AoP | B1 | Epilogue II (Patreon)

(Final chapter of book 1.)

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Seth’s boots echoed in the cavernous hall of the law office of the crown in Trogan. The air was cold and still, carrying the faint scent of old, dry parchment and dust. Two rough wooden splints were strapped to his broken arm, and from there a faint, almost imperceptible thread of white aether wove toward the Silver healing prism tucked in his pocket.

Two hulking guards flanked him, one armed with a halberd, the other with a tower shield and sword. A sheen of sweat coated their brows, their knuckles white where they gripped their weapons, their unease palpable. They were prey being scrutinized by predators. 

Behind them, both Orwen and Professor Reat’s silent fury made the ambient aether vibrating and heavy. A suffocating bloodlust seemed to press in from all sides. Neither had been pleased to learn the Faertis House was dragging Seth to trial, demanding retribution for what he had done to Lucius.

Seth had found that quite ironic. Phantom Punch had shattered the noble’s spine, and he would never walk again, not even with the best Priests of Kastal—but Seth wasn't even close to being satisfied. Lucius didn’t deserve to be crippled. He deserved to be dead.

All five of them passed through a grand archway into a vast courtroom. Rows of empty wooden benches stretched out like skeletal ribs on both sides. At the front stood a jury box and an imposing judge's bench that loomed over two small podiums. High above, the faded eyes of painted gods stared down from the vaulted ceiling, their expressions unreadable in the solemn light filtering through the tall windows. 

A single person was present in the room: a man sitting at the judge's bench with a long black robe that covered his large frame. His double chin was folded over itself as he read the piece of parchment in his hands.

Today wasn’t Seth’s trial; it was his scribing day.

Yet Seth’s core stirred, filling him with its mysterious energy that amplified the anger already simmering in his chest. He knew what was coming, and just thinking about it made him want to go on a rampage. The Scribe ahead would engrave an enchantment onto his flesh—a binding chain that would prevent him from leaving the country before his trial, one that promised excruciating pain if he dared to try.

It was the crown’s twisted solution to ensure those taken to court by Noble Houses wouldn’t have to rot in a cell for months to prevent them from fleeing. For more heinous crimes, a tracking rune could even be added to the enchantment. Thankfully, that wasn’t Seth’s case. 

That was usually reserved for commoners who'd committed severe crimes and also had the wealth to mount a strong defense—one that prevented nobles or the crown from executing them outright without trial. 

Seth hadn't been surprised to learn that such a thing was common in a kingdom as corrupt as Kastal.

​​The Scribe looked up and waved them closer. As Seth and the guards walked forward, Professor Reat and Orwen followed behind without even a second of hesitation. At first Seth hadn't understood why they’d insisted on coming, but it had become clear after thinking about it. He knew nothing about enchantments or scribing; the man ahead could pretty much write anything on his skin, cast whatever spell he wanted, and Seth would have been utterly oblivious of the real consequences.

"Seth," the Scribe said before continuing by reading the parchment in his hands with a droning monotone, "Member of the Adventurers Guild and the Champions of Chaos branch. The House of Faertis accuses you of deliberately crippling their youngest heir." 

The man paused. His heavy-lidded eyes lifted to peer at Seth for a moment, then dropped back to the text. "We have received letters from the Surani House, the Ryehill House, and the Adventurers Guild supporting your plea of self-defence. Therefore, a trial will be held six months from now."

Seth frowned at the mention of the Ryehill House. Professor Reat must have asked the academy director.

The crown’s Scribe cleared his throat. "The exact date will be determined according to the course of the war between the Bridan Empire and our nation. Until then, you are bound to remain within the borders of this country. There will be no tracking inscription. You may Rift Dive within Kastal’s territory, but be aware that should you try fleeing by leaving through another nation’s Escape scroll or a foreign Rift portal, you will face extreme pain. Do you have any questions?"

Seth met the man's indifferent gaze. "I do. If the war lasts longer than six months, will the trial be postponed?" 

He hadn't thought of the question himself—it was one Celine and Elena had insisted he ask. The Scribe grimaced, his lips pressing into a thin, displeased line. "If that is the case, and if you were to survive the war, then yes. It would be pushed until the conflict's end."

"If I survive," Seth muttered under his breath, the words echoing in the sudden silence of the chamber. 

Two days ago, the academy’s director had announced the cancellation of the last three rounds of the Spring Tournament and since then, a single word had been on everyone’s lips: war.

Courtesy of the Champions of Chaos, he also knew the true motives behind the upcoming conflict. It wasn't about defense or honor. It was about greed. A few great Houses had stolen rare resources from a Rift in the Bridan Empire’s territory while also betraying a traitor who had helped them. And now, commoners would die for those stolen prizes. 

Seth knew those resources wouldn't go to the people of Kastal, even if by some miracle the nation were to win. They would fill the vaults of the king and the very Houses who had been licking the man’s boots and suffocating the poor with absurd taxes.

"Your arm," the Scribe commanded, his firm tone cutting through Seth's thoughts.

Doing as asked, Seth extended his uninjured left arm. The Scribe took a piece of cool parchment, pressed it against Seth’s forearm, and pulled it away a second later, leaving a stencil of glistening black ink. The man then grabbed a quill whose nib seemed to weave raw aether and began to trace the lines. 

The moment the tip touched Seth’s skin, a scorching pain shot through him. Yet Seth remained perfectly still and not a single sound escaped his lips. His face was a mask of stone as he stared at the Scribe.

The man embodied everything he hated: the Faertis House, the greedy king of Kastal, the rot festering at the heart of the country. If not for the guards standing nearby, he would have shattered Scribe’s skull just to release some of the anger building inside him.

The throbbing of Seth's core gradually intensified, then its energy surged through his veins and stoked the fire within. This war would serve only the king and the Great Noble Houses who didn’t want to betray him.

Thousands of men and women, each with families and futures, would be sent to die. All so that a good-for-nothing ruler and his leeches could gain more power. Lives traded for greed. Dreams stolen for nothing.

This was not the commoners’ war. This was not his war. And he wouldn't die for them.

Seth’s fists clenched, blood seeping from the crescents his nails carved into his palms as the Scribe engraved the final line of the enchantment. They all acted as if they were invincible, as if they were gods among humans.

But they weren’t.

They would soon learn that they could bleed, that they could be killed. And he would be the one to remind them. Sooner or later he would make them realize that they were nothing but prey and stepping stones. As long as he breathed, he would climb, fight, and thrive—until he could crush them. Until they feared him like the predator he was destined to become.

This was his Path. The Path of a Primalist who would rise above them all.