Click-click*! *Clack*! *Chhk-chhk-chhk*! *Clik-clik*! *Ka-chak*! *Ka-chik-chik!*
Hundreds of camera flashes hit like a volley of Gaussbows the very important people over the main stage, opening the great ceremony that was about to begin in the War Hall of the Miraval Museum of Chaotian and Imperial History.
From the Highlands to the Great Dune, the journalists of the Holy Rolandish Empire had gathered in Miraval City, waiting in frenzied anticipation for Emperor Julius III’s new announcement on the coming conflict. However, at each hour, the phones in their offices buzzed with false alarms, trapping them in a strange limbo, and worse, there was little to write about in a city so secure that most of the local newspapers just filled their pages with photos of cats freely roaming the streets. Thus, the announcement of an archaeological discovery attracted them like moths to a torch.
“Mikhail? I thought you weren’t coming.” On the improvised stage raised for the event, Chad greeted S-Class ’4th-Wall Breaker’ Mikhail Yazov, who had joined his classmates just moments before the museum director began speaking.
“Sorry…I c-changed…m-my mind,” Mikhail muttered hoarsely, each word dragged by force from his throat, and despite the worried glances from his classmates, he made no effort to explain his grotesque look—his face was nothing more than a skull draped in a thin veil of skin.
“Anicet,” Astary whispered to the Nixie Prince beside her. “You’re looking more energetic than he is right now. Do you know what has happened to him? I’m almost starting to miss the old Mikhail.”
The ‘Nostalgic Reactionary’ had long cultivated the habit of observing people from a distance, and so he knew better than anyone the slow but steady degradation of the ‘4th-Wall Breaker.’ Each morning, from his bench in the park, Anicet would look up at Mikhail’s window and see the same energetic classmate he had always known. However, as the hours passed, screams would echo from the room, followed by violent outbursts, and once he calmed down, Mikhail simply vanished from the Miraval Academy.
One day, Anicet finally decided to find out the truth, following his classmate to an abandoned warehouse in a forgotten corner of Port Island. From the shadows, Anicet watched as Mikhail scrubbed the floor, patched the gaping holes in the walls, repaired the Hydrosystem, completely restoring the ruined building till it satisfied the safety standards. Next, he went to the market to buy bundles of medicine and stacks of canned food to store inside the warehouse. However, throughout the whole operation, Mikhail never stopped talking despite being completely alone, and certain sentences had etched themselves into the mind of the Nixie Prince.
“Is this place…okay?” Anicet heard Mikhail whisper as he stood before the warehouse’s doorway.
“I did what you wanted, now leave me alone.” Anicet heard Mikhail yell as he finished wrapping up the warehouse.
”I beg you…I can’t do this—I’m not a monster!” Anicet heard Mikhail cry before killing the group of homeless people who refused to leave the place they called home.
“Yeah…He talks to himself a lot.”
“Greetings to the honorable guests gathered here today, on behalf of the staff of the Miraval Museum of Chaotian and Imperial History.” As the museum director started to talk, the gossip was silenced, replaced by smiles at the cameras and applause. “Today, we are proud to announce the most important discovery regarding the Great Civil War in over a hundred years.” An assistant stepped forward, carrying a book sealed within a glass container. Its Basilisk-Leather cover, though wrinkled, seemed perfectly-preserved for having endured five centuries.
“A noble soul anonymously delivered this unique artifact to us only a week ago. It was likely kept in a private collection, and the ’Romantic Dreamer’ has kindly cleansed its former owner’s soul for us. So, what is it? None other than the personal diary of Emperor Mario I Rolandsson!” As the director’s words detonated throughout the hall, the atmosphere shifted instantly, and the journalists, who only moments before believed to be there only to pass time, now unsheathed their pens like swords, ready for the battle ahead. “Ordinarily, in such an event, I would prolong myself in a long lecture about the history surrounding the discovery, but in light of its significance, I have chosen to bestow this honor upon one of the brightest minds in our Empire.” He turned, gesturing toward the now blushing man standing behind him. “Please give a warm welcome to S-Class ’Fortunate Son’ Xoán Al Córdoba.”
