Perhaps it is not the world that has changed, but him.

He has found his way back, somehow. It isn’t that difficult, or at least not as difficult as he had imagined it to be. He just followed the swarms of aircraft in the sky, all flocking to his destination. Now, just above him, are neat columns of aerial transports waiting for their turn to descend, carrying troops from all corners of the New Rule, no doubt preparing for some assault on Thille itself. Sure, he looks a bit unsightly with his crazed appearance, his body coated in dried blood, some flaking off his skin, but he is still recognizable. The Anapadeia sways gently by his side, his hand holding it in a loose grip. Perhaps the people will be surprised with such an entrance, but he doesn’t really care.

The hangar entrance before him, so imposing, so exposed, opens slowly, the thick layers of metal scraping against each other, screeching as they slide apart. Soon, the entire view of the hangar below comes into his view, the personnel hurriedly signaling for the next batch of transports to descend. He hears the whirring of the engines, the shouts and orders echoing off the walls. He even smells the rust, not having been maintained for a while, the sickly smell of oxidized metal whisking into his nose. There is an air of panic and fear drifting out from the hangar, as if they all know, for certain, that the end is near.

They are just weak.

He leaps down, spreading his arms like wings, the shadow of a descending transport covering his back. Like a bird from the sky he glides, the Anapadeia, now silent, protecting him like powerful, soft, feathers. There is no crash or frightening sound when he lands, but a slight click with his boots, nearly inaudible yet announcing clearly his entrance. The return of a conqueror waiting to reclaim his realm.

It is clear that they see him. The soldiers stand stunned in place, recognizing the symbol of their failing cause, their savior rescuing them from the impossible odds. The mechanics pause their hands, surprised at the appearance of a vaguely familiar face seen throughout the city. His figure is imposing, an aura of authority enveloping the entire hangar, their eyes on him only.

He raises the Anapadeia before tapping it against the ground. Each tap is uniform, steady, rhythmic, like the beating of the heart, calling for attention towards him. The gem in the Anapadeia shines with an intimidating light, displaying its glory and might. He will no longer hide it. It is his core. It is his pride. It is him, the weapon defining who he is, no longer a weak boy fleeing from a fight, losing all that he has, but a powerful warrior grasping his fate, one that is laid before his eyes. The ones who are prepared to fall without even putting up a fight… deserve to die without any regret.

“I am here to see Rasu,” he announces confidently, his voice ringing clearly across the hangar. It is quite unfamiliar for him to enter like this. To say the least, it is different. But he is not returning to become a pawn again.

He has returned to be the Isara.

It feels good. The breath of subterranean air. The air of people so intimidated, so afraid of this new unfamiliar being. The air surrounding an individual throwing away whatever past he once held, looking only forward to the tangled future in front of him, unraveling it with his own hands, taking control of his path. As for the unfortunate casualties that have fallen along the way… If he was his old self, perhaps he would have mourned for them. Maybe even shed a tear or two. However, he merely discards the memories in some hidden corner of his mind. Give it a year, and he will forget their names. Give it two years, and he will forget their faces. Give it a decade, and he will forget their existence in his world.

It is no longer his fashion to grapple over what is already lost. After all, he killed one of them with his own hands. A fitting end to that wretched life.

There are no directions, no one to step forth and guide him to the man, his former superior, that he wants to meet. Well, not that it’s much of a problem. He slowly walks forward, feeling the gazes of all bearing down upon him. Somehow, he has already gotten used to the attention. As he approaches the curious crowd that has gathered around earlier, they part, creating a wide path for him to step into Thille once again. Not one of them raised their weapons or dared to question him, for they all recognized his face. Only that his face is not the heroic individual they all anticipated and wished to see, but the face of insanity, radiating, overflowing with frightful confidence.

The Anapadeia screeches as he drags it against the floor, sparks flying from the blade, now infused with a reddish hue. The ground seems to bend as his boots make contact with it, not unlike the ripples of a pool. His eyes are gleaming, the irises swirling between a rich, warm brown and cold, striking green like the torrents of an acidic flood, corroding away what little trace left of his former self in the pair of little windows. Although the roots of his hair remain a sweet amber color, most of them are only a messy mat of bland white, occasional strands of dying, faded blonde standing out from the rest.

As he steps out of the hangar, the people immediately recognize him, swarming to him as if he is some celebrity, even if some of them are surprised at his tattered clothes. However, as soon as he lays his eyes upon them, they unconsciously step back, sensing a sort of strange alienation between them and Avalel. In a sense, he is untouchable, the distance between them so close yet so far.

Probably on some order, several soldiers approach Avalel, surrounding him as if escorting an important figure. They say something to him, but Avalel has already blocked their noises from his ears. Slowly, they walk across bustling streets, past curious onlookers. It is obvious that the news has already traveled throughout the city, that Avalel, their savior from the Pass, has returned. Yet there is no sense of jubilation, but an eerie feeling that Avalel has changed.

They arrive at the military headquarters, and as Avalel expected, Rasu is at the entrance, alone, his small figure striking and imposing with his uniform. His mechanical eye twitches, adjusting the angle until he can see Avalel clearly, his tired, emotionless face contrasting with Avalel’s confidence and pride. He doesn’t care about Avalel’s apparent return from the dead, but rather his reason to come here, to meet him in this state.

“Where are the others?” Rasu asks. He already knows the answers, though.

“Dead, of course,” Avalel answers simply. He has no need to explain the details. No one will understand, anyway.

