Vescrutia: Legacy

The forest did not merely grow; it composed itself.

Dalazar trailed closely behind the silent, robed attendant escorting him to the healers assigned to his recovery. As they walked, he found himself curious as to what they would be able to do that the Great Spirit herself could not.

To distract himself, Dalazar continued to take in the gorgeous, nigh-impossible architecture of the surrounding woods. Great, ancient trees did not simply reach for the sky; their colossal trunks split and recombined to form sweeping arches, vaulted ceilings, and winding aqueducts of living wood. Suspension bridges made of woven, glowing vines spanned deep ravines, and the air smelled of ozone, damp moss, and some nameless, sweet resin.

To think there was magic like this out in the world, thriving far beyond the heavily fortified borders of his former home.

The sheer wonder of it began to chip away at the hardened shell of his chest, bringing back to him pieces of his former personality. It was a strange, bittersweet sensation—the return of the boy he was before the king he had to become. He remembered that younger self: a lover of knowledge, a seeker of mysteries, the kind of kid who’d spend hours tucked into a dusty alcove with his nose buried in a leather-bound tome about adventure and magical theory.

How he longed, sometimes, to be able to return to those simpler times. The days when he and Evant would sit on the marble balcony of his bedchambers, watching the sun dip below the jagged teeth of the western mountains. They would let the day become night, and the night become day, enjoying nothing more than the company of each other, even in the deepest silence.

“My Knight…”

The memory of Evant’s voice was so clear it made Dalazar’s throat tighten.

“Is… is it selfish of me to wish you well… knowing that you must go where I cannot follow?”

Evant’s love had often been the only anchor keeping Dalazar from drifting into utter despair during the most extreme distress of his journey. It was the very thought of Evant—his warmth, his unwavering belief—that had allowed Dalazar to awaken the volatile power of the Vermil Realm back when he trained under the grueling discipline of the Conservatory. It was that same fierce, protective emotion that had granted him the strength to stand against not one mighty foe on that terrible, ash-choked day, but two.

Even now, separated by vast distances—perhaps between lands, or perhaps between entirely different realms of existence—Dalazar could still feel the faintest, sweetest ebbs of those emotions. Those memories were a fragile thread of gold in a tapestry of iron.

He let out a long, ragged breath, his shoulders slumping.

If you saw me moping around like this, Evant, you’d never let me hear the end of it.

Another memory stirred, older and heavier. His father, standing in the courtyard under a sky bruised with the colors of coming war, his hand resting on Dalazar’s young shoulder.

“A kingdom will always mirror the face of its king, young prince,” his father had said, his voice a low, steady rumble. “So… try smiling.”

Dalazar tried to force his lips upward, but the gesture felt hollow, a ghost of a smile on a face carved by grief.

“We’ve arrived,” the attendant said, breaking the silence. The voice was smooth, devoid of inflection, yet not unkind.

The attendant gestured toward a wide, circular clearing dome-roofed by the interwoven leaves of a massive weeping willow. Strands of glowing, silver ivy hung down like bead curtains, casting a soft, ethereal light over a central platform of smooth, white stone.

“Please, this way,” a voice called from the shadows of the willow.

An elder emerged. His robes were the color of wet slate, and his eyes held the terrifying, calm depth of still water. Two younger practitioners stood behind him, carrying shallow wooden bowls filled with a shimmering, viscous ink that seemed to pulse with an internal, violet light.

Dalazar stepped onto the platform, looking down at his hands, then up at the elder. “I have to admit, I’m a bit confused. I don’t have any wounds on me.”

“Ah, none that you can see with the naked eye,” the elder replied, bowing his head slightly. “What is wounded in you is not merely flesh, but your spirit as well. You are… unaligned.”

Dalazar frowned.

“Your body and your spirit are interfering with each other,” the elder explained, gesturing for the two younger practitioners to step forward. “The trauma of your journey, the rapid cycling of your magic, and the grief you carry have thrown your inner currents into chaos. They are fighting for dominance within your vessel. We will use our methods to remove that interference and restore the harmony of your naten.”

The elder gestured to the center of the stone platform. “Come. Remove your clothing.”

Dalazar blinked, a sudden flush of heat rising to his cheeks. “Ev… everything?”

The elder simply stared back, his expression entirely clinical, devoid of judgment. The silence stretched between them, heavy and absolute, until Dalazar conceded with a quiet, defeated sigh. He untied his travel-worn cloak, unbuckled his leather spaulders, and let his tunic and trousers fall to the stone.

Standing bare before the ancient forest, he felt incredibly small, stripped. The Elder observed the scars on his body; they spread across his arms, shoulders, ribs, and legs like lightning filigree. His naten circulatory system was shot.

“Now…” the elder whispered, his voice catching the wind. “Please stand perfectly still.”

