Arrival in an isekai

You spend a moment considering your schedule and available timelines, then remember Gazef reporting to his king while you were laying with Jibril five days ago;

The scrying focus stabilized on the royal palace of Re-Estize, deep within the night. The throne room was empty save for three figures — the King, his warrior-captain, and a single marquis hastily summoned from his estate.

King Ramposa III sat forward on the throne, robes unfastened, his expression drawn. “Gazef… you brought back one hundred prisoners?” His tone was disbelief more than triumph.

Gazef Stronoff bowed low, armor still bearing dents and blood not his own. “Yes, Your Majesty. Fifty members of the Sunlight Scripture. Fifty uniformed soldiers of the Slane Theocracy. All captured alive. Every one of them confessed under magical compulsion.”

“Confessed?” the King repeated slowly. “To what?”

Gazef swallowed. “To slaughtering our border villages under orders from their superiors — to blame the Baharuth Empire and force a holy war. They were under direct command of the Theocracy’s high clergy.”

For a long moment, there was only silence. The flicker of torches painted trembling shadows across the walls.

Marquis Raeven, still in traveling attire, stared at Gazef as if weighing every word. “You’re certain the compulsion was genuine? Not illusion, not charm?”

“I am, my lord,” Gazef replied firmly. “The spell used was… beyond anything I’ve seen. They cannot lie. Even attempts to disobey result in physical pain. It’s absolute.”

The King exhaled slowly, voice hoarse. “Then this means—”

“—that the Slane Theocracy attempted to ignite a war between the Kingdom and the Empire,” Raeven finished grimly. “And failed. Gods preserve us.”

Ramposa pressed a trembling hand against his brow. “Do they know we have them alive?”

“Not yet,” Gazef said. “We intercepted all surviving messengers. But once they fail to report…” He shook his head. “It won’t stay secret for long.”

Raeven stepped closer to the table where sealed reports lay half-open. “You said ‘under magical compulsion.’ Who cast such a spell? Our Court Magic Division lacks anyone capable of maintaining so many bindings simultaneously.”

“A mage, my lord,” Gazef answered after a moment’s pause. “A man who appeared at Carne Village. He commanded angels of light and subdued the Sunlight Scripture almost single-handedly.”

The King looked up sharply. “A divine caster, then? A servant of the gods?”

Gazef hesitated. “He introduced himself only as Blank, Your Majesty. I don’t know what he serves — or if he serves anyone at all.”

Raeven’s eyes narrowed. “You trust this… Blank?”

“He saved my men, and our citizens,” Gazef said simply. “But I would not claim to understand him.”

The King leaned back in his chair, the weight of it all pressing visibly on his shoulders. “We stand on the edge of war… and the hand that pulled us back might yet be strong enough to push us in again.”

Raeven folded his arms. “We must contain this, Majesty. Quietly. No rumors, no proclamations until we understand what we’re dealing with. Truth alone can topple a kingdom if spoken too loudly.”

Ramposa nodded faintly. “Then speak softly, Marquis. For tonight, the truth stays in this room.”

Gazef bowed low. “As you command, Your Majesty.”

Outside, the bells of the capital tolled the second hour past midnight — a hollow sound beneath the weight of the revelation.

You settle deeper into your throne, fingers drumming thoughtfully against the armrest. Five days since you handed over Nigun and his Sunlight Scripture zealots to Gazef Stronoff. Four days since you silently exterminated the Zurrernorn cult. Two days since Demiurge extracted the Downfall of Castle and Country from Divine Chain's custody. Time to see how the political landscape has shifted.

“Mirror of Remote Viewing,” you murmur, tracing a sigil in the air. The crystal pane blossoms to life, revealing a marble chamber lit by silver lanterns and divine flame.

Six robed figures sit in half-circle about a table carved with holy runes — the Cardinal Council of the Slane Theocracy. Incense drifts through the air, half-concealing their expressions.

“Reports from our agents in Re-Estize are consistent,” says the Cardinal of Earth, his voice gravel-deep. “The Sunlight Scripture was taken alive. Fifty soldiers, fifty Scripture members — all paraded into the royal capital by Gazef Stronoff himself.”

The Cardinal of Fire clicks her tongue softly. “They are said to be bound by truth-compulsion magic. Interrogated publicly. The Kingdom has begun to spread word that we ordered massacres of their villages.”