Rasu eyes the crowd and the soldiers around. It is clear they have been unnerved. Although reports of entire platoons, companies, or even battalions being annihilated have become more commonplace, there is just something more uneasy when it is told in front of their faces, so casually, so straightforwardly.

“Come in,” Rasu says, pushing open the door. “We have much to catch up with.”

The interior of the headquarters is, to sum up in one word, messy. Officers scurry about, shouting to each other, dishing out incomprehensible orders to the comms. Displays of maps, showing the various battlefields, are dotted with positions of troops, all retreating, discarding, abandoning their fortresses. At the center of all is a single display, showing what seems to be a large expanse of nothingness, yet troops are flowing into it, disappearing as they arrive at various circled locations. On top, just at the right corner, there is a small, unnoticeable word, just enough to be seen when one squints: Thille.

“The New Rule is struggling recently, isn’t it?” Avalel surmises, looking at the chaotic scenes around him.

“You could perhaps say so,” Rasu replies emotionlessly. “Despite your efforts at the Pass, we are currently facing somewhat of a crisis.” They enter an elevator, going up a glass tube, overlooking the headquarters below. As the doors open again, they face an opaque wall and a multilayered metal door, heavily guarded with four soldiers. The door slowly opens, revealing a simple grey room, the space occupied by only a wooden desk and several chairs. As Rasu raises a hand, the soldiers part in unison, their faceless helmets tilting a little downward, a hand resting on their chest plates. Still, as Avalel turns his head, staring straight into their visors, they flinch a little, intimidated by his presence. Once the two of them enter the room, the door abruptly shuts, leaving them alone, the noises outside barely audible.

“So, what is it that you want to say?” Avalel asks, swiftly taking a seat before Rasu’s desk, waiting for Rasu to sit down opposite him.

“Why are you back from the dead?” Rasu immediately opens. His tired face is replaced with one of suspicion, his mechanical eye moving rapidly, as if scanning Avalel for any unusual features. During the months as General, surrounded by the distrusting officers under his command, Rasu has learned how to read the thoughts of others to an extent, his observations catching even the subtlest of changes. However, it is obvious to see, to feel, that Avalel has changed. Despite his outwardly unreadable appearance, he is thoroughly worried, nervous about this rapid change. In fact, like his soldiers, he is in silent fear, unable to assert his authority on the young man in front of him. “Or shall I say, why have you died in the first place?”

“You are far more gloomy than before, Rasu,” Avalel says, dodging the question. “I didn’t recognize anyone from the guards.”

“Of course you haven’t. They are fully armed. Enough to take any intruder down.”

“Perhaps Bairuel has died?”

The mention of the name strikes Rasu. Unconsciously, he brings a hand to his mechanical eye. Those simple words, reminding him of the battle again.

“Tch,” he mutters, biting his lips.

Avalel smiles, the reaction of Rasu pleasing to the eye. “It seems you are still somewhat stuck in the past, General. Despite your physical changes, at the core you are still clinging to your old self, aren’t you?”

“And you have thrown away your companions,” Rasu replies.

“So you have some idea of what happened to them.”

“It is imperative that I know of every detail that happens on the battlefields.”

“Well, then aren’t you a rather unfit general?” Avalel laughs dryly. “There isn’t anyone alive in this world who can possibly know every little detail about the military. That is why there are different levels of officers, aren’t there? There is no mastermind who knows everything. Yes, there are some who are close to one, but they only hold a larger piece of the puzzle. The larger the piece one holds, the more they will know, and the greater the consequences of their decisions. As for you, Rasu, you only hold a small piece. A shrinking piece, too. Despite your position, your knowledge is limited. Aren’t you a little too proud to claim you know all the workings?”

“You are far too familiar with the workings of the military for your experience.”

“Even as the years pass, the core structures of militaries, and to an extent, societies, remain the same: there is the commander, and there is the soldier. The more soldiers a commander can control, the more powerful they are. The positions and levels are only arbitrary, superficial ranks that determine how many one can control… on paper.”

“You are an observant one, but what does that entail? Over time, the ranks become legitimized, solidified, to the point where even one with immense influence is limited by their rank.”

“But occasionally, there are ones who can command thousands, millions even, not limited by any artificial position, but through two qualities: admiration and fear. They are the ones who hold the largest piece of the puzzle. They are what we traditionally call Kings or Queens. And for ones who can even control billions, we used to call them a sacred name: Elydeia, the Emperor. They are the deities in mythology, the beings who have long disappeared from our memories.” Avalel’s voice is flowing, archaic, holding a power so different from that of a young man not yet seventeen years of age. His eyes are gleaming, holding an immense depth like an infinite, black abyss. There is a weight in Avalel’s words, the immense weight of millennia crushing down in those words. The words of one who has seen much, and has now seen through Rasu himself.

“And what is the point of telling me this?” Rasu’s voice is breaking, cracking under the pressure of Avalel’s words. The arrogance is far too obvious, but within the egoism of that unfamiliarity, Rasu finds a strange, peculiar sense of awe and fear in the presence of this figure.

“You asked why have I returned from the dead, didn’t you?” Avalel says softly, the Anapadeia glowing a fiery red. “The soldiers, they fear me. The people, they admire me. And you… You have found yourself to be peculiarly intoxicated, trapped by me, haven’t you?”

He lightly touches the door with the tip of the Anapadeia. Immediately, an explosion. The layers of thick metal shatter like glass, shards being flung down below. The four guards are knocked away, their armor pierced like rotting pieces of wood.

“The answer is simple. I want power. I want control. I want to hold the largest piece of the puzzle.”

He steps out, his eyes staring down at the shocked officers. “I will be the Elydeia.”