The elder dipped his index and middle fingers into the glowing violet ink of the wooden bowl. When he withdrew them, they were coated in a thick, luminescent sheen that did not drip, but rather vibrated.

With a swift, practiced motion, the elder drew his fingers through the air, then pressed them against Dalazar’s chest.

Dalazar gasped. It did not feel like ink on skin. It felt like a needle of pure ice sliding directly through his breastbone, reaching deep into the empty spaces of his chest.

The elder’s hand moved with astonishing speed and absolute precision, painting a complex, flowing character upon Dalazar’s collarbone. Seishin—raw spiritual energy—flowed from the elder’s fingertips, shaping the glowing runic kanji. As soon as the stroke was completed, the violet light did not sit upon the surface; it sank into the skin, physically penetrating his body to deliver focused spiritual energy directly to the invisible fractures within his soul.

Dalazar’s eyes widened as he watched the characters form. His breath hitched.

The stroke weight, the sharp termination of the curves, the distinct, elegant geometry of the kanji…

This is the Healing Script of the Flonne, Dalazar realized, his mind racing through the dusty archives of his youth.

He recognized the specific glyph for 'Harmonize'. The Flonne were a noble house of his lost kingdom, legendary for their peerless healing abilities. But as he watched the elder work, tracing more complex, interlocking runes across his shoulders and ribs, Dalazar made a deeper connection. The Flonne’s script was a simplified version of this. These Kageyoma Orun healers were not using a branch of the magic—they were the trunk of the tree. The Flonne were merely the academic descendants of the ancient Kageyoma Orun.

As the realization washed over him, the violet kanji began to burn hotter. The Seishin penetrated his spiritual pathways, forcibly realigning his fractured naten.

With the realignment came the floodgates.

Dalazar’s vision swam, the weeping willow and the stone platform dissolving into a rush of blinding light and memory. He was pulled backward, tumbling through the corridor of his own past.

Suddenly, he was a boy again, sitting in the quiet, sunlit halls of House Flonne. The air smelled of dried chamomile and iron-rich ink. A gentle matriarch of the house was guiding his small hand, teaching him the foundational strokes of the script, whispering of how magic must flow like water, never like a hammer.

The memory shifted, violent and kinetic. He was in the courtyard of the Urso noble house. The heavy, rhythmic thud of wooden practice swords echoed off stone walls. He was sparring with the fierce Urso heirs, his muscles burning, his lungs gasping for air as they taught him how to absorb a blow, how to convert pain into resolve.

Another shift, and he was surrounded by the deafening clang of metal and the hiss of steam. He was in the workshops of the Gamallow house, laughing as a brilliant, soot-covered inventor showed him a complex brass contraption that defied gravity. Dalazar had helped them align the spiritual gears, feeling the joy of creation, of a kingdom working in perfect, harmonious unison.

These were the pillars of his home. The people he had sworn to protect.

Then, the warmth of the memories curdled. The air turned to ash. The smell of burning pine and blood choked his throat.

The vision plunged into the darkest day of his life.

He was standing in the ruins of his capital, the sky weeping black rain. Before him stood Kilik, the B’halain commander. She was a terror clad in obsidian armor, her eyes burning with a cruel, unchecked hunger. She had laid waste to everything Dalazar loved. His kingdom was burning, his people screaming in the background.

In the memory, Dalazar held his sword to her throat. His heart pounded with a feral, consuming rage. He had the power to end her, to tear her soul apart with the Vermil magic. But he had hesitated. He had looked at the devastation, looked at the cycle of endless, bloody vengeance, and he had stayed his hand, choosing instead to secure the escape of the survivors, leaving her alive.

Now, in the grip of the spiritual alignment, the phantom pain of that moment threatened to rip him apart.

I should have killed her, Dalazar thought, his spirit writhing in agony as the Kageyoma Orun’s kanji burned into his skin. I let her live. My kingdom is gone. I failed them all. It is my fault.

The interference between his body and spirit flared violently. The violet runes on his chest flickered, turning a volatile, angry red. The elder healer frowned, sweat beading on his brow as he struggled to maintain the connection.

“He is rejecting the alignment,” one of the younger practitioners whispered in alarm. “His regret is too heavy!”

Dalazar felt himself slipping into the dark abyss of his own failures. He was drowning in the ash of his lost home.

But then, through the smoke of his burning kingdom, a voice cut through. Gentle. Firm. Unyielding in its warmth.

He saw his father, standing amidst the ruins of the throne room, not as a corpse, but as a guiding light. He looked down at Dalazar with eyes full of profound, sorrowful pride.

“Remember, my son…” his father’s voice echoed, wrapping around Dalazar’s fractured spirit like a protective shield. “You did not choose vengeance. You chose to save what remained. You chose love.”

You chose love.

