TYND 1

TL: Motokare

1. The Boy in the Tower

When the Creator God, Seará, fashioned this world of Araxys, the other gods paid it little mind for they already had countless other worlds they enjoyed playing with. But the Dark God, Maton, was different. He focused on Araxys with such intensity that he even discarded the world he was playing with. 

One of the gods asked. 

“Maton, why’re you so interested in that small, immature world?”

“Araxys is a world Seará created as a retreat. Though small and incomplete now, but one day, it’ll thrive. I can sense it.”

Predicting the future prosperity of Araxys, Maton secretly planted his seed there without Seará’s knowledge. 

Araxys was originally meant to be a world of only peace and serenity. But as Maton’s seed sprouted, Seará’s creations found themselves locked in endless wars against Maton’s offsprings. 

Demon gods, fallens, devils, demonic fiends—the names for Maton’s progeny varied, but after each fierce war, a fragile peace would follow, lasting decades or even centuries. Yet, that peace was always destined to end, and war would arise again. 

The Zibiah Empire was the only nation that’d never yielded to these demons, even as the wars with these creatures continued. But in this latest, particularly long war, the Empire—filled with pride and a deep sense of honour—faced its greatest threat yet. The imperial capital was invaded by demons, and shadows of darkness reached the very heart of the empire.

The fall of the empire would mean humanity’s defeat. Everyone expected the demise of humankind. And then, the one who saved humanity in this dire hour was none other than the old Archmage, Yolone Sirin. 

At the age of sixty, he was the first commoner in history to rise to the position of Tower Lord of the Imperial Magic Tower. The archmage had long been the pillar of the Allied Forces and had played a significant role in the war. But the magic Yolone Sirin displayed that day was on an entirely different level. With a colossal, wide-reaching spell, he annihilated the creatures that filled the Great Plains in an instant. 

In that moment, he seemed not human but something transcendent.

From that day forward, the momentum shifted towards the Allied Forces. Victory after victory followed, and finally, on the fifth of January, 2138—

“The children of Maton have retreated to distant lands. This is the victory of the Allied Forces! We declare the end of the demon wars!”

The crown prince of Zibiah, who’d led the Allied Forces, proclaimed peace. 

Throughout the long twenty-year war, many heroes had achieved brilliant feats: The Archduke of Zibiah Empire, Theon Detre Falsen; the Saint of Solten, Romerie; and the battle machine of Droight, Megan Rhys.

Yet if one name had to be chosen above others, all would name the old Archmage, Yolone Sirin. He was a figure of respect for all, a hero destined to be remembered throughout history. 

Thus, it was only natural that Yolone Sirin was the focal point of today’s victory celebration. The crown prince had even postponed his own coronation to prepare for this commemoration, wishing to honour Yolone, while nobles scoured the land for rare magical artefacts as gifts, and the common folk were ready to throw flowers and chant his name. Everything was set for the event to be an awe-inspiring celebration. 

Everything, that was, except for one glaring issue—Yolone Sirin didn’t show up. 

“Could he have overslept, perhaps?”

“He may have his quirks, but there’s no way he’d sleep through a day like today.”

“When one finally lets their guards down, it could happen.”

“I think he’s definitely skipping on purpose. He’s always been reluctant to be in the limelight, remember? There were a few times during the war when he disappeared during the battles and left us to flounder.” 

Theon, listening to his subordinates’ conversation, leapt up the marble steps several at a time. The absence of the guest of honour had cast a sour note over the celebration, prompting the crown prince to instruct Theon:

“I’ve already sent servants to his room five times, but no answer. His door’s locked and barricaded with a magical barrier, so they couldn’t get in. Go fetch Lord Yolone.”

When Theon reached the tower, he sent the servants up via a mana-powered lift while he and his subordinates took the stairs. 

“Strange man, that one. He’s always so sharp-tongued and irritable, yet somehow endearing. Honestly, he can be pretty cute.”

“Chungnip^[1], you find the strangest things in this world cute.” 

Theon’s aide, Zeynith Orudios, clicked his tongue and added. 

“To me it’s more frightening than cute. I’ve a lot of respect for the man, but there’s a fine line between eccentricity and terrifying unpredictability, and he needs some serious counselling, in my view.”

