Date: August 21, 542 After the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable
The transition through the portal was not like falling or flying. It was an instantaneous shift—one second Kazai was standing on scorched earth, peering into the crimson veil, and the next, the world around him changed beyond recognition.
He opened his eyes and could not believe what he saw.
There were trees everywhere. Tall, slender, with thick crowns that let through the sunlight, transforming it into golden, dancing patches on soft, emerald grass. The air was fresh, sweet, filled with the fragrance of flowers and herbs whose names Kazai did not know. Somewhere in the distance, a river murmured—its voice was quiet, soothing, and there was nothing in it of the hoarse, swampy gurgle he was used to.
Kazai stood motionless. His hand, still clutching the dagger, lowered. He looked at this world, and his eyes, accustomed to greyness and gloom, could not drink in enough.
There was no filth here. No devastation. No decay, blight, or rot—all that had formed the foundation of his existence since early childhood. The grass was green, the trees alive, and in their branches, flitting from limb to limb, birds sang. Their voices, ringing and joyful, merged into a single, polyphonic symphony that stole Kazai's breath.
He had expected to see anything—ruins, ashes, graveyards, fields strewn with bones. He had expected the portal to spit him out into yet another cursed place, where even the air would be steeped in bitterness and despair. But he had not expected this.
Kazai slowly dropped to one knee. His fingers, still stained with dried blood, touched the grass. It was soft, springy, and under his touch it didn't crumble to dust—it bounced back, alive. He ran his palm over the green carpet, and that sensation—living, real—made him freeze.
He raised his head. The sun—a true sun, which he had barely seen in the Dead Swamp—stood high, and its rays, warm and tender, touched his face. Kazai closed his eyes for a moment, allowing that warmth to seep under his skin, to heat him from within. He had almost forgotten what it was like to feel the sun. In the swamps, the sky had always been grey, and even on the rare clear days, the light was pale, sickly, dead.
But here… here everything was alive.
"This can't be," he said quietly, and his voice sounded hoarse, foreign in this idyllic silence.
The birds did not fall silent. The river continued to murmur. The wind rustled in the leaves, and that sound, so simple, so ordinary, seemed to Kazai like music he had never heard before.
He rose. His steel-shod boots trod upon the grass, and it felt strange—accustomed to the crunch of sand and the squelch of mud, he barely heard his own footsteps. The ground here was soft, yielding, and it offered no resistance.
Kazai took a few steps, looking around. For as far as the eye could see, forest stretched out—not the dark, dense forest he remembered, but a bright, joyful one, with broad clearings and occasional, picturesquely scattered boulders carpeted in moss. Paths, barely noticeable, wound between the trees, and no one, it seemed, had walked them for many years. But this was not desolation—it was tranquility. A world that knew no war.
Kazai approached the river. It was not wide, but swift, and its water—transparent, clean—rolled over the stones, creating a melodic, soothing sound. He crouched down, scooped up a handful. The water was cold, fresh, and as it touched his lips, Kazai felt his body, worn from the long journey, fill with new strength.
He drank long, greedily, and only when his thirst was quenched did he raise his head and look at his reflection in the transparent surface. A pale, gaunt face with eyes that burned with cold fire. He looked alien in this place—too grim, too tense. The birds seemed to sense this—they did not approach, keeping a safe distance.
Kazai straightened. His thoughts, clouded moments before by the beauty of this place, began to regain their former clarity. He looked at the green trees, at the blue sky, at the murmuring river, and in his head pulsed a single thought, so simple and so staggering that he could not shake it off.
*It is in exactly such conditions that the beings of the Kingdom of the Rejected should live.*
He remembered the Dead Swamp. Grey, lifeless lands, where even the water was black and the air heavy as lead. He remembered the children in the academy—their pale faces, their burning eyes, their hope that glimmered despite everything. They deserved better. They deserved this place.
"We were driven into lands where living is impossible," Kazai whispered, and his voice was full of a bitterness he never allowed himself to show. "All that can be done there is to die. Slowly. Painfully. In filth and agony."
He clenched his fist. His nails dug into his palm, and the sharp, real pain helped him return to the present moment.
*But I will change this,* he thought. *I will find a way to bring them here. Or build something like it in the Kingdom of the Rejected. This place is not just a miracle. It's proof that the world can be different.*
He looked around again, memorizing every detail. The contours of the hills on the horizon. The river's bend. The positions of the tallest trees. It could all be useful if he managed to summon the portal again. Kazai didn't know how it worked—whether it opened only in one direction, or if there was a way to return. But he knew one thing: he would remember this place. He would find it again.
He drew his dagger and, approaching one of the trees, carved a small sign into the bark—crossed swords in a broken circle, the symbol of the Kingdom of the Rejected. The blood, still not fully dried on his palm, left dark imprints on the pale wood. The birds fell silent for a moment, as if sensing something amiss, but a second later they resumed their song.
*I will return here,* he promised himself. *Not as a guest. As a master.*
Kazai sheathed his dagger and took a deep breath. The sweet, fresh air filled his lungs, and he felt his Vessel, which had been pulsing anxiously and erratically all this time, grow calm. This place was not hostile. It was not trying to kill him. It simply… was. It existed.
He turned and headed into the forest. His path lay further—where his intuition led him. He didn't know what awaited him ahead, but he knew he had to keep going.
The birds sang. The river murmured. And Kazai, the King of the Rejected, took his first step deeper into this green, living miracle.