Chapter 10
A Lesson by Mr. Froian
The Founders Citadel – Central Hall of Memory
A domed chamber shimmered with quiet power. Crystalline conduits lined the walls, pulsing with soft light like the steady rhythm of a heartbeat. Reflections danced along the polished obsidian floor, catching on the silver-trimmed robes of the thirty-one gathered candidates.
Above them, the ceiling shifted in a slow, dreamlike loop—first sunlit constellations, then brooding storm clouds, then stars falling like sparks across a midnight sky.
Each candidate sat in ascending semicircles, their emblems glowing faintly on their chests: rivers, beasts, flames, swords, and shadows—symbols not of rank, but of legacy.
At the center of the chamber, a slow-rotating holographic globe hovered, projecting the map of the world. It displayed four great lands—Afrik, Asya, Amerk, and Arct—circling a radiant golden beacon at the center: The Central Land.
Then came the soft, deliberate click… click… of obsidian boots.
Mr. Froian emerged from the shadows.
Tall and regal, his obsidian armor was etched with glowing emerald runes, flowing like rivers of knowledge. His silver hair hung straight down his back like moonlight on a blade, and his pale stormy eyes scanned the room with centuries of grief—grief buried beneath discipline.
His voice, when it came, was calm, deep, and cold enough to silence the room.
"Many of you were raised to believe that the B Empire was born of diplomacy. That it was forged from peace and shared dreams."
(He began pacing slowly, his staff tapping softly against the stone.)
"That is false."
(He paused.)
"It was forged in treachery. In war. In desperation."
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The Four Nations: A Recollection
The holographic globe zoomed in—each region glowing in turn as Froian raised his staff and continued.
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The South – Afrik: Land of Beasts and Bonds
"Where the rhythm of life beats like thunder," Froian began. "Where spirit and nature are not separate—but the same."
Long ago, during the Sky Eclipse, the spiritual veil tore open. Animal spirits crossed into the mortal realm, merging with humans. From that bond emerged hybrid beings: lionfolk, turtle sages, hawk-eyed seers.
In Afrik, power didn't come from bloodlines—it came from spiritual resonance.
"Wisdom was not written," Froian said, "it was sung. Danced. Breathed from one elder to the next."
Their masked warriors were sacred emissaries—not just soldiers, but storytellers, carrying the weight of ancestral truth.
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The East – Asya: River of Minds and Machines
"Where iron and incense share the same altar," Froian said, his voice softer now.
The East was a paradox—temples woven between cybernetic towers, bamboo forests shading neon-lit cities. When the Golden Dynasty fractured, Asya splintered into tribes: river sages, steel crafters, soul cannibals, witch-hunters.
In the First War of Separation, forbidden alchemists created the Alchemites—synthetic beings powered by memory cores and fractured souls. They were feared at first. Then respected.
"Their meritocracy is harsh," Froian continued. "But fair. Wisdom, not blood, earns status."
Azma leaned forward, a small spark flickering in her iris.
"Even the soul-bound?" she asked.
"Even them," Froian nodded. "If the soul endures, so must its right to choose."
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The West – Amerk: Cradle of Chaos and Kinship
"Chaos," Froian said, smiling faintly, "is not disorder. It is the breath of creation."
Amerk birthed the elemental progenitors—golems, fae, giants, trolls, and elves. It had no kings, only guilds bound by living treaties. Myths were binding. Songs were law.
"Their society is built on mutual need, not dominance. No one rules Amerk. They build together—or fall apart."
Doniglao muttered to Ariane, "Sounds like home," with a half-smile.
"Until your guild burns your kitchen down," Ariane whispered back.
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The North – Arct: Where Night Never Sleeps
"Cold is not cruel," Froian said, his voice now barely a whisper. "It is clarity."
Arct rose from the ashes of the fallen Moon. From its debris came vampires, werewolves, dragons—creatures of the night. The region was not ruled, it was survived. Blood trials, shadow duels, moonlit pacts—this was their currency.
