Chapter 5: Resolve

Ethan sat on a low stone bench nestled in the Duskmere garden, elbows on his knees, hands laced. The air was cool, with just a hint of moisture, and the scent of blooming star willows filled the space. It was quiet. Peaceful. Birds rustled gently in the trees above, and petals drifted lazily through the air.

He took a deep breath, trying to make sense of everything. New world. New rules. A noble girl with a sword and eyes like winter steel had dragged him into all this and now he was supposed to help her become queen?

“Carter?” Ethan said aloud, glancing around the garden. “You there?”

No response. Only the breeze, and the faint chime of wind bells on the veranda.

“Carter?” he repeated, louder this time.

Still nothing. Ethan sighed. “Cool. Guess you can’t hear me unless I light a flare or something”

“You called?” said a smooth voice just inches from his ear.

Ethan jumped. He practically launched off the bench and spun around. “Holy crap!”

Behind him, standing with perfect posture in a pressed vest and cloak, was Carter. He wasn’t breathing heavily. Not even a footstep. Just… appeared. Like a ghost or worse, a ninja butler.

Ethan blinked at him. “Where did you even come from?”

Carter offered a small, polite smile. “You seemed troubled, Master Peirce. I thought it rude to interrupt.”

Ethan stared at him for a long moment. “You thought sneaking up behind me was less rude?”

“I did knock,” Carter replied gently, “but I assumed your mind was elsewhere.”

Ethan sighed again, dragging a hand through his hair. “You and your polite horror movie entrances.”

A beat of silence passed before Ethan looked up at him. “Actually… would you mind taking me to Arthur’s office?”

Carter gave a slight bow. “Of course, Master Peirce. Right this way.”

With that, Carter turned with effortless grace and began walking toward the stone path that led back toward the manor. Ethan followed, still not entirely sure if the man had feet that made contact with the ground or just floated like some tuxedoed phantom.

At least he wasn’t alone in all this.

Carter led Ethan through the quiet halls of Duskmere Manor until they reached a wide wooden door with silver inlays shaped like flowering vines. Carter knocked twice, then stood straight.

"Master Arthur, Master Peirce has arrived," he announced.

From within, a calm voice responded, "Let him in."

Carter opened the door with a courteous nod to Ethan. “I’ll take my leave, then.”

Ethan stepped into the office, and Carter quietly closed the door behind him.

Arthur stood on the far side of the room, near the balcony where sunlight spilled over a small round table. The same table where Arthur and Ceris discussed things once before.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Arthur said, motioning to a chair. “Come, have a seat.”

Ethan took the seat across from him as Arthur gracefully poured two cups of jasmine tea. The floral aroma curled in the air like a delicate spell.

Before Arthur could speak, Ethan leaned forward. “Please… tell me. What exactly is a Kingmaker? And a King Candidate?”

Arthur paused, lifting his teacup with both hands, then took a slow, elegant sip. When he set it down, his eyes met Ethan’s with a weight that suggested centuries of history.

“Kingmakers,” he began, “are not tools. They are not weapons, or servants. They are beings called from other universes, always from beyond this world. Each time a Candidate is chosen, a Kingmaker is summoned… not to serve blindly, but to guide. To challenge. To complete what the Candidate lacks.”

Ethan lowered his gaze to his own cup. “But why me? I don’t have any powers, or crazy skills. I’m just a regular guy. I mean, I met Sayo, she’s like a walking legend or something. We’re not even in the same league.”

Arthur raised a brow. “So you’ve met Sayo.” He nodded thoughtfully. “As for your question… I cannot give you a clear answer, Ethan. Being chosen as a Kingmaker has always been a mystery. Some have theorized it’s the will of the world. Others believe it’s tied to fate, or necessity. But history tells us this: a King does not choose their Kingmaker based on want but on what they truly need to ascend the throne.”

Ethan stared into his tea. The jasmine scent felt heavier now. “So it’s not about strength. It’s about… something deeper.”

“Yes,” Arthur said, voice low and steady. “And perhaps that is why you were chosen.”

He paused, letting the silence settle before speaking again. “I know you want to go home, Ethan. And if it were up to me if I held any power over the divine law that governs the Candidacy I wouldn’t choose someone like you to be dragged into this generational war.”

Arthur's tone held no pity, only sincerity. “You were taken from your world, your life, and dropped into a legacy not your own. And yet… here you are. That alone means something.”

Ethan looked up. “One more thing. What exactly is an Ego weapon?”

Arthur nodded, as if he expected the question. “Ego weapons,” he said slowly, “are extremely rare. They are not forged, they are awakened. When a Kingmaker’s presence and purpose fully align with their Candidate, something stirs within them. Their weapon is not just an object it becomes an extension of their will, their conviction. It speaks. It grows. It remembers.”

He folded his hands around the warm tea. “Some say the Ego weapon is the true mark of a Kingmaker’s bond with their Candidate. When it awakens, it becomes a symbol of absolute intent, what they are willing to protect… or destroy.”

Ethan blinked. “So… like a talking sword?”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Arthur chuckled. “Sometimes. Though not all of them talk. Some whisper. Some sing. Some simply burn with presence. But yes Sayo’s dao is such a weapon. Guardless. Elegant. Deadly. It responds to her and her alone. That is what makes it an Ego.”

Ethan hesitated, then spoke again. “Then… Why is mine rusty? It looked broken. Useless.”

As if summoned by the thought, a sharp pain struck his chest. He winced, placing a hand over his heart.

Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly. “That pain. It’s not physical. It’s your bond responding.”