“An absurdity,” murmurs the Cardinal of Water, folding her hands. “Yet rumors thrive. Even the Empire’s envoys request clarification. Silence will be interpreted as guilt.”

The Cardinal of Wind leans forward, sharp-eyed. “We could denounce it immediately — claim forgery, slander, or magical tampering. The Kingdom has no casters capable of such compulsions.”

“And when they produce the prisoners?” replies the Cardinal of Light, calm and cold. “Men of the Scripture, confessing beneath visible bindings? No, we cannot bluster through this. The question is who placed those compulsions.”

“Not human,” says the Cardinal of Earth. “The Sunlight Scripture’s defeat was too complete. Divine Chain vanished. Downfall’s resonance is silent. Whoever did this possesses authority that rivals a god’s.”

For a moment, the sacred flames flicker, reflecting unease across every face.

The Cardinal of Fire speaks again, carefully measured. “Then we prepare two responses. To the world — we condemn the Kingdom’s ‘lies.’ Internally — we begin retrieval. The Black Scripture is already mobilizing to confirm whether Downfall still exists.”

“And if it does not?” asks the Cardinal of Light.

“Then,” the Cardinal of Fire says, voice low, “we pray that whatever hand reached into our sanctum has no interest in reaching further.”

Silence falls. The incense curls like smoke over dying embers.

You watch through the scrying pane, the corner of your mouth curving faintly.

They speak of gods and monsters, you think. And cannot tell which one I am.

You smile faintly beyond the mirror, adjusting the scrying focus as the window ripples and changes.

The window shifted to the Great Elven Forest of Evasha, deep within the ancient world tree that served as the palace of Decem Hougan, ruler of the Elves. The inner sanctum shimmered with luminous saplight, where countless enslaved elves knelt in silent terror.

Upon a throne grown from living roots lounged Decem Hougan—a tall, androgynous dark elf whose beauty was marred only by the cruel amusement playing across his lips. His robes were woven from the hair of captured spirits; his long fingers toyed idly with a wine glass filled not with drink, but with liquid mana.

A trembling scout knelt before him. “L-Lord Decem Hougan, we detected an immense surge of magic roughly seventy kilometers southwest of human territo—”

“Seventy kilometers? Humans?” Decem’s voice dripped contempt. “And this is what you scurry here to tell me? That some vermin flickered a spark beyond the trees?”

The scout’s head pressed harder against the roots. “Forgive me, my lord, but the readings were far beyond normal parameters. Tier eight or—”

Decem’s laughter rang like breaking glass. “Tier eight? Tier eight! Do you mistake me for some human archbishop who trembles at parlor tricks?”

He flicked his fingers lazily. A chain of living vines burst from the floor, wrapping around the scout’s throat and dragging him into the shadows. A muffled scream cut short.

“Pathetic,” Decem muttered, his smile fading into disdain. “If something truly powerful had stirred, it would already be kneeling before me—or dying for the pleasure of it.”

He took a slow sip from his cup, eyes glowing with cold delight. “Let the world shake, if it dares. This forest belongs to me. And I welcome anything foolish enough to enter it.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Only the faint creak of roots shifting through the palace wood could be heard—a slow, hungry sound. The lesser courtiers knelt lower, eyes fixed to the floor, terrified to even breathe.

From the edge of the chamber, one of Decem’s attendants—a highborn elf with half his face burned from an old “lesson”—risked a whisper once the lord’s attention drifted back to his drink.

“Dispose of the remains,” he murmured to the others. “Quickly.”

Several servants scurried forward, dragging away what was left of the scout. The stench of sap and blood filled the air.

The attendant’s gaze flicked briefly toward a hovering crystal at the side of the hall—the same device that had captured the initial magical readings. Its glow was still faintly pulsing, echoing the now-silenced warning.

He hesitated only a heartbeat before pressing a palm against the crystal, imprinting a copy of the data rune into a small bark-etched talisman. With the deftness of long habit, he slipped it into his sleeve.

“Foolish,” he muttered under his breath, though no one dared answer. “The forest may belong to him, but the world beyond it… moves without his leave.”

Far above, Decem Hougan reclined in his living throne, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. The vines at his feet drank greedily from the blood-soaked roots.

“Let them tremble,” he murmured, voice carrying through the chamber like a curse. “Whatever stirs in the ruins will learn its place—just as all things do.”