A standing ovation erupted as the professor took the stage, angling himself just right so every camera caught the book in his hands. “First of all, I should clarify that I am a historian specializing in the Dark Century, as you can see from the book I’ve just published—The Roots of Chaos, now available in the finest libraries near you, and if you choose Bjerregaard & Bundgaard, you’ll even receive a discount on my other books!” The audience chuckled as he put the book back into his [Inventory] and shifted into lecture mode.
“I must admit, despite the five centuries that separate them, the Dark Century and the Great Scramble share so many parallels that at times I suspect they are both works of fiction written by the same author. Although each scarcely spans a hundred years, we use for them the term age, a few decades where politics, culture, science—every aspect of human civilization—was revolutionized as never before. In particular, the Great Civil War, whose impact on our society was so immense that it would not be an exaggeration to say the very roots of modern civilization can be traced directly back to this conflict. That being said, few truly grasp the reality of the age because it has been so glorified in popular culture that—much like the Dark Century—requires painstaking effort to separate the facts from the legends sung at village festivals. Why? Because during this war a flower bloomed, grew, and became a forbidden fruit that, willingly or not, nearly everyone has tasted—Nationalism.
”For a brief moment, the war allowed Chaotians to imagine a radically different order—a divided Chaotia where its many ethnicities could determine their own destiny within their own nation-states, free from exploitation by the Starfolk-Yankee central government. Historians—myself included—remain divided on whether this experiment was a blessing or a curse, but none can deny the brilliance of nationalism’s most beloved child—Romanticism.” The assistant removed the book from its glass case, and after donning a pair of gloves, the ‘Fortunate Son’ lifted it with the delicacy of a priest handling a sacred relic
“The feats recorded in the biographies of ordinary soldiers overshadowed those of legendary heroes of the past, battles with only the tiniest influence on the war’s outcome became pivotal moments that changed history forever, and speeches delivered by illiterate officers carried more wisdom than those of the most esteemed intellectuals of our age. Thousands of books, poems, and plays were written by authors fueled by this obsessive love for their nation, and among the countless actors who danced across the chaotic stage formed by the amalgamation of these stories in the Collective Consciousness, two men stood above all the rest. One of them was the author of this very diary—FFF-Class ‘Man' Emperor Mario I Rolandsson—and the other…” The professor opened the book, raising it high enough for the cameras to capture the first page. Scrawled there in uneven ink was a simple line—
Happy Birthday, Mario, from your Uncle Mandrake.
“Sometimes we forget how such mortal enemies were once part of a single and caring family, before its harmony was shattered by a raven-haired witch who first captured the heart of the patriarch, and then that of his successor, causing a conflict that would ultimately claim the lives of a third of Chaotia’s population.” He turned to the next page, which was filled with signatures clustered around a large, handwritten Mario. “This diary is of immense cultural value for us historians because of the unique perspective of Emperor Mario I. During the first eight years of the conflict, he barely survived the schemes of his brothers, yet his strategic position at the border of the main battlefield allowed him to receive reports from across the Empire, which he faithfully recorded here. And now, allow me to read one of them.” Xoán cleared his throat.
The Freak Court has practically isolated my brother Manfred in the Drownedlands, while the Starship Commando has reduced to ashes the wealth that just a few years ago had nearly bought him a triumph. Now, my island is the last obstacle between Maximillian and the Twilight Madness, and from this charming letter I’ve just received from Messer Stormayer, two fleets are on their way here to kill me—burn me alive or drown me—depending on which arrives first. Meh…hot fire or cold water? I wonder which is worse.
