Coin of 2 Eras

How many years had it been? Ten? Five hundred? Ten thousand?

In Inanis, time had no meaning. There was only the void—and Michael.

To the world, he had been many things.Emperor. Tyrant. Heretic.The Mad Immortal.

Michael remembered the rumors his people once spoke of him.

Some had been praise. Most had not.

In his early years as emperor, they called himUnitas Ultima—the one who united the fractured kingdoms and laid the foundation of an empire.

In the middle of his reign, they said death itself had rejected him. No matter how many times he fell, he would always return. They called himQuem morte repudiavi.

And near the end, they called him something else entirely.

Madman. Tyrant. False emperor.

The Mad Immortal.

As Michael drifted through Inanis, his thoughts always returned toRichard’s Hill.

Not because it was his greatest victory—but because it was the moment his pride blinded him.

He had taken position atop the hill with a smaller, yet far more disciplined and better-equipped army. Below him stood the rebel forces, numbering far greater, driven by faith and desperation.

He remembered how many had charged blindly to their deaths, cut down by arrows and shadow magic before they could even reach his lines.

But he also remembered the center of their army.

Unlike the others, they did not break. They formed a shield wall and advanced steadily, step by step, even as men fell around them. They were disciplined. Organized. Almost like his own soldiers.

It hadn’t mattered in the end.

His forces were better equipped. Better trained. The rebels were eventually routed.

He remembered one final, futile act—a dagger thrown toward him. He had stopped it effortlessly, crushing it into shadow before sending it back toward its owner.

Then came the decision.

His generals had urged pursuit. Finish them. End it here.

Instead, Michael had turned away.

“Let them crawl back to their huts and farmland. This rebellion is over.”

He could still remember the hesitation in his general’s eyes before the order was carried out.

Michael let out a quiet breath into the void.

“How foolish of me…”

He had forgotten the first rule of rebellion.

Victory meant nothing if the enemy still had the will to rise again.

Months later, they returned.

Stronger.

More organized.

And this time… they had something else.

A hero.

Frederick the Blessed.

The gods had chosen him to lead them.

Michael had dismissed it as nothing more than desperate superstition.

He did not dismiss it now.

His thoughts shifted to the siege of his capital—Satus Punctum.

The city had held.

At first.

Then the gods intervened.

The plague came without warning. Silent. Unstoppable.

Michael had cursed the gods, not for the first time.

They always favored their followers.

Always interfered when it mattered most.

He had made decisions during those days that would never leave him.

Entire districts were sealed off, left to die to contain the spread. Loyal soldiers and generals were executed the moment signs of infection appeared.

And through it all—

He could still hear their voices.

His children.

Asking when he would rest.When he would spend time with them.When things would return to normal.

They never did.

The moment that remained clearest in his mind was not the siege.

Not the walls falling.

Not the rebellion.

It was the moment he held his youngest son in his arms.

The boy had been only five.

Full of life. Full of innocence.

Everything Michael himself had never been.

And then… gone.

Something in him broke that day.

Not outwardly. Not immediately.

But it was there.

A fracture beneath the surface.

He became colder. More distant. More ruthless.

Not because he no longer cared—

But because caring had become unbearable.

Yet even then, he clung to what remained.

His children.

The last pieces of something he had failed to protect.

He remembered the throne room.

The final confrontation.

Frederick stood before him, the so-called chosen hero of the gods.

Words were exchanged—accusations, justifications, truths neither side was willing to accept.

Then came the duel.

At first, Michael had the advantage.

As he always had.

Frederick was skilled—but not enough. Not yet.

Michael pressed him back, overwhelming him with power and precision.

But the battle was not contained to the duel alone.

His children had refused to leave.

That changed everything.

His eldest daughter moved too close, trying to help. His son and youngest daughter remained within reach of the chaos.

Michael was forced to divide his attention.

Protect them.

Fight Frederick.

Keep the enemy soldiers at bay.

And in doing so, he made a fatal mistake.

He cast his magic without restraint.

Without control.

Without precaution.

Shadow magic answered—but it did not come without cost.

It tore through him as much as it did his enemies, destabilizing his control, weakening him in ways he had never allowed before.

For the first time in years—

Michael was not fighting at his full strength.

The duel dragged on, growing more chaotic with each passing moment.

Then came the final instant.

Frederick struck toward his eldest daughter.

Michael moved without thinking.

He threw himself forward to protect her.

And in that single moment—

He left himself open.

The blade pierced his chest.

Light erupted from the wound, burning, absolute, unlike anything he had ever felt.

Michael let out a low, breathless but also tired laugh

”You’re the first to ever stab he through the chest like this in eons… Shame you will die from it”

Michael said still proud but it wasn’t the same man from the start. He looked tired and weak but still had enough to cast a final spell.

Until he reached for his magic—

And nothing answered.

For the first time in his life, Michael felt something he had long forgotten.

Fear. But also… acceptance

Frederick’s grip tightened as he drove the blade deeper.

“This is the sword of the gods!” he roared.

A golden light descended.

A portal opened beneath Michael’s feet.

And the world vanished.

The void welcomed him.

Inanis.

His prison.

His eternity.

Michael drifted in silence once more.

Waiting.

As he always had.

For his people to free him.

For the seal to weaken.

For one of his plans to succeed.

Most had likely failed.

His people… scattered. Purged. Forgotten.

But still—

He waited.

Because that was all he could do.

Yet somewhere, deep within the endless void, something stirred.

Faint.

Distant.

A thread.

Something had changed.