The scrying window steadied once more—onto the royal palace of Re-Estize, where candlelight burned low despite the hour. The King’s private study looked more like a war room than an office: scrolls, sealed letters, and hastily written missives covered every surface.

King Ramposa III sat hunched over the desk, his complexion gray with fatigue. “Five days,” he murmured, barely audible. “Five days, and already half the court whispers of holy war. The Theocracy’s priests deny everything. Their envoys demand the release of their ‘kidnapped’ brothers, and the Empire insists it knew nothing.”

Marquis Raeven, dark circles beneath his eyes, spoke without looking up from the reports. “We’ve confirmed it again and again. All one hundred prisoners—Sunlight Scripture and Theocracy soldiers alike—are under active compulsion. No possibility of deception. Every confession aligns. They did massacre our border villages and intended to frame the Empire.”

“Then why,” the King rasped, “do the other nations not believe us?”

“Because truth doesn’t matter, Your Majesty,” Raeven said bitterly. “Perception does. The Theocracy claims the spell was tampered with, the Empire feigns ignorance, and the Council of Nobles is divided between appeasement and vengeance. We’re caught between disbelief and isolation.”

Gazef Stronoff, standing rigidly before them, clenched a gauntleted fist. “The truth won’t save us, Majesty. Only strength will.” He hesitated, then continued, “There’s still the matter of the mage who made this possible—the one who captured the Scripture alive and forced their confessions.”

Ramposa looked up with dull curiosity. “You’ve learned more about him?”

“Very little,” Gazef admitted. “He introduced himself as Blank. Carne Village still speaks his name with reverence. They claim he resurrected the dead, built structures from thin air, and summoned radiant beings they call angels. I witnessed them myself.”

Raeven frowned, setting aside the reports. “No guild record. No noble lineage. And power enough to compel truth upon an entire captured unit of the Sunlight Scripture.”

“A power greater than any our Kingdom commands,” Ramposa said softly. He stared at the candle flame as if it might hold the answer. “And we have no idea whether he walks among us—or watches from afar.”

Silence filled the room. Beyond the walls, the bells of the capital tolled the ninth hour.

Raeven broke the quiet at last. “The Theocracy will not rest. Their armies are already moving near the western border under the guise of ‘protection.’ We have days, perhaps less, before they force our hand.”

Gazef’s voice was grim. “Then the next time we speak of this, Your Majesty, may be on the battlefield.”

Ramposa’s gaze drifted to the window, where morning light flooded over the horizon. “May the gods favor truth,” he whispered. “Because politics never will.”

You shift focus one final time. The Baharuth Empire, where Emperor Jircniv Rune Farlord El Nix—young, brilliant, ruthless—sits at a long, obsidian table in a chamber carved from black stone, crimson eyes scanning parchment and missives laid before him. Couriers stand silently at the edges, hands trembling slightly as they wait for instruction.

Fragments of conversation drift from the papers and messengers:

“One hundred prisoners—Sunlight Scripture and Theocracy soldiers. All compelled to speak only the truth.”

“The Kingdom claims they have full confessions of the village massacres and every secret order.”

“Reports mention a mage, unknown identity, appearing on the battlefield…”

Jircav does not raise his voice. He gestures minimally, pointing at a messenger who shudders under the weight of the information, directing him to relay details to various aides and intelligence agents. His expression is calm, almost indifferent, but the room carries a tension of careful observation.

He studies the reports, exchanging short phrases with attending officials. Every so often, he jabs a finger at a parchment, murmuring something that makes the scribes flinch and take notes frantically. The effect is clear: he is receiving these accounts for the first time, evaluating them, but not yet revealing any conclusions.

Countess Aranea speaks up. "Your Majesty, we must also address the Earl Sturum matter. Our investigations continue, but his background holds up under scrutiny. Minor noble house, solid trading connections, no obvious deception."

"Yet he appears precisely when we need fresh blood in the aristocracy," Jircniv muses. "Convenient timing. Continue surveillance, but don't interfere. If he's genuine, we gain a useful tool. If he's a plant, we'll expose him eventually."

Outside the chamber, attendants whisper among themselves. A guild messenger coughs nervously as he recounts the rumors heard in Re-Estize—the compelled confessions, the presence of the mage, the scale of the massacre. Each snippet seems to bounce off Jircav’s stoic composure without betraying surprise.