“I’m sure the public knows the irony that followed. While the greedy brothers squandered eight years bickering over trivialities, their stern uncle across the Phoenix Gulf wasted not a single day, conquering and gathering every resource the world had to offer. And the day the three Chrysanthemums faced each other in battle to finally decide the victor of the war, strange reports reached Mario. He immediately sent letters to his brothers, and the moment they read them, they too ordered the retreat of all their troops from every battlefield. What was written in those letters? Just four words—Uncle Mandrake is coming home.
”SSR-Class ‘Antihero’ Emperor Mandrake I Rolandsson and his Valkyries, in a matter of months, erased eight years of conquests that had cost his nephews the blood of thousands of their soldiers. And when the entirety of the Emerald Lands fell beneath the Mandrakian Yoke, the three brothers reluctantly understood that they would have to unite to survive the greatest earthquake ever to strike the Holy Rolandish Empire. This alliance became known as the Second Triumvirate—an obvious reference to a much older event. Yet, considering how the First Triumvirate ended, I still suspect this was not its true name at the time, but rather a later invention by one of my colleagues in the 1600s. But I digress.
”For a few years, this pact restored the long-lost bonds of brotherhood, and in his diary, Emperor Mario undresses his heart, writing about private matters that are a game-changer in our understanding of him, Mandrake, and Maximilian—especially the latter, since no other sources reveal anything beyond the mask he had so carefully constructed. To conclude, I am certain that thanks to this diary, I will finally be able to prove what I have always believed—that the book Romance of the Three Chrysanthemums is neither mere fiction, nor a romanticized tale of war, but a true and faithful historical record. Thanks for your time.”
Another standing ovation rewarded the professor, who waved his hands, begging the audience to stop embarrassing him. ”Do not expect this diary to revise history—no outcome can change. What it will bring are new nuances, new flavors, and fresh insights into the reasons behind the Emperors’ decisions. So, if anyone has a question that Mario’s Diary might answer, please, do not be shy—I’m here for you”
“Aheh…excuse me.” The voice came from his side. The ‘4th-Wall Breaker’ raised his hand, his body trembling as if caught between two colliding forces. “I-is this diary…a d-daily one? If so…th-then how about reading t-today’s entry? Eheh…for the year…the same as the first entry you read, I-I guess…” The suggestion fascinated the crowd, and despite the strange sense of déjà vu, Xoán complied, carefully turning the diary’s pages until he reached the right one. “Ahem…apologies in advance, but it seems I will be forced to use strong language.” Xoán took a deep breath, silently asking forgiveness from his mother.
“RINALDO, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”
The professor’s shout thundered through the War Hall, and Jacques—who, unlike his classmates, was seated among the crowd since his senatorial status was still unregistered in the archive—snapped out of his boredom, blinking in confusion. “Oh wait, you’ve changed your name, haven’t you? Johan, was it? Probably not, but close enough, isn’t it?” The ‘Javelinist’ gulped, while the rest of the audience struggled to recall any figure from the Great Civil War with such a name. “Did you really think I’d forget about you—fucking piece of shit?! Now listen carefully, or your skull will be my drinking cup. Remember the little pier you used to infiltrate your current location? From there, take a boat to the first island you see. You’ll find a ruined temple there—an heretical one—and behind it lies a graveyard. Take a shovel and dig. Which grave? Don’t worry—you’ll know when you see it. This is my final warning, the last time I expose myself to save your filthy ass.”
A suffocating silence fell across the War Hall. No one could tell if the ’Fortunate Son’ had just read a genuine diary entry or a secret message disguised as one.
“Where’s Jacques?” Katrina asked as her eyes scanned the crowd, finding no trace of her classmate.
***
A violent storm darkened the brightest jewel of Miraval City. If Royal Island was the bedroom of the elites, then First Island was the beating heart of the Commonwealth, where only the members of the Miraval Family and a select few powerful pawns were permitted to reside there—with one notable exception.
