragged on far longer than Kai had expected.

  By the time it had finally ended, his throat was dry and his head throbbed faintly, but he was glad that he had said everything he needed to say. The structure of the kingdom, the redistribution of power, the council, the programs, the preparations—none of it was left unsaid. The nobles had listened, and more importantly, they had agreed, at least on the surface.

  Whether they would all remain loyal was another matter.

  Kai wasn’t dumb enough to believe every promotion he had handed out would lead to a capable ruler. Power had a way of warping people, especially those who had chased it all their lives. Still, he had prepared for that. The Watchers were already embedded everywhere they needed to be, feeding him information quietly and consistently. If something festered, he would know.

  The real question was whether he would even have the time to listen.

  The civil war was over, but he had no intention of sitting on a throne and playing king. There was too much to do—too much he needed to prepare for. His mind was already moving ahead, mapping the next steps.

  Valkyrie’s tower came first.

  He needed to return there, to sift through every scrap of knowledge and every artifact it held. The fifth circle was within reach now. Once he stepped into it, he would finally reclaim the strength of his previous life. With his foundation as stable as it was, the sixth circle wouldn’t take more than a month after that.

  For Mages, the early circles were everything. Past the fifth, progression changed and became less about raw accumulation of mana. Kai had already studied everything he needed for the sixth circle in his previous life itself, so it wouldn't take long to prepare for it.

  But before any of that—

  His coronation would take place.

  As much as he wanted to leave for Veralt immediately, Kai forced himself to slow down and gave himself one hour.

  After dismissing the nobles, he pulled Duke Blackwood and Killian aside and gave them instructions. The carriages were to be prepared. Gareth and Klan would remain behind to oversee Hermil and make sure everything was going well.

  Once that was settled, Kai left them and walked alone toward the heart of the ruined city.

  The centre of Hermil was unrecognisable.

  A massive stretch of land had been completely erased by the explosion—stone vaporised, buildings reduced to nothing but scorched edges and fractured foundations.

  It was here that Duke Blackwood had chosen to hold the funerals.

  As Kai walked closer, the ground beneath his feet changed.

  Where there had once been streets and plazas, there was now a graveyard.

  Hundreds of graves stretched out before him in uneven rows, freshly turned earth still dark against the pale stone paths carved between them.

  Simple stone markers stood at the head of each grave, etched with names, dates, and in some cases nothing more than Unknown.

  Duke Blackwood had told him that some of these graves were empty.

  Not all bodies had been recovered. Some never would be. The explosions had been too intense, the magic too violent. Flesh had burned, bones had turned to dust, and there had been nothing left to bury. It hurt to know that among them were children and young men and women who had never truly lived—people who had died in a war that was never theirs to fight.

  His jaw tightened.

  That was life, he reminded himself. Cruel, unfair, and indifferent. He understood that better than most.

  As he moved deeper into the graveyard, his eyes caught on a lone figure standing at its center.

  Sullivan.

  The former king stood before a single grave, hands clasped behind his back, posture straight despite the injuries he was still recovering from. His hair had grown a little whiter, his shoulders a little heavier. Kai hadn’t seen him since the battle. He had heard Sullivan was still grieving, keeping to himself, refusing most visitors.

  Kai slowed his steps.

  As if sensing him, Sullivan turned. His eyes softened when they landed on Kai, and a faint smile tugged at his lips.

  “I thought you would come here, Arzan,” he said. Then, after a pause, he added. “Or should I call you Your Majesty now?”

  Kai returned the smile. “I’m not used to it.”

  “You will be,” Sullivan said easily. “It doesn’t take long.”

  Then his gaze drifted back to the grave before him.

  Kai followed his eyes.

  SIR RODERIC

  Royal Knight of King Sullivan

  He felt something settle heavily in his chest seeing whose grave they stood upon. He had heard the full account from Killian—how Roderic had stood his ground against Regina when he should have fled, how he had bought precious time with his life. He was brave, loyal and unyielding to the end.

  A good man.

  One who hadn’t deserved to die like that.

  Kai said nothing. There were moments when words only cheapened what they tried to convey, and this was one of them.

  So he let the silence stretch between them, broken only by the distant sounds of the city rebuilding itself.

  After a while, Sullivan spoke again in a low voice.

  “You know,” he said, eyes still fixed on the grave, “I find myself grieving more for Roderic than for my wife… or even my son.”

  Then he exhaled and looked at Kai.

  “I suppose I never really cared for Regina,” he said. There was no bitterness in his voice, only tired honesty. “At least not in the last decade. I’m just glad she’s no longer in this world.”

  He paused, then continued, slower.

  “As for Eldric… I tried to warn him. I truly did. I thought he would see the light one day.” His fingers tightened briefly behind his back. “Now I can only hope he gets a better life next time. Better parents.”

  His eyes returned to Roderic’s grave.

  “But Roderic,” Sullivan said quietly. “He did everything right. That’s how a Knight should live. And yet, he fell.” He glanced at Kai. “You know he was an orphan?”

  Kai shook his head. “I didn’t.”

  Sullivan gave a faint smile. “I’m just sad he never got the chance to start a family. He would’ve made a better father than I ever was.”

  For a moment, Kai said nothing. Then he lifted his eyes to the sky above the graveyard, where the clouds drifted slowly past.

  “I told him to run,” Kai said.

  Sullivan looked at him, surprised. “You did?” the old man’s eyebrows were raised.

  “Yes.” Kai’s voice was steady. “But he didn’t. Regina was escaping, and he acted on his own. I think he knew exactly what would happen.”

  He lowered his gaze. “Killian told me how he kept getting back up, even when the pain should have dropped him. He went out fighting.” Kai turned to Sullivan. “I’ll make sure people remember him. His name won’t be forgotten, your majesty.”

  Sullivan looked down, then nodded once. When he looked back up, there was a softness in his expression.

  “I’m not worthy of being called that anymore,” he said. “Just call me Sullivan.” He paused, then added, “And… Thank you. I think Roderic would’ve liked hearing that.”

  “That’s the least I could do,” Kai replied.

  Sullivan straightened and glanced around the graveyard, at the rows of stones and fresh earth.

  “Are you here to mourn the fallen?” he asked.

  Kai nodded. “Yes. I’m leaving for Veralt soon. I wanted to come here first.”

  “Ah, good then,” Sullivan said and nodded. “Would you like to take a walk? I may not have been the best king, but I still have some wisdom left to share.”

  Kai smiled a little more easily this time. “I’d like that.”

  They began to walk side by side, their steps slow and measured among the graves. As Sullivan spoke, Kai listened, and with each word, the weight pressing on his chest eased, just a little.

  ***

  A/N - You can read 30 chapters (15 Magus Reborn and 15 Dao of money) on my patreon. Annual subscription is now on too.

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