“On that, I agree. One time, we were locked in an intense battle, and he suddenly dropped to his knees. I thought he’d been injured, so I rushed over, only for him to say, ‘The dandelions are beautiful.’ He was admiring flowers in the middle of a frigging battle! We’ve got tendrils of dark creatures swinging overhead, and a demon breathing fire just behind us. And he’s looking at flowers? Can you believe it?!”

“The scariest part is that when the fight’s over, he reverts to his ruthless self, trampling on those same dandelions without a second thought.”

That was indeed true. The archmage’s occasional eccentric actions only fuelled rumours about his supposed split personality throughout the war. Theon had witnessed such a few instances himself. 

Once, after a skirmish, while they were going through and making sure the defeated creatures were truly dead, Yolone had stopped and crouched down, as if mesmerised by something. As Theon looked over, he saw a small hare that’d been caught in the crossfire, dying. The archmage, without a word, pulled a precious healing potion from his robes and poured every drop into the hare, which revived and scurried back into the bushes. 

But a few days later, during a strategy meeting, he coldly suggested setting fire to the forest to flush out the lurking creatures—and went on to do so, starting a massive blaze. Hares, deer, squirrels—all the woodland animals burned in plain sight, and his face showed no trace of emotion. 

Theon himself felt no pity for the animals perishing in the fire, but something about the archmage—the very same man who’d wasted a precious potion on a hare—seemed odd with that indifferent expression. 

And then…

“Right now… I just want to enjoy this sea of red……” 

It was a strange conversation, one that lingered vividly in Theon’s memory, likely etched there for life. A cryptic exchange, one that’d cemented his suspicion of Yolone Sirin’s dual personality. As he replayed the memory, they reached the archmage’s chambers. The servants who’d taken the lift still hadn’t arrived. 

Theon rapped his knuckles against the door.

“Lord Yolone.”

There was no response. Out of courtesy, he knocked again, but still, silence. Yet, Theon caught the faint rustle of something moving inside.

Someone was inside. 

He gauged the strength of the barrier placed over the door. No need to take it on himself.

“Zey.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

His aide, Zeynith, unsheathed his sword. 

Clang! 

The blade struck the barrier, creating a crackling fissure. Zeynith swung a few more times until, finally, the barrier shattered with a crash. Right on cue, the lift arrived. 

“The barrier’s down.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

At his signal, the servants rushed forward and opened the door. As it creaked open a hand’s width, something white darted out from within.

Squeak!

“Whoa, what the—”

Squeak, squeak!

Chungnip, startled, reached out and seized the creature—a white weasel with piercing red eyes, thrashing and squeaking fiercely as though defending its territory.

“A weasel? In his chambers? Is it a test subject?”

“Dispose of it.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Chungnip took the weasel toward the tower’s window. Meanwhile, the door finally pushed open, and revealed a sight that left the servants in shock, causing them to sink to the floor, mouths and eyes agape. The sheer horror of what they saw paralysed them, as they faced the incomprehensible reality before them.

Zeynith swiftly pulled out a magitool, triggering the emergency alarm. He hadn’t been ordered, but he decided this qualified as a critical situation. For there, hanging from the ceiling, was the lifeless body of the archmage, Yolone Sirin. 

Beeep—

Artefacts stationed throughout the imperial palace blared simultaneously in alarm. Having disposed of the weasel, Chungnip rushed back into the room, muttering curses under his breath, while the other servants whispered hurried prayers to Seará. Only Theon remained calm. He first lowered the archmage’s body from where it hung, carefully laying it on the floor. 

‘It’s been at least twelve hours since death,’ he noted. 

From the stage of rigor, it seemed Yolone had passed even before the victory celebration had begun. As Theon’s gaze shifted, he noticed a sheet of paper and a small notebook lying beneath an overturned chair.

I will carry all the sins with me

Was this brief message a last will and testament, or a note left by the perpetrator? The notebook beside it was written in cipher, making its contents unreadable. Chungnip, his voice trembling slightly, remarked, 

“It’s likely a research journal. I’ve often seen Lord Yolone jotting things down in it…”

Theon carefully gathered both the notebook and the note. 

Rustle

The faint sound he’d heard just now echoed again. His instincts flaring, Theon unsheathed his legendary blade, Starront, which had felled countless demons throughout the war, and moved toward the adjoining chamber.

“……”

But Theon didn’t strike. 

Curled into the corner, trembling uncontrollably, was a small, thin child.