He set his cup down gently. “Summon it,” Arthur said. “Let me see it.”

Ethan took a breath and reached inward, the way it had happened the first time. That strange pressure returned, and in his hand, the dagger formed a short, jagged weapon with a rusted blade and faintly glowing chains coiled around its hilt.

Arthur leaned in, eyes fixed not with judgment, but curiosity. “Fascinating,” he murmured. “A dagger with chains… Tell me, Ethan, have you spoken to your weapon?”

Ethan blinked. “Spoken?”

Arthur nodded. “Ego weapons are living things, in a way. Some reach out. Some remain silent until they are understood.”

Ethan looked down at the rusty blade in his hand. “No. I mean, this thing never spoke. Not once. Not even when I first summoned it.”

Arthur considered that thoughtfully, then stood from his seat. “Then perhaps it is time you tried to listen.”

He walked to the office door and opened it, glancing back over his shoulder. “Come. A brief spar, I think.”

Ethan looked up, startled. “Wait what? I’m not a fighter.”

Arthur smiled, unbothered. “I insist.”

Still holding the dagger, Ethan hesitated. “Seriously, I’ve never even held a real weapon until yesterday.”

But Arthur was already gesturing him forward. “Shall we?”

Left with little choice, Ethan followed him out of the office and through the manor’s halls. The corridors were quiet, warm light spilling through tall windows as they descended a staircase Ethan hadn’t seen before.

Soon, they stepped into the training grounds, a wide, stone-floored arena surrounded by polished columns and reinforced dummies. The same space where Ceris and Lillia had sparred not long ago.

Ethan stood at the edge, heart thudding. This was really happening.

Arthur stepped to the center and turned to face him. “Ready your stance,” he said firmly.

Ethan blinked, completely lost. “I… don’t even know how to fight.”

Arthur gave a knowing smile, then bent down and picked up a long, smooth training stick from a nearby rack. He raised it with one hand and took a refined duelist’s stance, elegant, precise, almost rapier-like.

“Come,” Arthur said, voice carrying both challenge and warmth.

Meanwhile, on the third floor of the manor, Ceris sat in the corner of the grand Duskmere library, chin in hand, only half-listening to Lillia's lesson about the politics of the northern trade alliances.

Her eyes wandered lazily toward the tall arched window nearby. And there down below in the training grounds she caught a glimpse of two figures.

Her grandfather. And Ethan.

Her brow lifted slightly, curiosity blooming. What was he doing down there? Sparring? With Arthur?

Just as she leaned a bit forward to watch, thwack! a rolled scroll smacked her gently on the head.

“Ow hey!” Ceris snapped.

“Focus,” Lillia said, unamused. “You’ll have all the time in the world to gawk at your Kingmaker’s embarrassing footwork later.”

Ceris huffed, but a small smirk tugged at her lips. She glanced out the window once more.

Don’t trip and fall, civilian, she thought, amused.

Back in the arena, Ethan stood frozen. The dagger felt foreign in his hand, like something he had no right holding.

Arthur noticed his hesitation. The older man’s gaze sharpened.

“Will you just stand there all day?” Arthur shouted. “Would you freeze like that if your family were in danger? If someone you loved was about to be killed?”

Ethan’s breath caught.

Without another word, Arthur lunged forward.

The strike came fast, too fast.

Ethan barely managed to lift his weapon before the training stick swept him off balance. The force sent him sprawling backwards, crashing into a rack of wooden practice weapons with a loud clatter.

Pain shot through his shoulder and ribs, but the real blow was to his pride.

Arthur stood tall at the center of the ring, expression unreadable.

“Get up,” he said calmly. “Again.”

Ethan struggled to his feet.

Before he could lift his hands, Arthur lunged again. Another hit, another painful fall across the platform.

“Again!”

For several minutes, it repeated. Ethan tried to prepare, tried to lift the dagger, but he was always too slow, too unsure.

Arthur stood at ease, not sweating, not winded. “Ethan, my boy,” he said, “you are not a civilian anymore. You are a Kingmaker.”

And with that, he lunged once more. Ethan was flung off his feet yet again.

As Ethan tried to catch his breath on the ground, Arthur’s voice rang out: “Again!”

But this time

"How long are you going to keep embarrassing yourself like this?"

A voice clear, sharp, angry rang in Ethan’s head. It wasn’t Arthur.

It was his weapon.

The rusty dagger in his hand pulsed faintly, as if irritated.

Ethan’s eyes widened, his heart pounding.

“You...” he whispered. “You can talk?”

The dagger pulsed again, as if scoffing.

"Of course I can, you idiot. Maybe try listening for once instead of whining like a child."

For the first time, Ethan wasn’t just afraid.

He was awake.

Arthur saw the change, the faint shimmer of excitement on Ethan’s face and smiled knowingly.

He stepped back and pointed with his stick. “Again.”

But this time, the dagger’s voice came again, low and impatient.

"Let me borrow this for a bit."

Suddenly, the chain of the blade unraveled, slithering up Ethan’s arm like a coiled snake. His right arm jerked as though possessed no longer fully under his control.

Then he lunged.

Ethan’s body moved with a strange precision, surging forward at Arthur.

But Arthur, ever calm, dodged with ease and, in one swift motion, spun and kicked Ethan square in the chest, sending him flying into the stone wall at the edge of the platform.

Ceris, watching from the window, laughed even harder.

Smack! Another scroll to the head.

“Focus!” Lillia barked.

“I am!” Ceris grinned. “Just... in my own way.”