The city of Verridan had always been proud—its marble towers shimmering like blades of moonlight, its markets bustling with silk and silver, and its nobles intoxicated by power. For decades, it had bent others to its will. The Merchant Council ruled not with swords, but with contracts, secrets, and influence that reached beyond empires.
But that morning… the air shifted.
The beggars felt it first.
Then the pigeons refused to fly.
And then… the bells in the Tower of Law stopped ringing—not because someone silenced them, but because they simply refused to sound. No man dared pull the cord. No priest whispered the morning hymn. Something sacred was approaching, and even the divine dared to hold its breath.
At the city gates, soldiers lined up with spears trembling in their grasp. Their commander, Lord Varnel, tried to hold his chin high, but his soul quivered. He had fought in nine wars and survived a wyvern's firestorm—but this?
This was something else.
He saw the man approaching.
One figure.
Old. Calm. Dressed in robes that seemed to carry the echoes of stardust. His silver hair danced with the wind, though no wind blew. And on his back, a blade—its sheath older than the stones beneath their feet, wrapped in golden thread that shimmered with memory.
The commander didn't need a name. He knew it by instinct.
The Sage.
The one who hadn't walked among mortals for five hundred years. The one whose sword once cut through a mountain to stop a war in a single breath. The one who didn't kill kings… but undid kingdoms.
"Lord Varnel," a soldier whispered. "What… do we do?"
The commander opened his mouth. No words came.
The Sage walked.
No command was given, yet the gates opened.
Not out of obedience.
But out of fear.
Inside the city, nobles gathered in panic. In the Council Chamber, where the ten Merchant Lords sat, chaos festered beneath gold-tipped words.
"This is absurd," spat Lord Harkan, slamming a jeweled goblet onto the table. "He's just an old man!"
"He's not just anything," hissed Lady Maevia. Her voice was softer but filled with dread. "He is what silence becomes when the world goes too far."
Lord Tremel paced in circles. "He has no army. No retinue. We can still command the city guard to—"
"To what?" Maevia barked. "To die faster?"
The chamber fell silent.
They all remembered the legends. The day the Sage walked into the Void Temple and came back with a sky shard in one hand and the High Priest's blessing in the other. The time he stepped into the Crimson Forest and made the trees bow to let him pass. And worst of all—how, when the Kingdom of Svaron tried to conscript him during the Age of Iron, he disappeared… and the entire kingdom forgot it existed.
What man could erase memory itself?
Only a legend.
Only the Sage.
Meanwhile, the Sage walked.
Through cobbled streets, past silent crowds who parted like sea foam. Mothers clutched their children. Shopkeepers knelt without knowing why. Stray dogs stopped barking.
He wasn't just walking through a city.
He was unraveling it.
One breath at a time.
And behind him, the girl Lian followed. Her feet ached, her heart pounded, but she kept going. Not because he told her to, but because it felt like watching a miracle write itself into reality. She had grown up hearing bedtime tales of heroes and gods—but none compared to this.
Because this wasn't a god.
It was a man.
And that made it even more terrifying.
They reached the Council Spire at noon.
The Sage stopped.
He looked up. "The rot sits here."
The gates of the spire glowed with defensive runes, ancient inscriptions powered by the essence of dragon bones and forgotten chants. They were meant to keep anything out. Even fate.
The Sage placed one palm on the gate.
It whispered.
And shattered.
The guards inside screamed—but not from pain. From madness. Their minds crumbled, not from force, but from understanding. They saw it—if only for a moment—what he was. The veil between mortals and meaning had torn for a heartbeat, and they would never be whole again.
He stepped into the grand chamber.
Ten merchant lords awaited him.
Each trembling.
Each dressed in robes of stolen wealth.
He did not unsheathe his blade.
He simply looked at them.
"You stole truth," he said. "You sold justice."
Lord Harkan stood and shouted, "We are the law!"
The Sage smiled.
"So was the sky."
And the ceiling collapsed—not in rubble, but in revelation. The sky appeared where stone once was, stars spinning behind the clouds. The chamber bent, folding like parchment under a divine quill.
Lian fell to her knees.
The merchant lords screamed. One tried to run, but his feet grew roots, planting him into marble. Another choked on gold as his tongue turned into coins.
The Sage turned.
His blade still untouched.
"Let this city remember what silence costs."
Then he walked out, as calmly as he had come.
Outside, the city waited.
He passed the gates.
Behind him, the sky closed.
And the people wept—not from sadness, but from release. The spell had broken. The rot had been burned. And the city… finally breathed.
As he and Lian returned to the mountain, she finally asked, "Will you rest now?"
The Sage looked into the horizon.
"No. Somewhere, another whisper begins. And I… must listen."