The Memory of the King Who Never Died

The banquet hall stood in a silence too heavy to breathe. The floor was cracked from the battle, the chandeliers above swaying as if the air itself trembled. The clone of the First King had fallen—its blade shattered, its body fading into light.

But before anyone could speak, before the king could even lift his hand in command, a golden crystal rose from where the clone had collapsed. It floated in the air, spinning slowly, shedding fragments of light that shimmered like falling petals.

“W-What is that?” whispered one of the nobles.

No one answered.

Even the king, seated high on his throne, leaned forward as though drawn by something deeper than curiosity—something buried in the marrow of his bloodline.

Leo felt it first.
A heartbeat that wasn’t his own.
A whisper that came not from the world, but from the cracks of eternity.

And then—
the crystal burst open.

A wave of golden light surged outward, blinding the entire hall. The nobles gasped. The guards covered their eyes. The mages threw up barriers, but the light passed through everything, touching every soul in that room.

And suddenly—

They were no longer standing in the banquet hall.

The scent of smoke filled their lungs.
The ground beneath them trembled with the march of armies.
Above, the sky was split open with crimson lightning.

They stood on the ancient battlefield of the First Era—the day the Demon Lord fell.

Mountains burned in the distance, rivers of fire carving through the land. The cries of dying soldiers echoed like thunder, and through it all walked a single man—his cape torn, his sword drenched in blood, his armor cracked yet gleaming beneath the dying sun.

Roman.
The First King.
The man who built a kingdom from ashes.

“Stand,” his voice thundered through the chaos, as thousands of wounded men turned their eyes toward him. “Stand, my brothers… for the dawn will not rise for cowards!”

Even in illusion, his words carried weight. The nobles trembled where they stood, seeing not myth—but memory.

Roman raised his sword toward the sky.
Twelve golden lights followed—each taking the form of monstrous beasts of legend, the Twelve Fangs of Rome. Dragons, wolves, serpents, lions—they roared in unison, a chorus of gods made of fire and will.

The Demon Lord stood opposite him, towering, wings torn, eyes burning with hatred.
“You cannot kill me, human,” the Demon Lord spat. “Your world will crumble as mine rises again.”

Roman smiled—cold, unshaken. “Then let it crumble on my terms.”

Their swords met.
The ground shattered.

A single strike tore the horizon apart.
The light consumed everything.

When the vision changed again, the battle was over. The Demon Lord lay broken in the distance, his body melting into black dust.

Roman staggered forward, blood dripping from his lips.
Around him, his soldiers fell to their knees, weeping, calling his name.

He smiled faintly, reaching down to touch the golden pendant hanging around his neck—the same pendant now mocked as “useless” in the present banquet.

It pulsed once with soft light, like the last heartbeat of a dying god.

Then Roman spoke.

“Power… is not the strength to rule.
It is the courage to stand when the world breaks.”

The people watching—kings, princes, nobles—all felt their chests tighten. Even the Queen’s eyes filled with tears she didn’t understand.

But the vision wasn’t done.

Behind Roman, the faint silhouettes of men appeared—his own generals, cloaked in shadow. They drew their blades.

The entire hall gasped.
The betrayal was silent, but cruel.

A blade pierced Roman’s back.

He turned slightly, looking at them—not in hatred, not even in surprise, but sorrow.

“So this… is how history repeats.”

And as he fell to his knees, the pendant glowed once more.
Golden light spread from it, freezing the world in time, sealing the Twelve Fangs within the cycle of rebirth.

“The crown never dies… it merely waits.”

Roman fell.
The world turned to ash.
The light faded—
and the vision shattered.

The banquet hall returned.

The nobles collapsed to the ground, gasping as though they had lived the memory themselves. The king clutched his chest, his eyes wide, trembling.

“What… was that?” someone whispered. “That wasn’t a dream… was it?”

Aria’s hands shook as she turned toward her brother. Leo stood silently, his scarf hiding most of his face.

But his eyes—his crimson eyes—glowed faintly under the fading gold light.

He wasn’t trembling.
He wasn’t confused.

He was remembering.

He had felt every wound again, every betrayal, every scream.
The weight of a thousand years pressed against his chest, but he stood straight.

Noah, standing nearby, looked at him in shock. His system flickered briefly, trying to scan the sudden burst of divine energy—but it failed.
For a second, he saw a line appear in his vision:

[Error] System Recognition Failed: Ancient Signature Detected.

Leo looked up, and their eyes met.
Noah stepped back instinctively, breath catching.

The same system voice whispered softly in Leo’s mind:

“The world remembers what it once tried to forget.”
“Mission Unlocked: The Twelve Fangs Stir Once More.”

The crystal dust settled.

The hall remained silent.
Even the king could not speak.

And Leo, still cloaked and hidden, looked toward the throne with quiet fury.

“You celebrated a false history,” he thought.
“You forgot the blood that built your crown. But now… the king who never died has returned.”

The wind outside howled through the castle’s windows.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder cracked the sky open again.

And for the first time in a thousand years—
the world felt fear.