Chương 18: Kingdom of Fabnir
Deep within the royal castle, in a chamber shrouded in shadows, an elderly man lay upon a grand but aged bed, his features etched with pain and weariness.
"Ugh... my back... my body feels so heavy," he groaned, clutching his aching sides.
This man was Alhazard Fabnir, the thirtieth king of the Fabnir Kingdom, now celebrating its five-hundredth year. He was also the one responsible for summoning Uta and four other high school students into this world.
Despite being only forty-five years old—an age not typically associated with frailty—Alhazard's body had aged far beyond its years. Once a robust ruler, he now found it challenging even to stand, let alone walk, his existence reduced to a series of pained gasps and groans.
The reason for this rapid decline in his health was simple, though tragic. Alhazard had conspired to redirect the summoned heroes' hatred toward the demon race by having soldiers assassinate Uta and framing the demons for the act.
But his plot had spectacularly failed. Uta, far from being an ordinary youth, had turned the tables by annihilating the soldiers and leaving the king cursed. As punishment for his treachery, Uta had used his mysterious power to age Alhazard by over twenty years in mere moments.
Now, the king's physical age was that of a man in his late sixties. While this might not have been debilitating in a modern, technologically advanced society, the medical practices of Fabnir were primitive. Here, a man in his sixties was considered elderly, often nearing the twilight of his life. Confined to his bed, Alhazard endured each day in agony, with bitterness as his only companion.
"That wretched boy... curse him... curse him!" he snarled, his wizened face contorting with fury and pain.
Alhazard couldn't forgive Uta. He seethed with hatred for the boy who had humiliated him so thoroughly.
(But revenge won't be easy... that boy is an enigma, his power unfathomable!)
The memory of Uta reducing his royal guards to dust before his eyes was burned into the king's mind. Even his private chambers, fortified with magic to prevent teleportation, had been infiltrated effortlessly. For all the kingdom's magic and knowledge, Uta remained an enigma, his abilities far beyond the comprehension of this world.
"No... I won't let this end here. I refuse to let it end like this..."
A knock on the door interrupted the king's dark musings. From the other side, his steward's familiar voice called out, "Your Majesty, forgive the intrusion, but your guests have arrived. They are from the Temple of Fire."
"Let them in!" Alhazard barked, his voice hoarse yet laced with desperation.
The heavy doors creaked open, and a procession of robed figures entered the chamber. Each wore a pristine white robe adorned with an embroidered flame symbol, their hoods drawn low to obscure their faces. Seven in total, their presence filled the room with a weighty, almost oppressive aura.
"Your Majesty," the lead figure spoke, their voice calm yet commanding. "We have come as summoned."
"Oh... thank the gods you have come!" Alhazard rasped, forcing his frail body to sit upright and bow slightly—a gesture unbefitting a king but necessary when dealing with such guests.
These were no ordinary visitors. They were high-ranking clerics of the Temple of Fire, a powerful religious order that worshipped Flare, one of the Six Great Gods. Revered across the human kingdoms, including Fabnir, the temple's influence far exceeded that of any single monarchy. Even Alhazard, the ruler of his nation, was no match for the authority they wielded.
"Forgive me for greeting you from my bed," Alhazard said humbly. "Your presence honors this humble servant of the gods."
The clerics nodded, their robes shifting with the movement. "You summoned us with urgency," one said. "What matter requires the Temple of Fire's hand?"
"The kingdom recently summoned heroes. Has this caused some unforeseen calamity?" another asked.
"Your appearance has changed greatly since our last meeting," observed a third. "Explain yourself."
Alhazard began recounting the events since the summoning ceremony, detailing Uta's actions and his inexplicable powers. The clerics listened in silence, their expressions obscured but their intent clear.
"So," one finally said, his voice dripping with disdain. "This 'Uta Hanachiru' has caused such chaos."
"It is possible to reduce a man to dust," another mused. "Earth magic, particularly advanced petrification spells, can achieve such effects."
"But to bypass wards against teleportation? To mask his class and manipulate time itself? These are not the acts of a mere human. Such magic is heretical," declared another.
"An abomination," hissed a fourth.
"A threat to the divine order established by the Six Gods," another added.
"He must be destroyed," said yet another, their tone leaving no room for debate. "Erased entirely."
Alhazard felt a grim satisfaction swell within him as the clerics voiced their judgment. These individuals were no ordinary priests. They were the Flare's Hand, the temple's elite enforcers. Each was said to possess power capable of leveling entire cities—a force far beyond the capability of Fabnir's knights.
"If he truly threatens the gods' design, then it is our sacred duty to act," the lead cleric declared.
Yet, even as his heart swelled with hope, a shadow of doubt crept into Alhazard's thoughts.
(Shouldn't all seven of them go? This unease gnaws at me...)
The Flare's Hand was undoubtedly powerful. Three of their number should have been more than enough to deal with any mortal threat. And yet, the memory of Uta's powers—his calm defiance and otherworldly strength—haunted the king.
(Am I underestimating him again? Could it be a fatal mistake?)
The lead cleric, oblivious to the king's doubts, continued. "Three will suffice for this task. A full deployment would be overkill and diminish our order's standing."
He gestured to three of his subordinates. "Number Two, the Red Flame, will lead the operation."
"Understood," said a broad-shouldered figure, his deep voice reverberating through the room. The Red Flame was a brute-force combatant specializing in destruction and slaughter.
"Number Four, the Green Flame, will assist," the lead cleric added.
A slender figure nodded. Their androgynous voice and build made it difficult to discern their gender. The Green Flame was an expert in anti-teleportation magic, a perfect counter to Uta's spatial manipulation.
"And finally, Number Seven, the White Flame."
The last figure stepped forward silently. Childlike in stature, their presence exuded an eerie stillness. The White Flame possessed the rare ability to nullify magic entirely, rendering even Uta's powers ineffective.
"Go forth and extinguish this heretic. Let no trace of him remain."
The three clerics bowed in unison before vanishing into the corridors, leaving the room heavy with anticipation.
Alhazard watched them depart, his bony hands trembling. "They will succeed," he murmured, almost as if to convince himself. "They must."
Yet the unease remained, scratching at the edges of his thoughts like a restless specter.
"Your Majesty," the lead cleric said, turning toward him. "Our usual compensation applies. You have no objection, I trust?"
"Of course not," Alhazard replied, masking his anxiety with a nod.
But as the cleric left, Alhazard's thoughts spiraled.
(Would three truly be enough? Should I have urged them to send the full seven? This feeling... it's as though doom itself is creeping closer...)
As the door closed behind his guests, Alhazard was left alone with his fears—fears that, perhaps, not even the gods themselves could dispel.
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