The Ball Has Begun
The ball had begun. It was twenty years ago that the Crea Kingdom was annexed by the Empire—a span that felt anything but distant to its former subjects. Close their eyes, and those humiliating moments still unfolded vividly before them. Every time that insidious Empire postured as apostles of peace, the bile rose in their throats.
But that was only from the Crea Kingdom's perspective. To outsiders, two decades were an eternity, long enough for mountains to shift twice over. People forget what doesn't touch them after a single day. After twenty years? Oblivion was inevitable; the event might as well never have happened.
And right there began the profound dilemma of the Crea Kingdom revival forces.
“At first, kingdoms secretly backed us. Now it's all ancient history.”
“We're forgetting ourselves. The proud people of Crea are now half-Empire citizens, living as such.”
“If this goes on, we'll become exactly what the Empire wants: stripped of identity, without even a reason to resist. Absorbed completely, not one left behind.”
At the outset, the revivalists chose armed struggle against the Empire and notched some victories. The first five years went reasonably well. Then came the snag. As time wore on, raw hatred for the conquerors dulled, giving way to resignation: the kingdom's gone anyway—better safeguard the family. Armed resistance died then and there. No form of fight remained possible.
So they turned to terrorism: assassinations of key figures, sabotage to remind the world they existed. The Empire's wariness and enmity toward Crea natives was unavoidable. The revivalists always carried guilt for the suffering inflicted on their own. But choice was a luxury they lacked. Without this, they couldn't signal that independence seekers endured. Ignorance bred inaction; inaction, oblivion; oblivion, erasure. Pathetic, wasn't it? A nation vanished not two centuries ago, but a mere twenty, fading to nothing.
“But even terrorism and sabotage have hit their limit.”
“Knights and mages are trouble enough, but those damn Ability users are the real roadblock. The Empire deploys them, and we're scrambling just to escape without launching a thing.”
Why Ability Supremacists posed the greatest threat to every nation on the continent boiled down to one fact: they were all Ability users. Unrestrained bombs, fuses lit and waiting.
The Crea revival forces, by contrast, had scarcely any. A mere handful—once more plentiful, but death and defection whittled them down. The survivors lurked in shadows, their powers unrefined.
Armed struggle? Blocked. Terrorism? Blocked. Resisters dwindled. Yet surrender eluded them. They had to proclaim to the world that Crea Kingdom still craved independence, revival.
Not in faint hope the Empire would relent. Not solely for Crea's own. This was theater for other kingdoms: Resistance endures within the Empire's belly. Pressure them from without; we'll echo from inside.
Indeed, when the revivalists stirred vigorously, kingdoms slunk in with covert offers. Sow chaos, unsettle imperial order, buy time for uprisings elsewhere.
Nations were cold commerce. No profit, no aid. But prospect of gain? Gifts flowed freely.
“We must alert the neighboring kingdoms: we're still fighting. They'll back us again. We keep the Empire on edge.”
Open sabotage of the Empire's peaceful facade? Suicidal—a thunderbolt reprisal too steep. But proxies could harry indirectly. Bleed imperial might and morale dry, then claim the throne themselves someday.
“But as we just said—armed struggle's impossible, terrorism's choked off. How do we draw other kingdoms' eyes now?”
“The world's evolved. Force isn't the only way to rattle the Empire. Subtler strokes can shatter order just as well.”
One of their scant Ability users extended a vial.
“What's that?”
“Potent hallucinogen. I'll pair it with my power.”
“Pair it where?”
“You've heard the Empire's hosting a grand ball at the Continental Academy.”
The senior revivalists nodded. But what link? Why the drug? Why combine with wind manipulation?
“You know our Academy collaborator. He'll get me inside. I'll dose the ballroom, spread it everywhere with my ability.”
“Hold on—hold on! How does this tie to our revival? We leaders can't make sense of it.”
The others nodded in agreement. Armed phase, then terror—now, not storming the Academy, but spiking a party with hallucinogens? For what end? No vision emerged.
This play burned their infiltration route, their asset. For a mere prank? Not even poison.
“Continental Academy isn't just Empire nobles. Foreign nobility flocks there. Armed strikes make us pariahs like the Supremacists. We need those secret kingdom patrons.”
“…Fair point.”
“To signal we're alive and scar the Empire's prestige—zero casualties. It must ignite scandal, bruise their pride raw.”
“Agreed.”
Precisely. The Empire's ploy to flaunt Academy might was transparent. The young Ability user's pitch: sabotage it flawlessly, the optimal stroke.
“Hmm.”
The elders mulled. Dubious, yet force was off the table—especially inside the Academy, teeming with Ability users. Only Supremacists, all powered, could contest that. Hallucinogens needed one insider, one actor. No collateral among foreigners. Mere humiliation spotlighted imperial lapses sharper than blood.
“Once unleashed, we broadcast via this communicator. My winds frame the footage on Empire nobles. An imperial prince there? Ideal.”
Wound imperial pride, affirm survival. Bloodless, denying overkill pretext. To other kingdoms: Fund us; we'll plague the Empire eternally. Success could fan dying embers to flame.
Our kingdom. Crea. Toppled twenty years past, yet roots unsevered—we honed revenge's edge, dreamed revival's dawn.
And time flowed; the day arrived. Perfection incarnate. Academy defenses braced for Supremacists, blind to this “surprise.” A prank, really. Unimagined.
Plan flawless. Hurdles cleared; ballroom breached. Hallucinogen authentic, dispersed true.
Ability users or not, they were flesh. Prowess, power, will—irrelevant against the drug.
Yes—work as it should. What is that guy?!
In the haze-choked ballroom, no breath held. A girl in his arms, fingers teasing his chest. Yet the boy strode forward, utterly unmoved.
Impossible. Bone, meat, organs—human. Breath sustained, fed, slept. Drug rode the air. Inhale, and reason fled till dissipation; self became stranger.
Behold the ballroom's frenzy. Minds unmoored shunned dance for debauchery. Obscene horde.
Air this footage, dent imperial glory, reclaim severed aid.
“Hup!”
The man unleashed full power. Winds herded tainted air straight at the boy. One breath, and ecstasy's thrall.
“…Insane monster!”
He saw it: eyes sharpening, not to base urge but attack's path.
Resistant? Adapted? Stockpiled? Unclear. But—
Crash!
One sword stroke pulverized the communicator. The man loosed a disbelieving sigh.
Monster. No mere Physical Enhancement. No held breath.
“Abel…”
And the girl cradled? Stunning beauty. The man sighed anew. Excelled at all—even lady luck. Irritation surged.