The Hero’s Return
The air trembled with anticipation.
A singular phrase rang out like a war drum against the towering castle walls:
"Open the gates!"
The words surged through the ranks of armored guards, their voices commanding and urgent. The massive iron doors groaned as gears shifted, chains clanking with laborious weight. A sea of spectators had already gathered beyond the threshold, the city alive with jubilant energy.
Cheers erupted, a wave of sound that crashed over the returning army like the tides of destiny.
"Welcome home!"
"Long live the Sectums!"
"Eric! Bolan! Garjel! Our heroes!"
The voices of thousands mixed with the clamor of musicians, the distant pop of fireworks, and the scent of incense burning in offering. The streets, overflowing with eager faces, seemed to pulse with reverence.
Petals rained from balconies above, cascading in a riot of red, white, and gold. Some threw coins—a symbol of prosperity—while others, emboldened by admiration, tossed scarves, ribbons, and even undergarments in a reckless display of affection.
This was no ordinary return.
Two thousand men had marched home, survivors of a perilous campaign that had swallowed half their original force. Yet, despite the somber weight of those lost, the people saw only triumph—a testament to resilience, to victory snatched from the jaws of fate.
Amidst the sea of celebration, one voice rose with playful arrogance.
"Such an incredible welcome… all for me—ah, I mean, us, of course!" Eric grinned, his voice dripping with jest.
Bolan scoffed. "Tsk. Narcissistic as always, I see." His armored arms crossed over his chest. "Respect follows accomplishment. And we accomplished what most would have deemed impossible."
Garjel, ever composed, rode at the head of the formation, his chariot drawn by mighty steeds. His gaze swept the crowd, absorbing their cheers with quiet reflection rather than indulgence.
"Yes, Bolan," he said, his tone measured. "But remember—had we failed, these same voices would be cursing our names instead."
The words hung in the air like an unspoken truth, cutting through the revelry with a chill.
Eric leaned closer to Bolan, speaking in hushed tones, "Why is Lord Garjel so tense? You''d think he''d allow himself to enjoy this moment."
Bolan''s sharp eyes never left their commander. "He is the kingdom’s greatest general. He doesn’t have the luxury of relaxation—not yet. His first instinct is duty. First to the king."
A pause. Then Garjel, without turning, spoke over his shoulder.
"And my family, too, Bolan."
Both sectums stiffened, startled.
"Oh… right," they muttered in unison, slightly ashamed that their lord had overheard them so easily.
As the parade pressed forward, unseen eyes watched from the shadows.
A lone raven, black as the void, glided silently over the city before landing on a crooked wooden post in a narrow alleyway. Below, cloaked in darkness, a figure stood motionless. His long hooded robe draped over his slender frame, concealing all but the glint of sharp eyes beneath.
A sinister smirk curled his lips as he beheld the spectacle.
"Welcome back, hero," he whispered, voice laced with venom. His fingers curled slightly, as though grasping some invisible thread of fate.
Then, in an instant, he vanished into the abyss of the alleys, swallowed by the city’s underbelly.
The raven, as if sensing something unnatural, let out a sharp, distressed caw before flapping its wings and fleeing into the night.
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The celebration roared on.
But somewhere, unseen and unknown, the shadows had begun to stir.
The Return to Mandalas
Only 100 men from the returning army of 2,000 were permitted entry into the majestic palace of King Geffer.
At the palace gates, where golden spires reflected the dying embers of the sun, Lord Garjel stood before the towering entrance, his presence commanding. In his grasp, a ceremonial speaker—crafted from the bones of a legendary beast—amplified his words across the courtyard.
"Shall my king permit these hundred men to step into Mandalas alongside my two Sectums?"
A white flag unfurled at the peak of the palace tower, a sacred signal of peace. To enter without this ritual would be seen as treason—a prelude to a coup.
The 1,000 King’s Guard, standing in formation like an impenetrable wall, began to split: 500 to the left, 500 to the right. The disciplined motion revealed Lord Zalaam emerging from the inner palace, his approach slow, deliberate.
Then, his voice, sharp with authority, tore through the air.
"You!!"
