The Grand Procession
The morning sun, a gilded sovereign, cast its golden blessing upon the city of Veridian.
E.g. ：At the Grand Ball, I watched my date propose to another woman right in front of me.
- 1、The Grand Procession
- 2、An Unexpected Obstacle
- 3、The King's Gaze
- 4、The Unthinkable Act
- 5、"I've Finally Found You"
- 6、The Vanished King and the Blight
- 7、A Father's Burden, A Son's Legacy
- 8、The Breaking of the Curse
- 9、A New Dawn for Veridian
Its light danced across the towering spires of the Royal Palace, adorned with shimmering roofs of purest gold.
White marble steps, countless and grand, led to the enormous Royal Square, a stage for imperial majesty.
Fountains sang ancient melodies, their waters catching the sun in a thousand sparkling diamonds.
Gardens bloomed in vibrant hues, meticulously tended, perfect in every petal and leaf.
Statues of ancient heroes and forgotten kings stood sentinel, silent witnesses to centuries of history.
Fluttering royal banners, crimson and gold, proclaimed the enduring might of the House of Aethelred.
Hundreds of nobles, bedecked in silks and jewels, jostled for position, their whispers a hushed anticipation.
Commoners, a surging tide of faces, lined the cobbled streets, eyes wide with awe and hopeful reverence.
Royal knights, astride warhorses whose coats gleamed like polished obsidian, formed an imposing escort.
Their heavy plate armor clanked rhythmically, a martial drumbeat preceding the heart of the kingdom.
At the very center, majestic and burdened, rode King Arthur, the young monarch, his gaze fixed forward.
He wore the magnificent, emerald-green robes of state, intricately embroidered with the symbols of his lineage.
Today was the annual Festival of Solstice, a day of prayer and plea for the gods’ favor upon the blighted lands.
For three long years, a strange, suffocating blight had withered Veridian’s crops and dimmed its once-vibrant magic.
Whispers of ancient curses and forgotten vows haunted the kingdom’s hushed halls and desolate fields.
Arthur, barely a decade into his reign, carried the weight of a desperate people upon his young shoulders.
He yearned for a sign, a glimmer of hope that his efforts to restore prosperity were not in vain.
An Unexpected Obstacle
As the royal procession approached the heart of the square, a shadow fell across the sunlit path.
A solitary figure, starkly out of place, stood directly in the king’s way.
He was an old man, his form hunched, his tattered clothes hanging like forgotten rags.
His disheveled white hair cascaded over a face etched with the deep lines of hardship and untold stories.
In his frail hand, he clutched a worn-out wooden cane, more splintered staff than royal scepter.
Two royal guards, tall and formidable in their polished armor, broke from the formation.
Their faces, usually impassive, now contorted with irritation and a flicker of anger.
“Out of the way, old man!” one barked, his voice sharp and imperious, echoing in the sudden silence.
He gestured rudely with his spear, its gleaming tip dangerously close to the old man’s face.
“The King approaches! Yield the path, or face the consequences!” the second guard commanded, his tone equally harsh.
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The old man, however, remained rooted, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the guards, strangely serene.
He seemed oblivious to the growing tension, to the collective gasp rippling through the stunned crowd.
His presence was an affront, a direct challenge to the king’s authority, a disruption to sacred ritual.
The murmurs began, a low hum of indignation and fear among the onlookers.
Some averted their eyes, believing the old man was foolishly courting his own demise.
Others leaned forward, a morbid fascination gripping them, wondering how swiftly he would be dealt with.
The King's Gaze
King Arthur’s warhorse, a magnificent grey stallion, snorted impatiently, pawing at the cobblestones.
Arthur’s eyes, initially clouded with the solemnity of the ceremony, now narrowed upon the scene ahead.
He saw his guards, their spears crossed, pressing the old man back, their movements rough and insistent.
He saw the old man stumble, nearly falling, but still, he did not resist, only watched.
And then, their gazes met, across the length of the square, an improbable connection spanning social chasms.
A strange jolt, like an electric current, coursed through Arthur’s veins.
There was something in the old man’s eyes, a depth of ancient sorrow and resilient wisdom, that resonated deep within him.