On the island’s eastern edge, atop a small cliff, stood a decadent palace. The frescoes that once adorned its façade had been scraped away, leaving only scattered fragments of the majestic scenes they once depicted. The word roof was an euphemism for what remained of the building’s upper structure, from whose broken windows small waterfalls now poured down the storm’s water. The iron gates, nothing but rust, were nearly devoured by weeds that had grown taller than a man, giving the grounds the wild look of a Southern Lawfullian jungle. In short, the villa was an eyesore compared with the dreamlike residences surrounding it—a slap in the face to the island’s reputation. And yet, for reasons no one could explain, it endured. Was there a secret hidden within its walls? A legal knot that forbade a state takeover? Or perhaps some powerful figure held affection for the ruin? Whatever the truth, one fact remained—for more than five centuries, the place had been left untouched.
Now, under the weight of the rain, a man in a raincoat stood before its gate.
“So, it’s here,” Jacques thought aloud, tightening his grip on the shovel. Before him loomed a rust-eaten iron gate, and beyond it, a five-hundred-year-old mansion—as imposing as a heretic temple, yet as dilapidated as his own dormitory-classroom. “Let’s find out who this ‘Man’ really is.” Pushing through the gate, he stepped into a mire, his boots sinking into a sea of mud created by the heavy rain that had churned into sludge the red and yellow oak leaves shed by the oaks that encircled the estate. Each step sank his legs deeper, forcing him to move one foot at a time, until he was practically wading his way toward the stairway carved into the cliff that descended to the mansion’s backyard.
Once there, Jacques found the same sea of grass and fallen leaves, with small islands of ruin emerging from it—a shattered fountain, the remains of a boat hut beside a narrow beach, and the skeletal frames of broken carriages—but no trace of a graveyard or just a tomb. “Now that I see it up close…it ain’t that bad.” He lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the rain, staring at the decayed mansion. In his mind, he began to sketch many possibilities—an elevator connecting the cliff to the beach, the grounds cleaned and landscaped to create a private shore, and the ruined villa renovated into the most exclusive hotel in Miraval City. “Ahh…stop daydreaming, Rinaldo—just dig.”
For half an hour, he sifted through the soaked ground, scraping at ruins buried beneath grass and mud, until exhaustion finally overtook him. In frustration, he lashed out at a dune of wet leaves, only to feel a sharp pain as his foot struck stone. “AAAAAARRGH! SON OF A…what a minute—IT’S HERE!” He swallowed the rest of his scream and hastily bent down, brushing aside the leaves to reveal an ominous stone. Carved deep into its surface were the words—
Here lies the 'Javelinist.'
Ahah…so funny. I swear to Adam, I’m gonna kill the bastard who pulled this prank.
Jacques clenched his teeth and began to dig.
What should have been exhausting labor was reduced to a slow test of patience, thanks to his [SP]. So, under the relentless rain beating against his back, the chorus of grasshoppers behind him, and the whisper of the wind at his side, the ‘Javelinist’ began digging his own grave.
“What are you doing with my tomb?” The words came from behind him.
“Fuck off, this is my grave, not yo—” Jacques had an heart attack, and slowly, he turned around.
"Hello." There, hovering above the mud was a peculiar child, smiling and waving at him—a flying toddler with the entire lower half of its body missing, while the top was gray, translucent, and insubstantial. “You really ought to see a doctor—you’re so pale.”
Jacques’ mouth opened, then closed again before he burst into laughter. ”So it’s finally happened…my brain is rotting, making me see delusions.” The shovel slipped from his trembling hands into the pool of rainwater that had gathered at the bottom of the freshly dug hole.
“No, no, no, I’m very real!” The ghost chirped before rushing forward and plunging straight into Jacques’ chest, and as it passed through him, Jacques collapsed backward into the puddle, panic shrouding his face. “See? If you can feel it, then it’s real!” The ghost declared cheerfully.