Lara, watching silently from the rafters, tilted her head ever so slightly, acknowledging her homeland.
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The World Before Unity
The globe shifted again. Trade routes formed—then erupted in fire.
"They traded. They allied. Then betrayed. Over and over."
He looked up at the thirty-one pairs of eyes.
"Unity? It was a myth. Until the land between them… called to something deeper."
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Solla's Interjection
Solla raised his hand, hesitating before speaking.
"But weren't the Four Kings allies? At least… that's what most histories say."
Froian turned, eyes softening.
"Allies? Only when it suited them. Real unity… requires shared suffering. And shared hope."
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The Genesis of the Central Land
The hologram zoomed in on a fractured plain, glowing with volatile energy.
"The Central Land was not found—it was contested. The East built war-forges. The West planted sacred groves. The North summoned frost beasts. And the South… sent an army. And a child."
Nate leaned in.
"A child?"
"Prince Ryoitchi. The Lion King's heir. Presumed dead after the Siege of Ophi. Left behind… and discovered by Irini, a healer from Asya."
Gasps rippled through the group.
Doniglao couldn't help himself.
"Let me guess. Forbidden love?"
"Love, yes," Froian smirked faintly. "But also something more. A prophecy. Two souls—untethered from power—who chose peace. They crossed the lands unarmed, seeking unity."
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The Trial of Two
Eula raised her hand, voice quiet.
"And the kings… listened?"
Froian's expression turned grim.
"No. They mocked them. Locked them away."
He turned his gaze toward the flame again.
"Until the Night of the Great Tear."
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The Rift Beast
The globe glitched, and a dark tear split through the center. From it emerged a monstrous, shifting form—twisting in and out of dimension.
"The Rift Beast. Not of this world. Not of any."
Van Staden rose, his voice formal and composed.
"Did they finally unite?"
"They did. But not out of wisdom—out of terror."
Four monarchs appeared in the hologram: the Lion King, the Alchemist Queen, the Gnome Elder, and the Ice Warlord.
"They didn't send armies. They sent their children. In the Rift's maw, they cast aside their names and forged a pact."
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Suthra's Insight
Suthra, her arms folded, asked,
"So the Central Land began not as a kingdom… but a promise?"
"Exactly. A place where emblems—not bloodlines—define worth."
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The Genesis of the B Empire
"The name 'B Empire' comes from the Old Tongue: Baolith—'The Unbroken Flame.'"
Solla looked up, thoughtful.
"So the 'B' isn't a letter. It's a symbol?"
"A spark. And each of you is one."
Froian extended his hand toward them.
"You are not princes. Not orphans. You are Emblems. The living proof that this world can be remade."
Azma's hand flickered with spell-light.
"But the old powers remain. What about those who still serve the crowns?"
"They do. Some resist openly. Others work quietly, poisoning this dream from within."
MJ, ever composed, asked from the back.
"Then why us? Why only thirty-one?"
"Because revolutions begin not with armies—but with examples."
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The Challenge
Froian raised his staff and struck the blackstone floor. A ripple of black flame surged outward.
"This is no tournament. This is a crucible. Some of you will ascend. Others will fall. But none of you will remain unchanged."
He turned to the flickering flame of Baolith, now projecting a brilliant spire over the map.
"There are forces—within and without—that want this Empire to crumble. But if you stand not as relics of your nations… but as siblings of the same future…"
(He met their eyes, one by one.)
"Then Baolith will endure."
Silence. Reverent. Heavy.
Even Doniglao had stopped tapping his foot.
From the rafters, Crucko the owl let out a single sharp cry.
Above, Lara stood like a statue—eyes unreadable.
Below, Van Staden clenched his jaw, staring at the flickering light.
Van Staden (to himself):
"Unity through blood… or by choice. We'll see which survives."
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To be continued…