It was a flicker of memory, half-formed, a ghost of an echo from a time long past.
This was not merely a beggar defying order; this was something profoundly different.
The sternness on Arthur’s face began to subtly soften, replaced by a complex blend of curiosity and unease.
His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his ceremonial sword, not in threat, but in contemplation.
He signaled his guards with a barely perceptible nod, a silent command for them to halt.
The guards, momentarily bewildered, lowered their spears, looking to their King for further instruction.
Silence descended upon the square, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the nervous shuffling of the crowd.
The Unthinkable Act
King Arthur dismounted, his boots ringing crisply on the polished stone, a sound of profound authority.
He walked slowly, deliberately, past his astonished guards, towards the waiting old man.
Every eye in the square was fixed upon him, a thousand breaths held in collective suspense.
The air thrummed with an almost unbearable tension, as if the very fabric of reality might tear.
He stopped directly before the ragged figure, their eyes locking once more, a silent conversation passing between them.
The old man’s calm gaze remained, unwavering, now holding a faint, knowing light.
Then, in a gesture that defied every single tenet of royal protocol, King Arthur reached up.
He slowly removed the heavy, gem-encrusted crown from his head, its golden weight suddenly insignificant.
He laid it carefully on the ground beside him, a symbolic shedding of his sovereign power.
A collective gasp, soft and sharp, escaped the crowd, a sound like a thousand whispers merging into one.
The Royal Guards, utterly aghast, exchanged bewildered glances, unable to comprehend the scene unfolding.
Then, with an elegant, deliberate motion, King Arthur knelt.
He sank to one knee before the tattered old man, his magnificent robes pooling around him on the cold stone.
He bowed his head, a gesture of profound respect, of submission, utterly unprecedented for a king.
The silence that followed was absolute, a vacuum where all sound had been abruptly swallowed.
Only the faint, distant peal of ceremonial bells echoed, a solemn counterpoint to the shattering moment.
"I've Finally Found You"
The camera, fixed upon the King’s bowed head, captured the tremor in his shoulders.
Tears, unshed but shimmering, welled in the corners of his eyes, blurring the edges of his vision.
His voice, usually clear and resonant, emerged as a trembling whisper, barely audible.
“Father… I’ve finally found you,” he choked out, the words a raw, emotional confession.
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The old man, King Aethelred, still worn and ragged, slowly extended a hand, calloused and frail.
He placed it gently upon his son’s bowed head, a gesture of both blessing and recognition.
A soft, almost imperceptible light, faint as a winter dawn, flickered around the old man.
His eyes, once shadowed with hardship, now shimmered with ancient power, a depth of magic long dormant.
The guards’ eyes widened in disbelief, their faces pale with shock, a sudden realization dawning.
The crowd erupted in a cacophony of gasps, exclamations, and bewildered cries.
“King Aethelred? But… he vanished years ago!” a noblewoman whispered, her voice laced with terror.
“The blight! The prophecy! It was all true!” an old merchant cried, tears streaming down his face.
The image froze: the King kneeling, head bowed, tears glistening, and the old man’s calm, powerful gaze.
The distant bells continued their echoing, now carrying a different meaning: a chime of revelation.
The Vanished King and the Blight
Seven years ago, King Aethelred, Arthur’s beloved father, was a formidable and just ruler.
He was known for his wisdom, his deep connection to the ancient magic of Veridian, and his booming laughter.
Then, the insidious blight first crept into the kingdom, a creeping shadow draining life from the land.
Simultaneously, King Aethelred vanished without a trace during a solitary hunt in the Whisperwood.
Search parties scoured every inch of the forest, but found nothing but his discarded hunting cloak.
The court wizards, baffled, spoke of dark magic, of ancient curses, of a king stolen by the shadows.
Young Prince Arthur, grief-stricken, ascended the throne, burdened by both his father’s loss and the kingdom’s despair.
He tried everything: prayers, sacrifices, consulting every sage and oracle in the land.
Yet, the blight only worsened, its tendrils grasping at the very heart of Veridian’s vitality.
Whispers of a long-forgotten prophecy began to circulate, speaking of a king’s sacrifice for his people.
It foretold a temporary banishment, a transformation into an unrecognizable form, and a return at the kingdom’s darkest hour.
