Chapter 4: The King's Spear
John followed his uncle through the twisting corridor, his footsteps echoing against the cold stone. A strange heaviness sat in the air not suffocating, but unmistakable.
"What is this place?" John finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Haorei didn't break his stride. "We're going to the records of the beginning."
"Records? Of what?" John pressed, his unease mounting. *"And why am I here?"
His uncle sighed, his tone calm yet firm. "Breathe, John. Everything will make sense in time."
John inhaled sharply but still felt unsettled. His mind raced, trying to piece together why his uncle had called him home so urgently, why his dreams were somehow important, and why they were heading deeper into this hidden underground hall.
After several minutes, they arrived at a massive ancient door, the stone engraved with unknown symbols, deep marks carved like warnings or perhaps, seals. John stared at the structure, hesitating.
Haorei stepped forward, withdrawing a small ornate key from his coat. The moment he inserted it, a low rumble vibrated through the walls.
The door opened on its own.
---
"Let's go in," Haorei said, stepping through the threshold.
John hesitated, feeling the air change before his eyes. The chamber ahead wasn't just a hidden archive it felt different, like stepping into a space untouched by time itself.
As he entered, his eyes widened.
Rows of towering bookshelves stretched across the vast underground hall, their spines aged yet preserved. Scrolls lay carefully rolled within protective casings, while artifacts rested beneath dim candlelight, their metallic edges glinting faintly.
The sheer scale of it was overwhelming.
"It's like a museum," John murmured, awe creeping into his voice.
Haorei chuckled. "That's exactly what it is. The recorded history of your lineage, preserved from the beginning until now."
John took slow steps, his gaze roaming over shelves, ancient texts, and objects that seemed far older than any known history.
Something about this place carried weight something greater than mere knowledge.
Then, something caught his eye.
Among the neatly arranged weapons a collection of daggers, swords, armor, and shields one object stood out.
A broken spear, its jagged edges sharp despite its fragmented form.
It wasn't rusted or forgotten it had been cared for, polished like a relic of significance rather than just decoration.
John's steps slowed as he approached. His chest tightened—not out of fear, but something else entirely.
A pull.
An invisible force, so faint it was almost imperceptible, yet undeniably there. He reached out, fingers mere inches from the spear's surface.
"That spear belonged to your ancestor."
John flinched slightly, turning to find his uncle watching him.
Haorei's eyes lingered on the artifact, as if staring at something far beyond its broken form.
"I don't know what battle he fought, but this is all that remains—a weapon forged by the finest blacksmith of its time."
John turned back, studying the spear. His heart pounded strangely.
"What do you feel, John?" his uncle asked, stepping closer.
John hesitated. "It's weird… Like it's calling to me."
His uncle nodded, as if that answer was expected.
"That is the spear that only listens to the one of destiny."
John braced himself for some grand, legendary name something epic and storied.
"They call it the King's Spear."
John blinked.
"That's it?"
The name felt too simple, almost underwhelming.
His uncle chuckled, catching John's reaction.
"A simple name, huh?" Haorei mused. "They say no other word can describe it. The spear does not need a title it chooses only one."
Haorei's gaze darkened slightly, unreadable in the dim light.
"Try holding it."
John swallowed.
The air felt different now.