Rebirth System: Blood and Ash

Aric's eyes flickered open, the world gradually coming into focus around him. The first sensation that greeted him was warmth—unexpected and unfamiliar, the kind of warmth he hadn't felt in many, many days.

It wasn't the pale, weak light that barely kissed the skin during the frigid marches through the northern lands. No, this sunlight was far brighter, harsher even, bathing his face in an almost startling heat that jarred him awake.

He squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the golden rays spilling across the horizon.

The brightness made his head swim, disoriented by the stark contrast between the warmth and the biting chill he had endured for what felt like ages. For a moment, he wondered if he had died after all—succumbing to the wound, the exhaustion, the battle.

Perhaps this was hell, and he had been damned to wander through an eternity of suffocating heat.

But as his vision cleared, he saw nothing resembling the flames of hell. Instead, he saw the setting sun, dipping low in the sky, casting shadows across the land, painting everything golden.

The warmth wasn't oppressive, not burning him alive—it was the southern warmth, the kind that felt comforting.

His body ached, every muscle heavy and sore. He realized then that he wasn't lying on the hard, cold ground but in a makeshift carrier, salvaged from the ruins of the settlement they had sacked.

It swayed gently beneath him, fastened to the back of one of the Kriegers—massive beasts, all horns and muscle, that the Northrenders bred for war.

He was being transported. Alive.

"You slept for three days," came a voice from his right. "I thought you had slipped into a coma."

Aric turned his head slowly, the motion pulling at the stitches in his side. Ysir rode beside him, her figure straight and commanding on top of her Krieger. Her puprle hair was matted with dirt and dried blood, her face a canvas of scars and determination, but her eyes still held that sharpness he had come to expect from her.

Around them marched her legion, the disciplined soldiers of the north. Alongside them, the Byzeth army moved aswell, uncertain but present.

"I am alive," Aric said, more to himself than to Ysir. The words left to settle, both a statement and a question, as if speaking them aloud would solidify the truth in his own mind.

"That you are," Ysir replied, a thin smile playing on her lips. "Surprisingly."

Aric tried to sit up a little more in the carrier, but his body protested with sharp pangs of pain.

"I killed him, didn't I?"

Ysir nodded, her tone neutral, as if discussing the weather. "You did. Though I'm still surprised you managed to suppress your ki so skillfully. I've never seen anything like it."

Aric chuckled weakly, shaking his head.

"I wasn't suppressing anything. I'm barely in the Martial Knight realm."

Ysir's eyes narrowed in disbelief, her brows knitting together as she glanced at him.

"That's impossible," she muttered under her breath, her mind clearly wrestling with what she'd witnessed on the battlefield.

Aric didn't respond. Instead, he just smiled, a small, tired smile that betrayed nothing. He let the silence stretch between them, watching as Ysir's eyes flicked forward to the front of the convoy.

There, among the lead riders, was a single horse, carrying a tall pole fastened to its side. From the top of the pole hung something macabre—something that caught the dying light of the sun in a grotesque display. It was the head of Aszer Hait, the fallen king of Byzeth, swinging gently by the hair with each step of the horse.

Aric stared at the head for a long moment, his mind flying with memories of that final strike, the chaotic energy that had crippled Aszer, the way the man had begged for his life before the end.

A small, almost imperceptible grin tugged at the corners of Aric's lips.

Ysir caught his gaze and followed it to the severed head.

"We're nearing the Miredist Stretch," she said quietly, her tone softer than usual. "If you are to be the new king of Byzeth, you should ride into your kingdom like one."

Aric nodded, understanding the significance of her words.

Slowly, he swung his legs over the side of the carrier, wincing as his feet touched the ground. His body protested, but he pushed through the pain, rising to stand on unsteady legs.

One of Ysir's soldiers approached, holding out a bundle of dark and gold steel—his armor. Aric took it with a grateful nod, fastening the pieces back onto his body, the familiar weight settling over his shoulders.

The soldier then brought forth a stallion, black as night, with eyes that glinted with the same feral intelligence as the Kriegers. Aric mounted the beast with difficulty, his muscles trembling with fatigue, but once he was seated in the saddle, he felt a renewed sense of strength.

The pain in his body dulled, replaced by a singular focus.

Ysir watched him, her expression unreadable, but there was a glimmer of approval in her eyes. Without another word, she urged her Krieger forward, and the army followed.

They rode together, Aric at the head of the procession, Ysir and her legion beside him, the Byzeth soldiers trailing behind.

As they crossed the Miredis Stretch, the barren expanse that marked the border of the kingdom, the landscape slowly began to change. The harsh, northern winds had long given way to the softer breezes of the south, and the dry, cracked earth was replaced by fertile fields and rolling hills as they went passed the strech.

The first village they passed was small, nothing more than a collection of thatched huts and narrow dirt roads. But as the army approached, the villagers emerged from their homes, eyes wide with fear and confusion.

They stared at the approaching force—an army riding beasts they had never seen before, not bearing the flag of their kingdom, but instead the severed head of their king.

Whispers spread like wildfire through the crowd, hushed voices exchanging hurried words of disbelief.

Peasants scrambled out of the way, mothers clutching their children, men standing frozen in shock as they watched the army march through their streets. Some bowed their heads in submission, others turned and fled into the fields, seeking safety in the shadows.

And at the front of this terrible procession, leading the way with quiet determination, was Aric Valerian—the forgotten prince of Valeria.

His presence was undeniable. His armor, now tarnished with blood and dust, gleamed in the fading light, and his face, though pale with exhaustion, held a steely resolve. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead, unyielding, as if the weight of the entire kingdom rested on his shoulders—and perhaps it did.

They passed through more villages, each one reacting the same. Shock. Fear. Awe. The peasants whispered Aric's name as he rode by, their eyes lingering on the grisly trophy that hung above the army—the head of the king they once followed.

The countryside blurred past as they continued toward the capital, the golden light of the setting sun offering long shadows across the land. But with each step, with each mile, Aric felt the pull of destiny tightening around him. This was his kingdom now, his conquest.

Finally, as the capital loomed on the horizon, its walls towering against the evening sky, Aric straightened in his saddle. He could feel the weight of Ysir's gaze on him, the eyes of the entire army watching his every move.

This was it. His moment.

And with a calm, steady breath, Aric rode forward, into the heart of Byzeth, a conqueror in every sense of the word.