The Primeval Era-Chapter 115: Honor II

His voice was flat.

"The Dominion of Crimson Stone speaks of strength and loyalty, but the Murderous Saint killed his mentor and erased his entire lineage to ensure no one could challenge him."

He looked at her.

"The strongest Unbound Tribe near the Purple Stone Territory used to be called the Iron River Clan. They had stood for many generations, trading with neighbors and defending their lands without expanding through conquest. Honorable by any standard. And three years ago, a Sworn tribe decided they wanted their territory. So they sent gifts and kind words, arranged a feast of friendship, and poisoned the food. Every adult in the Iron River Clan died that night. The children were absorbed into the conquering Sworn tribe as laborers."

His jaw tightened.

"Honor...is a word people use when it benefits them. When it becomes inconvenient, they find reasons to ignore it. The Covenant families working with the Murderous Saint probably tell themselves they’re being pragmatic. Strategic. That the alliance serves a greater purpose that will justify the means."

He shook his head.

"They’re lying to themselves. But people are very good at lying to themselves when the truth is uncomfortable."

Serala was quiet for a long moment.

The wind continued to move through the canopy around them, carrying sounds of the forest below. Somewhere distant, a Primal Beast roared, the sound echoing across the landscape before fading into silence.

"Was there honor in the Vakochev Empire?"

BOOM!

The question landed like a physical blow.

Damian’s breathing stopped momentarily, then resumed with careful control. He stared at the horizon without seeing it, his mind suddenly eight years in the past, walking through halls that no longer existed among people who would never breathe again.

No one had asked him about this since the fall.

Uncle Adam didn’t bring it up unless necessary, understanding that some wounds never fully healed. The tribespeople of the Purple Stone didn’t know enough to ask. And Damian himself had buried those memories so deep that sometimes he forgot they existed.

But now...

He was being asked directly.

"The...Vakochev Empire was built on principles carved into stone."

His voice was quiet and distant.

"Doctrines of the Empire. My Ama and Uncle Adam later made their own Doctrines based on them. Laws that every Vakochev had to memorize before they could claim their inheritance."

He looked at his hands.

"The first was the Law of the Open Hand. It meant that those with power had a duty to those without. When famine struck outlying territories, the imperial granaries opened. When disease spread through tribes, imperial shamans traveled without expectation of payment. When refugees came to our borders, they were fed and sheltered before anyone asked where they came from or why they were running."

A faint smile crossed his face, sad and nostalgic.

"The second was the Law of the Witnessed Word. No oath sworn before a Vakochev could be broken. The empire itself would hunt down oathbreakers and bring them to justice, regardless of their status or connections. A Dross’s sworn word had the same weight as an Anointed One. Both would be held accountable."

He paused.

"The third was the Law of the Returning River. It meant that power flowed both ways. The emperor protected the people, but the people had the right to speak truth to the emperor."

His voice grew heavier.

"Emperor Vakochev held audiences every seventh day without exception. He sat on a simple stone seat rather than a throne of gold because he said a ruler who needed luxury to feel powerful wasn’t truly powerful at all."

Damian fell silent for a moment.

"And Empress Vakochev... she established the Houses of Healing throughout the empire. Structures where anyone could receive treatment regardless of their ability to pay. She trained Shamans personally, teaching them that their duty was to life itself rather than to those who could afford their services. She visited the Houses regularly to ensure they were working as she intended."

He looked at Serala.

"That was the Vakochev Empire."

The words hung in the air between them.

Damian realized, distantly, that this was the first time he had spoken about his parents to anyone other than Uncle Adam in eight years. The memories were heavy. But there was also something cathartic in giving voice to what had been lost.

Serala studied him with those wing-shaped pupils.

"I give my respects to Emperor Vakochev and Empress Vakochev."

Her voice was formal.

"Even in the Covenant, we learned that they were grand beings. The Hallowed Voice spoke of the Vakochev Lineage in a positive light."

She paused.

"Even with history being distorted, the truth of their legacy endured among those powerful enough to see through the lies."

Damian frowned.

"What do you mean, distorted?"

Serala’s expression shifted to something careful.

"You don’t know?"

"Know what?"

She was quiet for a moment, as if weighing how to deliver information she had assumed was common knowledge.

"After the fall of the Vakochev Empire, the Dominion of Crimson Stone released proclamations to the common people throughout their territories and beyond. Official histories. Accounts of what had happened and why."

Her voice grew colder.

"They claimed that Emperor Vakochev had been a tyrant who oppressed his people through fear and manipulation. That the Houses of Healing were actually sites of dark rituals where imperial shamans harvested the essence of the sick for forbidden cultivation. That the laws they made were a cover for taxation so heavy that peasants starved while the imperial family feasted."

Damian’s eyes opened wide. What the fuck?

"They claimed that Empress Vakochev was a sorceress who had enslaved the Emperor through forbidden arts, that she controlled his mind and made him dance to her desires while she accumulated power in secret. That the winter sickness in the eastern Tribes was actually caused by her experiments, and her visit there was to collect the fruits of her evil work."

Serala’s wing-shaped pupils flickered with something like disgust.

"They said the Murderous Saint was a hero who liberated the people from the Vakochev tyranny. That he acted out of compassion for the oppressed, that he sacrificed his own reputation by doing what was necessary to end a regime of terror. They erected monuments to him in the territories that used to be Vakochev lands. They teach children in those regions that the empire was a nightmare and its fall was a blessing."

She shook her head.

"The Hallowed Voice and the truly powerful Anointed Ones know the true legacy. We know that the Murderous Saint is just that, Murderous. His crimes are documented in records that the Dominion cannot reach. Which is all the more confounding why any families from the Covenant of the First Stone would work with him."

Her voice hardened.

"But the common people and The Sworn... they believe the lies. They curse the name Vakochev and thank the Murderous Saint for freeing them from monsters who never existed."

"..."

Damian couldn’t breathe.

They had murdered his parents.

They had destroyed his empire.

They had shattered his cultivation and left him to rot as a Dross farmer for eight years.

And that wasn’t enough.

They had dared to muddy his Ama’s legacy?

His father’s legacy?!

They couldn’t leave this alone?!

They had to twist everything good about his family into something monstrous, had to make the people his parents had sacrificed everything for curse their memory, had to turn heroes into villains and a villain into a hero?!

His hands were shaking.

Blue flames flickered at the edges of his vision, responding to emotions he couldn’t contain. The golden marking hidden beneath his skin burned with heat that threatened to breach his control. His eyes, behind the Mana he used to suppress them, desperately wanted to shift into those winged pupils that would reveal far too much.

He said nothing.

He couldn’t trust himself to speak.

Because if he opened his mouth right now, he would scream!

Because really, what the fuck?!