The words washed over Dalazar’s burning consciousness like a cool spring rain.

The image of Evant’s smiling face flashed before his eyes. The memories of the Flonne, the Urso, the Gamallow—they had not been in vain. Their legacy lived on in him. He had not fought to destroy Kilik; he had fought to preserve the spark of his people. His mercy was not a weakness. It was the ultimate testament to the king he had striven to be.

Dalazar let go of the breath he felt he had been holding for years. He let go of the crushing, suffocating weight of his regret. He accepted his choice.

With that acceptance, the interference vanished. His spirit ceased its frantic struggle against his physical form.

The violet kanji painted across his body flared with a sudden, blinding intensity. The runes sank fully into his flesh, locking into place. Within his chest, the tangled, knotted channels of his naten uncoiled, aligning themselves in a perfect, harmonious flow.

For a second, there was a profound, absolute silence.

Then, Dalazar’s eyes snapped open.

A massive, brilliant burst of emerald light erupted from his chest, shattering the dim twilight of the willow grove. The light was beautiful, clean, and radiant, roaring outward in a shockwave of pure spiritual energy that rustled the hanging vines and made the ancient trees hum in resonant response.

The emerald glow swirled around Dalazar, a luminous aura that spoke of life, growth, and restored sovereignty.

The elder healer stepped back, shielding his eyes, a rare, genuine smile touching the corners of his lips.

As the light slowly faded, settling back beneath Dalazar’s skin in faint, glowing green veins before disappearing entirely, Dalazar took a deep, clear breath. For the first time in years, the air did not taste like ash. It tasted like spring.

His connection to his magic was not fully restored—the road ahead was still long, and the scars of his journey remained—but the block had been shattered. The spark had been rekindled.

Dalazar looked down at his hands, feeling the steady, warm hum of Seishin coursing through his veins. He looked toward the horizon, beyond the canopy of the impossible forest.

He was no longer a broken king mourning a fallen realm. He was a seeker once more. And he would find his way back to the light.

-The following day-

The coral light of Solara, one of Vescrutia’s gemini suns, saturated the Nova forest with the radiant promise of a new day. For some, this dawn was an ordinary rhythm of nature, but for Dalazar, it was a miracle borne of agony and rebirth.

He lay in the tranquil warmth of the infirmary, where he had been kept overnight so the healers could monitor his vitals. His body, once broken and hemorrhaging spiritual essence, was slowly adjusting to his newly restored naten system. Several glowing nodes, fashioned from enchanted leaves, were adhered softly to his skin. Thin, fibrous tendrils connected them to crystalline constructs filled with amber fluids, continuously supplying his veins with vital energies.

As the first rays of coral light trickled through the high wooden window, the feathered veil serving as a door was pulled aside. A healer entered, speaking in low, revered tones.

"Right through here..."
Behind the attendant walked Jiro. He carried his signature stoic gaze—a face carved from years of stoicism and hard-fought survival. Yet, as his eyes landed upon the bed, his sharp features softened ever so slightly.

"How is he?" Jiro asked, his voice a quiet rumble.

"He’s stable," the healer replied, checking the light pulsing through the leaf-nodes. "It was touch-and-go during the ceremony, but he has proven to possess a remarkable will and resolve."

"Hmph," Jiro grunted, a sound that carried the subtle weight of approval.

"To be so young, yet carry such immense spiritual burdens and survive them..." The healer paused, looking down with quiet reverent wonder. "He is quite a special person."

"Yes... yes, he is," Jiro murmured, his gaze tracing the profile of the sleeping youth. From this angle, stripped of the battlefield’s frantic terror, Dalazar looked like little more than a peaceful child resting after a long journey.

As if feeling the heavy, grounding presence standing over him, Dalazar stirred. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing striking silver eyes that caught the morning light.

"Hm... wh... where am I?" Dalazar muttered softly, his senses slowly piecing the world back together.

"Ah, easy there," the healer advised gently, placing a hand near his shoulder. "Your body may still be groggy from the trial. Your naten system was entirely reshaped."

"Hey there, kid," Jiro said, stepping closer as his arms folded across his chest. "Looks like you pulled through."

"Jiro..." Dalazar whispered. He shifted, slowly bringing himself up into a sitting position. He braced for the familiar, agonizing friction in his chest, but it never came. He blinked, taking a deep, unhindered breath. It felt as though a crushing anvil had been lifted from his ribs. His very spirit felt buoyant, clear, and strangely light.

"The Elder and the Overseer will want to know of your recovery," the healer said with a polite bow. "If you two will excuse me."

With a soft rustle of feathers, the attendant departed, leaving the two alone. A quaint, heavy silence settled over the room. Outside, the gentle hum of the Orun village awakening provided a soft backdrop. Neither spoke immediately until Dalazar finally broke the quiet, his voice cautious.

