Slowly, Lieutenant Dante rose to his feet, blood trickling from one of his nostrils.
He had truly been struck—by someone he once considered nothing more than a pawn.
The Prophet… a strange man, once left to rot in the military prison before being transferred here. Dante had only taken an interest in him because of the whispers—rumors that he spoke of strange things, of the return of Gafarè, of a special child who would reunite the Central Plains.
Acentalles Gafarè wasn't just some myth told to green recruits. Most militants had at least heard his name. But those who genuinely understood the depth of his deeds—what his legacy stood for—were rare.
Dante and Raizel had grown up with those ideals etched into their bones. It had shaped how they saw the world. Raizel had been more than willing to become a loyal hound for the government because of those values. Dante too, in his own way. But he had come to see the rot beneath the surface—the disgrace, the unworthiness—and for that, he had Salmaldell to thank.
Salmaldell, the Iron Wall of the Military. Dante had once served under him.
He was a giant of a man, not just in size but in presence. A fearsome Sage whose name alone could still silence a room. And when he walked onto a battlefield, people felt it in their bones.
Just as his True Name implied—Iron Wall—he was immovable, impenetrable. And his values stood just as firm.
Iron Wall had been his lieutenant at the time. Together, they'd carried out numerous operations for the government. But even back then, Dante had quietly paled at the absurdity of the foundations those missions stood upon.
"The Daeron Citadel has uncovered classified rift essence data—eradicate them all. Label them as rogue scholars trafficking in forbidden knowledge."
"The Ironvein Mercenaries intercepted a Reimgard ore shipment—eradicate them all. Brand them as foreign puppets sabotaging international security."
"The Hearthfire Monastery shelters rift-touched refugees without permits—eradicate them all. Declare them cultists spreading metaphysical plagues."
"The Ironvein Mercenaries intercepted a Reimgard ore shipment—eradicate them all."
"The Frostspire Engineers developed unlicensed rift tech—eradicate them all. Accuse them of arming Demented Drifters with unstable weaponry."
"The Skybreaker Syndicate refused conscription into the Reclamation Corps—eradicate them all. Call them deserters and anarchists inciting military dissent."
And every one of those bloody purges had been followed by carefully orchestrated propaganda, painting the victims as terrorists, bandits, Demented Drifters. The truth? The government had been silently absorbing their resources, one region at a time.
Yet despite all the looting, the state kept receding. The military's monthly budget was ludicrous. They kept recycling old equipment and substituting inferior materials rather than spending real coin to import superior metals from Reimgard.
Every day, the contradictions piled higher. And Dante? He had reached his limit.
But the true snap—the moment the ground beneath his ideals gave way—was hearing that Salmaldell, the very Iron Wall he had once idolized, had gone on to become the Governor of Arcadia.
And Dante knew exactly what that meant.
Becoming a governor was no badge of honor—it was just a gilded seat for fat-bellied bureaucrats who knew nothing but how to fill their own pockets.
That was when the fire took hold. That was when he began preparing for revolution.
Meeting the Prophet had been chance—or at least, it seemed like chance. Still, Dante had made it a rule to gather whatever tools or allies he could. And the general consensus? They were going to reunite the Central Plains.
But now…
Now, it didn't make sense.
Teaming up with a real threat? Just like the boy had said…
No. The Prophet hadn't found him. He had been the one to seek the Prophet out.
He paused—his breath caught in his throat as his eyes widened, trembling as the memory of their first meeting crashed back into his mind.
By now, Dante was down on one knee, leaning heavily on the shattered remains of his sword.
"…Shit."
The Prophet had been expecting him. He'd said so. Word for word.
He was also the one who first told Dante about Northern.
That was the entire reason Dante had come to Arcadia—to recruit the boy. But how could he set foot in Arcadia and not pay a visit to his former mentor?
The Prophet… and the boy…
There was something there. Some tether.
'Did they both deceive me…?'
The thought churned in his gut like venom. Rage surged in his chest—but alongside it, restraint. Anger would only make him blind, and he needed clarity now more than ever.
Something was going on. And he wasn't going to uncover it through blind fury.
He rose to his feet slowly, his gaze settling on the two figures who now stood apart—The Prophet and the boy.
The Prophet was speaking, voice sharp with finality.
"There shall be no chance for you after this!"
Northern smiled.
"Please, do as you see fit. I'm not interested. You took ten years just to get here—ten years to finally stand and unveil your little plot. Meanwhile, I've beaten you twice in that same time."
He tilted his head, smile deepening, eyes gleaming with unbothered ease.
"Realistically speaking, Koll… who's the better option to rely on?"
The question lingered in the air, like a blade suspended mid-swing.
Koll's face twisted in horror, his body visibly tense as he stared at Northern. His lips parted, hesitant, then finally:
"How? How did you even know?"
Northern raised his brows, slightly amused, then offered a small shrug.
"Oh, that. I met someone—someone whose memories you tampered with. You wiped your existence clean from his mind. Not a trace left. Honestly, it was impressive. Clean. Precise."
He stepped forward slightly, the weight of his words growing heavier.
"But it reminded me of something... reminded me of what you're capable of—how you twist the minds of those beneath you. Night Terror. The monsters in the Red Mine. Me."
His voice lowered, sharpened like a quiet blade.
"Subtle manipulations. Unseen strings, guiding us all into a frenzy of bloodshed. All for what? To bring back the Origin of War?"
Northern scoffed faintly.
"Can we even call him that? The man ascended to divinity after devouring his own son. That's no Origin. That's a Tyrant masquerading as one. A shameless father playing deity."
Koll's face contorted with fury, lips curled in silent rage. But beneath the indignation, there was something else—shock. And a sliver of fear.
He swallowed hard, voice trembling.
"H—how do you know so much?"