Eric and Bolan instinctively reached for their weapons, bodies tensing at the unexpected outburst. But before steel could meet flesh, a familiar calm smile broke through Zalaam’s rigid demeanor.
"You bloody bastard," Zalaam barked, his voice edged with amusement. "I knew they couldn’t kill you."
With that, he seized Garjel in a fierce embrace.
"Long time no see," Garjel replied, his deep voice unwavering.
"Long enough for me to forget how damn hard your body is!" Zalaam laughed, the grip between warriors firm, unyielding.
Above them, a voice bellowed from a mystical speaker, its sound layered with an eerie resonance.
"The king grants permission!"
"The king grants permission!"
"The king grants permission!"
Zalaam turned sharply to his men, his voice carrying a weight few could command.
"Men!! E lon qualon!!"
The words were sacred—an order reserved for only three in the empire’s history.
<ul>
<li>The First Cardinal of the West—whose death remains a story yet untold.</li>
<li>Axel Bloodman—lost, vanished without a trace.</li>
<li>Garjel Akinfa of the West—the only man to have received this honor twice.</li>
</ul>
1,000 warriors obeyed instantly. Armor clattered to the ground. Helmets, breastplates, even the short knives concealed in their boots—every piece of weaponry was discarded. Bare-chested and vulnerable, they stood exposed before Garjel, an act of absolute trust and submission.
Not even the king commanded such a display of respect.
Eric, wide-eyed, whispered, "Never thought I’d see this in my lifetime. Always heard about it."
Bolan smirked. "That’s because you just became Zuka Garjel’s Sectum. I’ve already seen this once before." He puffed his chest. "My confidence level is through the roof!"
Garjel inclined his head to Zalaam, his tone softer. "Thank you, my friend. You honor me more than I deserve."
Zalaam grinned, slapping Garjel’s shoulder. "Go. The king awaits you. Don’t keep the man who trusted you with this mission waiting."
<hr>
The Thousand Steps of Mandalas
Garjel and his two Sectums began their ascent—1,000 steps leading to the heart of Mandalas, the palace that reigned over the Western Empire.
Eric groaned, his frustration echoing up the seemingly endless flight of stairs. "A thousand stairs? Who thought this was a good idea?"
Bolan smirked. "Stop whining and climb."
Laughter, deep and resonant, drifted from the summit.
"Welcome! Welcome, my warriors!"
At the peak of Mandalas, where golden chandeliers bathed the grand hall in opulent light, King Geffer Guarola stood with his arms wide, his grin as vast as the empire itself.
The 100 men bowed, their heads lowered in deference to the ruler of the Western Empire.
In the shimmer of gold and velvet, Garjel returned after years of absence—yet beneath the laughter and celebrations, shadows of old bonds and buried history lingered.
<hr>
The Banquet of Veiled Truths
The grand banquet unfolded in Mandalas, where tables stretched like rivers of silver and goblets brimmed with spiced wine.
King Geffer sat at the head, his queen, Fieral, and their sons arranged meticulously at his left—a portrait of regal unity. To his right, Garjel occupied the most honored seat, a silent testament to trust forged in blood and battle.
Sebber, the king’s advisor, smirked over his goblet. "The Eastern empires never stood a chance. Their ignorance was their downfall."
Geffer’s laughter rang through the hall. "Of course! That’s my general!"
From across the table, Prince Tommy leaned toward his brother. "Never seen Father this cheerful."
"True," his brother replied, but their mother, Queen Fieral, remained silent, her gaze unreadable.
Then, the king spoke—his voice carrying a casualness too carefully placed.
"Hahaha, Garjel is not only my friend but my protector. He saved me once, long ago, when I was just a boy. During the Great Persecution, he hid me, shielded me… Were we only seven years old then, Garjel?"
Laughter rippled through the hall, masking the weight of the words.
Garjel smiled, his tone light, yet his eyes held something deeper. "Yes, my lord. I remember it like yesterday."
At the far end of the table, Eric furrowed his brows, turning to Bolan.
"Great… per-se-cution?"
His whispered question hung in the air, an unspoken thread of mystery left to unravel.