"I’m surprised you’re here, Jiro."

Jiro walked toward the wooden chair beside the bed, pulling it out with a slow, deliberate motion. "Why’s that? I told you I’d see you when you returned."

"I... I was worried you were upset," Dalazar admitted, casting his gaze slightly downward, tracking Jiro’s posture in his peripheral vision. "That I had overstepped in our last conversation."

Jiro sat, his expression initially returning to that stern, unyielding stone that had intimidated so many others. "You are quite the meddlesome brat; that much is true."

Dalazar flinched sheepishly, looking away. Seeing the boy's genuine concern, the harshness on Jiro’s face cracked, giving way to a rare, subtle smirk.

"But you have a good heart, Dalazar," Jiro said softly, leaning forward to place a heavy, warm hand firmly on the youth’s shoulder. "That’s rarer than any power you could ever obtain. Let that be your most treasured possession."

Dalazar looked up, meeting Jiro’s gaze. The lingering self-doubt melted from his chest. "Right!" he said, a genuine brightness returning to his demeanor.

"Hmph. Seems like those nasty scars have healed pretty well, too," Jiro noted, his eyes trailing down Dalazar’s arm. The once jagged, emerald filigree of damaged naten pathways across his skin had faded into faint, silvery traces. His flesh looked healthy, rejuvenated. But deeper than the physical, Jiro could feel it—Dalazar’s dormant spirit energy, his Seishin, was fundamentally realigned. "How do you feel?"

"Good... actually," Dalazar said softly, extending his remaining hand and flexing his fingers into a fist. "Better than I’ve felt in a very long time."

He paused, his brow furrowing as his thoughts drifted back into the dark corridors of the ritual. "During the ceremony... I had to face the destruction of my kingdom again. I stood before the harbinger of its end..."

" And?" Jiro asked quietly.

"And... I had to accept my choices," Dalazar said, his voice dropping into a register of profound clarity. "I had to stand firm on the decision I made to save those I could, rather than drown in guilt for those I couldn't. It brought me back to the true reason I wield power... the reason I refused to have this missing arm restored."

He looked out the window, watching the coral sun bleed gold onto the leaves of the Nova canopy.

"I was a martyr for the ideal of my people for so long. I only wielded my power in service of others, as a shield, driven by obligation. But I am a king no longer. My reason to fight—to grow stronger—has changed. The longer I allow myself to fester in past faults, the harder it will be to protect what lies ahead."

He turned back to Jiro, his silver eyes flashing with an unmistakable spark.

"I want to live. I want to carry the memory of those I lost, to champion their faith in me. Where that path will lead, I cannot say. But right now, I want to help Edo through this war and darkness. I want to serve as a salve for those being harmed by powers taking advantage of the chaos. Becoming a Bingo Knight is my start."

He pointed out toward the village, where the Orun people were beginning their daily routines in peace. "I lost my home, but here I can ensure no one else loses theirs. Besides... there is still one promise I need to keep."

Dalazar pressed his hand over his sternum.

"I thought you were letting go of regrets for the dead," Jiro reminded him gently.

"I am," Dalazar countered smoothly. "I’m talking about the promise I made to Zincara... that I would fight to bring about true peace."

He sat up higher, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "Whether here or on Madeira, the Shi have caused immense heartache, but they have suffered too. I need to witness the state of the Shi for myself. There’s still so much I don’t understand about Zincara or Aphosis, or the destiny Chiye spoke of. I don't fully comprehend the Denkoushi, nor what life has been for them since Ains left them behind. But I do understand that Aphosis poses a threat not just to Edo, but to the entire world."

Dalazar stood up, reaching for his clothes resting on a nearby stool. He dressed deliberately, pulling his tunic over his restored naten pathways, before finally reaching for a faded cloth. With practiced reverence, he wrapped the scarf—his mother's final memento—around his neck.

"Whatever that destiny may be, you resolve to see it through?" Jiro pressed, watching him closely.

"Yeah," Dalazar said. The single word was quiet, but it vibrated with an unshakable foundation.

"You are prepared, then, to walk the path of a killer?" Jiro’s voice turned razor-sharp, testing the metal of the boy's soul. "Whether you do so in the name of peace or kindness matters not. In the end, to protect, you will be taking lives."

Dalazar did not flinch. He turned, looking Jiro squarely in the eye. The uncertainty that had plagued him for months was gone, replaced by a deep, tragic, yet noble understanding of the burden he was adopting.

"I understand that," Dalazar answered. "I am prepared for that weight."

Jiro stared at him for a long moment, searching the depths of those silver eyes. Finding no hesitation, a grim, proud smile finally touched the warrior's lips. He stood up from the chair.

"Good. Get yourself dressed fully," Jiro said, turning toward the feathered doorway. "We begin immediately. It's time you learned Seishin."