Only by true recognition, an act of profound humility from his successor, could the curse be broken.
Arthur had dismissed it as folklore, a desperate attempt to explain the inexplicable.
But the old man’s eyes, that flicker of recognition, the familiar wisdom in their depths, had shattered his skepticism.
A Father's Burden, A Son's Legacy
King Aethelred, still in his ragged form, slowly helped his son to his feet.
His touch was surprisingly strong, imbued with a newfound vitality that seemed to ripple outwards.
“The curse… it began to lift only days ago,” Aethelred rasped, his voice rough but gaining strength.
“I was trapped, unable to speak my name, compelled to wander, to witness my kingdom’s suffering.”
He explained how a jealous sorcerer from a rival kingdom, angered by Veridian’s prosperity, had cast the spell.
The blight was not a separate curse, but a direct manifestation of the true King’s magical suppression.
As Aethelred’s power was bound, so too was the life force of Veridian.
He had felt an irresistible pull towards the palace square, towards the sacred ceremony.
It was the prophecy, guiding him to the moment of his son’s desperate plea.
Arthur, his heart swelling with a torrent of emotions, embraced his father tightly.
Relief, sorrow, guilt, and an overwhelming surge of hope washed over him in equal measure.
“I believed you lost forever, Father,” Arthur whispered, his voice thick with unspent grief.
“I have tried so hard to rule, but the burden… it was too heavy without your guidance.”
Aethelred held his son at arm’s length, a tender smile gracing his weather-beaten face.
“You have done well, my son,” he said, his voice now clearer, imbued with its former regal authority.
“You persevered. You held the kingdom together through its darkest hour.”
“And you recognized me, not by crown or robe, but by heart.”
The Breaking of the Curse
As Aethelred spoke, the faint light surrounding him intensified, swirling like golden mist.
His ragged clothes began to shimmer, transforming, mending, then shifting into fine royal attire.
His disheveled hair smoothed, regaining its silver luster, his hunched posture straightened.
The lines of hardship on his face softened, years melting away, revealing the wise, majestic king he once was.
The transformation was gradual, wondrous, witnessed by thousands of astonished eyes.
The crowd watched in breathless silence as their long-lost sovereign returned before them.
A gasp of pure wonder rippled through the square as King Aethelred stood fully restored.
His eyes, now truly regal, met those of his son, a profound understanding passing between them.
Suddenly, a brilliant emerald light surged upwards from the very cobblestones of the square.
It coiled into the sky, bursting forth in a cascade of shimmering green motes.
Everywhere it touched, the blight began to recede, a visible wave of healing washing over the city.
The withered leaves on distant trees shimmered with renewed vibrancy.
The air grew fresher, cleaner, imbued with the scent of blooming life and earth.
A collective cheer, raw and powerful, erupted from the crowd, a sound of pure joy and liberation.
It swelled into a mighty roar, echoing through the palace walls and beyond.
A New Dawn for Veridian
King Arthur, now standing beside his restored father, felt an unparalleled sense of peace.
The crushing weight of his solitary reign had lifted, replaced by shared hope and renewed strength.
Aethelred turned to the cheering masses, his voice, now booming with ancient power, filling the square.
“My loyal subjects, the curse is broken!” he proclaimed, his words resonating with divine authority.
“Veridian shall flourish once more, brighter and stronger than ever before!”
He then turned to Arthur, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder, a gesture of profound trust.
“And my son, King Arthur, who valiantly led you through the darkness, shall continue to rule alongside me.”
“For it is through his humility and unwavering heart that our kingdom found its salvation.”
The crowd cheered even louder, celebrating not one king, but two, bound by blood and unwavering love.
The royal guards, their confusion now replaced by fierce loyalty, knelt before both monarchs.
The ceremony resumed, but with a newfound meaning, a celebration of resilience and reunion.
The Festival of Solstice became not just a plea, but a joyous testament to a kingdom reborn.
The day the King knelt to a beggar became the day the true king returned and Veridian’s blight was lifted.
And in the heart of the square, where two kings once stood, a single, magnificent tree began to sprout.
Its leaves were emerald green, shimmering with pure magic, a symbol of Veridian’s eternal renewal.
