A hush fell over the entirety of Ossibuz, and even the hardened battle-commanders were gripped by a quiet astonishment. They questioned why Matar had prolonged the strife, when a swift and decisive war might have settled the matter. Thus, the most senior Ossibian lords convened a council, with the most vital advisors in attendance.

“What madness is this?” demanded Fhajo, and though his words were sharp as a honed blade, he commanded respect in this land. He was the son of Sapar and Matar’s half-brother by their shared father. Whispers claimed that Fhajo was more worthy to sit upon the Ossibian throne, and had it not been for Sapar’s decree, the Ossibians might well have chosen him as their king. Sapar’s reign had been steeped in brutal violence.

In truth, Fhajo was the king’s illegitimate son, born of the same father as Matar, making them kin by blood. Only Matar’s mother had been truly acknowledged as the king’s consort, and thus, the lineage of rule had passed solely through her. Yet, a portion of influence had been granted to Fhajo’s mother, securing his voice within the palace halls.

“Has the son of a king, once so steeped in savagery, become a coward?” spoke an ancient voice from among the council, a man whose years weighed heavily upon him. “I cannot believe such a thing!”

“The Ossibians are no lineage of cowards, so why did you refuse the challenge of the King of Thallerion?” railed Adamoth. He was a notorious warrior, whose blade had claimed countless lives. He had not yet risen to the rank of commander due to his volatile temper.

“Silence, Adamoth! Who do you imagine yourself to be, to address your betters in this council? You are but a celebrated warrior, yet I daresay, you are but an ordinary man.” This retort came from a man clad in fine robes, the steward of Ossibuz’s accumulated riches. He was Thuweruz, a man of endless chatter, unable to hold his tongue.

“What if I were to force-feed you my great weapon, that you might see I am no ordinary man!” Adamoth retorted with fury. Yet, the other merely scoffed in amusement.

“Cease your bickering, both of you!” commanded Laniro, Matar’s trusted aide and confidant. Beside him stood the young warrior Gallexe, the king’s personal guard.

As the summoned dignitaries assembled, Matar remained aloof, gazing out from a lofty window. His throne sat empty, for he was engrossed in watching the flight of ravens, hearing only the distant murmurs from the council table. As he watched, he cradled his beloved raven, named Corvys.

Matar sensed the growing impatience of the council, eager for him to begin the proceedings and explain his sudden refusal of war against Thallerion.

It was Fhajo who had called this assembly, deeply displeased by Matar’s actions, which they perceived as an act of cowardice. Yet, in truth, Fhajo secretly yearned for the war to proceed, for if Matar were to fall, he would ascend to the throne of the Ossibians. Thus, he sought to impress all present with his resolve. But Matar, discerning Fhajo’s true intentions, showed no interest in the ongoing deliberations.

Only Laniro was privy to Matar’s complete strategy. Before Matar had halted all proceedings, they had spoken at length of his designs. Laniro, therefore, understood the true reason behind his king’s actions.

“My king Matar,” Laniro called out. “It is time for the council to begin.”

Matar first released his raven, Corvys, sending it soaring into the sky. Only then did he approach his throne. As he neared, all present rose in deferential respect to their king. He seated himself in silence.

“Be seated.”

“I am pleased that you are all here,” Fhajo began.

“You have heeded my summons regarding the grievous truth that has shaken us all.” He swept his gaze boldly across the faces of those assembled. “That the King of the Ossibians… has shown cowardice against Thallerion!”

“That is indeed unreasonable,” murmured some of the council.

“I was born in Ossibuz, yet never once did I shy from a war in those days,” declared Sapar, his brow furrowed as if ploughed by a thousand worries. “You are a coward!” Sapar raised his machete, pointing it at the king in his fury, as ash from his tobacco showered upon the table.

“His father was brave, so why did he not inherit his father’s courage—could it be?”

“If this is the manner of our rule, we are surely headed for inescapable doom,” spoke another. Fhajo inwardly rejoiced, sensing that the hearts of the vital chieftains were turning against Matar.

“That is precisely the point of this council,” Fhajo continued, his voice rising. “Because of his actions, other nations will deem us weak, quick to retreat!” He breathed out with disgust. “Matar has presented a terrible image before the King of Thallerion!” The king Matar remained silent, even as Fhajo hurled insults at him.