After a long exhale, the ’Javelinist’ pushed himself to his feet, wiping the mud from his face. “Trust nobody. Not even yourself.” His expression hardened with resolve as he reclaimed the shovel and resumed digging. “Everything not proven by logical proof is just an opinion, even my own perception of reality. Me becoming Senator, the diary calling me out, and now this ghost, It’s all in my head, I know it! AHAH!” His laughter grew louder and harsher after each swing of the shovel.
“Who are you?” The ghost asked, circling around him, but Jacques gave no reply. “I’m Archibald, the loyal servant of Emperor Mario I Rolandsson. Did he send you here?”
At first, he stayed silent, but after the ghost passed in and out of his body dozens of times, he finally relented. ”Kinda, but he’s dead, along with everyone you ever knew—five whole centuries have passed!’” Archibald’s expression barely changed because he already suspected this—he had exhausted his last tears centuries ago. “Also, what the fuck are you doing here? Shouldn’t your grave be on the Island of Man?” Jacques asked.
“My Emperor’s last order was to buy this house and wait for someone named Rinaldo to deliver him a message. But he never came, so I borrowed his tomb while I waited.” The ghost swirled around Jacques, peering at every part of him as though trying to confirm his identity, making him uncomfortable.
“You used my tomb for FIVE hundred years without paying rent?!” Archibald gave an embarrassed little nod. “Meh, you’re not even real anyway—who cares? Also, sorry for being late, let’s just say there were some…logistical problems. Anyway, what’s the message?”
“I forgot.”
Jacques grimaced. ”You…what?”
“Five hundred years have passed—what did you expect? But I do remember carving it inside the tomb, just in case. Let’s check together!” After a frown, the ’Javelinist’ resumed digging until the shovel struck something heavy. “We’ve found it!” Archie shouted out of excitement, his translucent face lighting up.
“[ChariotJavelin]!” Jacques’ javelin yanked the coffin free of the mud, and with a single kick, he shattered the lock. The lid creaked open to reveal only a handful of bones, and beneath them, carved into the wood, lay a five-century-old message.
“Hint Number Nine—Mario, Nagoe, and Korinna are known as the Rebel Heroes, but have you ever asked yourself why? Because they remembered the truth! Do you want to win? Unite their legacies.”
Jacques scratched his head, jotting down the words into his notes. “Archi, do you know what this means?” Hearing no answer, he turned around, but the flying toddler was gone. Instead, he found that the storm had passed, leaving behind the spectacle of a gorgeous twilight, its violet light kissing the lake’s surface, which now glimmered in all its splendor as seen from the ruined mansion’s private beach.
Passing eternity here wouldn’t be so bad, I guess.
”SENATOR DREUX!” A scream echoed from the stone staircase. There, Jacques saw a middle-aged man collapsed on the ground, completely in awe. After calming himself, the stranger rose, approaching Jacques with eyes as reverent as those of a high priest greeting his god.
“I am Claude, of the Imperial Post Office.” He seized Jacques’ hand with fervor. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but—this is for you.” He presented the ’Javelinist’ with a yellowed envelope, its white seal marked with a three-headed phoenix. “This document has been kept in our vault for five centuries, alongside instructions to deliver it at this exact location, at this exact hour, to the 'HRE' senator named Dreux. For generations, my colleagues assumed it was a joke…but you’re actually here! Last I checked, there wasn’t even a senator with that name.” The postman’s eyes flowed with tears, and although his office demanded absolute respect for clients’ privacy, he clearly couldn’t leave without seeing more.
“Wait, it’s already open.” Jacques protested.
“Oh, c’mon, you didn’t really believe that in five hundred years no one would crack it open out of sheer curiosity?”
The 'Javelinist' shrugged before unfolding the letter. “This is a deed of ownership?!” His eyes widened.
“Yes, for the mansion above us. Congratulations, Senator Dreux—you now own property in the most exclusive area of the Pacific Archipelago.”
Jacques whooped with joy, but the postman quickly handed another envelope into his hand—this one far more modern. “What’s this?”
“Five hundred years of unpaid taxes.”