Lady Irslis steps forward, her severe features troubled. "Your Majesty, there's another matter. Reports from our eastern territories—spies describe a massive magical mansion appearing overnight. No construction, no workers, simply... manifested."

The scrying view captures the subtle indicators: a tightening of a fist, a flick of his crimson gaze toward a scroll, the carefully measured posture of a ruler processing unprecedented news. He has not acted yet, but the room feels the weight of the revelations. "Explain."

"Unknown actors with access to creation-class magic operating in proximity to our borders," Irslis says carefully. "The coincidence of timing with the Kingdom's current crisis suggests possible coordination. Recommendation: passive observation until we understand the threat level."

The Emperor's eyes gleam with calculation. "Or the opportunity level. If someone powerful enough to embarrass the Theocracy is establishing operations near our borders, perhaps diplomacy serves better than confrontation. Begin intelligence gathering. I want to know who they are and what they want."

As you watch, Jircav leans back slightly, letting the couriers depart. Nothing overt betrays panic, but every detail of the scene broadcasts a ruler beginning to reckon with a dangerous, unseen force operating within his borders.

You dismiss the scrying window with a satisfied gesture. The political landscape is indeed spicy—four major powers all aware that someone or something unprecedented has entered the regional balance of power, yet none possessing enough information to act decisively. Perfectly Entertaining.

"Dungeon," you command, "be aware of spies in the region and maintain awareness of the perimeters."

The consciousness responds with wordless acknowledgment, cataloging the intelligence you've gathered.

The throne room's marble floor ripples as Shalltear materializes through a Gate spell, her crimson dress swirling dramatically around her legs. She drags behind her a lean man with short black hair and sharp, predatory eyes—Brain Unglaus, the swordsman whose reputation as a genius blade-master precedes him. His wrists are bound in crimson chains that pulse with blood energy, and though conscious, his movements are sluggish, dazed by Shalltear's gaze.

"I grew bored watching him practice the same cuts over and over," Shalltear announces with a theatrical sigh, tossing the man forward so he stumbles to his knees before your throne. "Three days of observation was plenty. His technique is exquisite, but repetitive. May I keep him after you're done?"

Brain's eyes focus on you with visible effort, confusion and fear warring across his features. "What—where am I? Who—"

You raise one finger, silencing him mid-sentence with a paralysis spell. His jaw locks, leaving only his eyes free to move—darting frantically between you, Shalltear, and the impossible architecture surrounding him.

"Perfect timing," you say, rising from your throne and descending the steps. Reaching Brain, you place your palm flat against his forehead. "[Memory Extraction]."

The spell activates with surgical precision. Brain's entire martial knowledge floods into your consciousness—every sword stance, every footwork pattern, every tactical decision tree he's developed through years of obsessive training. You experience his muscle memory as though you'd trained your own body through the same grueling regimen. The Field technique that vibrates blades at supersonic frequencies. The Six-fold slash that executes six simultaneous slashes from impossible angles. The defensive forms he developed specifically to counter multiple opponents.

It takes perhaps three seconds. When you withdraw your hand, Brain's eyes have gone vacant—not from damage, but from the mental shock of having the last hour erased.

"South of E-Rantel," you murmur, activating a teleportation circle beneath him. "A day's walk. He won't remember this."

The paralyzed swordsman vanishes in a flash of azure light, deposited unceremoniously in some empty field where he'll wake confused and exhausted, his memories of the last hour scrubbed clean.

Shalltear watches the spell complete, then turns to you with expectant crimson eyes. Her lips part slightly, revealing the tips of her fangs. "My reward, Master?"

You gesture toward the throne room's side chamber, where plush divans wait in shadowed alcoves. "Come."

She follows with predatory grace, her dress whispering against marble. In the privacy of the alcove, you guide her down onto silk cushions, your hands beginning their work with deliberate slowness. Her pale skin flushes pink wherever you touch, and soft gasps escape her lips as you explore her body with calculated precision—bringing her to the edge repeatedly while carefully maintaining the physical barrier she's didn't request preserved.

"Master," she breathes, trembling beneath your ministrations. "Please—I can't—"

"You can," you correct gently, watching her writhe. "And you will."

Her crimson eyes roll back as another wave crashes through her, her vampiric strength momentarily useless against the overwhelming sensation. Time stretches as you continue your methodical work, reducing the proud Floor Guardian to a shuddering, pleading creature who can only gasp your name between broken moans.