“Honored lords of Ossibian, allow me to speak, as the king’s right hand…” Laniro addressed them. “The discourse I hear from you is deafening, for you have been too hasty in your judgments. Why do you not first question the king, who sits before you?”

“That coward!” Fhajo spat, doubling down on his insult.

Matar silently absorbed his father Sapar’s barbs and the sharp, rasping voice of his half-brother, Fhajo. Suddenly, the entity of Corvus filled King Matar’s mind, its voice a gravelly whisper of pure annoyance.

“Why not simply teach Fhajo a lesson? All he craves is your throne,” the Corvus entity hissed, a buzzing echo in Matar’s ear.

“He’s powerless. Just wait; I’ll surprise them all later,” Matar mused, a steely resolve forming within him. He then heard an elder speak, their voice frail with the weight of years.

“That’s true. We’re overthinking things against our king,” the elder conceded. The others nodded in agreement, then pressed Matar for his reason in refusing the War King’s challenge.

“Answer us, what’s your reason for turning down Thallerion’s challenge?” Adamoth demanded, his tone brittle with impatience. Matar offered no immediate reply.

“If he can’t answer, it only proves he’s a coward!” Fhajo scoffed, his voice laced with mocking triumph, a smug smirk stretching his lips.

Laniro began to interject, but the King halted him.

****************************************************************************************************

On that very evening, when the clock struck midnight, a strange pull seized him. He was drawn once more into the dagger’s void—not in body, but in spirit. His form remained asleep in the mortal realm, yet his consciousness now drifted through the silent expanse of the blade’s inner world.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Martheuw Cereun said, his voice heavy with sorrow. The walls around them flickered faintly, their light dimming as though the void itself grieved.

The young prince’s joy—once bright and warm—had faded into a solemn calm. He stood alone now, shoulders trembling, but his hands were firm—his fists clenched with quiet resolve.

“No,” he said at last, voice steady. “Enough with sorrowful words. They gave their lives to kindle a new hope for every child of Thallerion. They faced Moonatoria—a beast none could ever defeat—and still they stood their ground.”

Martheuw inclined his head. “You are brave. Your grandfather was right—perhaps the bravest boy in all of Thallerion.”

His gaze deepened, studying the boy as though peering beyond flesh and bone.

“I see now… you are not of pure Orion blood. There is another starline within you—Cephues. I can help you awaken it. But first, you must train… mentally.”

The boy frowned. “Mentally?”

Martheuw nodded slowly. “Yes. For those who bear the Cephues bloodline, the mind is both their forge and their doom. Should they suffer deeply—should despair consume them—they may walk one of two paths: to rise as heroes… or to fall as destroyers.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Wait… if I suffer too much, I’ll turn into some… mad creature? No—I don’t want that!”

A faint echo of sorrow crossed the spirit’s face. “Perhaps not. But know this—those who gain immense power must hold an unshakable will. One blink of hatred, one whisper of vengeance… and humanity itself could vanish. That is why, long ago, the Cephues lineage was hunted. Entire generations were slain. Even Infants were not spared.”

” Then, why Herzthroven bloodline still exist if my ancestors were hunted down back then?”

“There are so many bloodlines extinct. But, survival is a common goal of everyone, power ability help them survive, but those who were weaker will be forgotten until it extinct. So do you think Herzthroven bloodline is weak?”

” Huh? Well… I don’t know…the current generation it seemed were normal people like the other bloodlines too.”

” You’re only lack of training. But once you forge yourself into something you could imagine…then, better future may awaits you there.”

” Goodbye.”

****

He woke up simultaneously to the rang of bell. WhoMoonatoria boasted a generational bloodline of Ursa-entity power, meaning that pure Moonatorians inherited Ursa-entity abilities, their very essence steeped in ursine might. King Hedromus wasn’t the sole shapeshifter; many Moonatorian warriors could transform into ferocious, wild bears. Yet, there were unfortunate Moonatorians, those of the lowest rank, mere pawns summoned to riot, frontier soldiers for whom survival or death held neither benefit nor honor.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep