Autumn, 1935.

King Heaetherius, formerly a butler and before then a mercenary in the Great War, was in his chambers in the heart of his kingdom known as the Kingdom of Yue after ascending in mortality ensuing his wife’s passing and leaving to the Moon that orbited the Earth.

Berkelas was a king that ruled all the lands of the moon with all of the riches therein. He was king of a nation that stood in the higher skies of the now-habitable lands. The only one left of his blood was his child, soon to be an adult themselves, but not yet.

It was a simple room and it still carried the lunar aura that he was well-known for that he was in; the walls had blue tints and moon-shaped structures. There were books scattered over his mahogany desk that were written in Latin, French and Japanese. The wolf-man of black fur, who was well over a height of two-hundred thirteen centimeters, sat in contemplative silence, just like every other time in life.

His rose-gold robes and turban of old, runic craft contrasted his golden eyes—they struck the ambiance as much as his demanding, emotionless, and monotone voice did whenever he spoke, which was rarely.

…

Until he prayed, in Latin.

And the only sound he produced was a slow, deep breath—an exhale.

“Deus in nomine meo vocans,” Berkelas started. “De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine.”

“…”

“Falsus non sum, in diebus meis de manu tua libera me,” he continued.

“…De ore leonis eripe me, et a cornibus unicornium defende me. De tribulationibus libera me.”

“…”

“Vigilate ad Dominum, et date ei laudem in diebus omnium.”

“Amen.”

Berkelas exhaled, and then, he grabbed his demigod-forged tachi.

“The stone the builder rejected,” Berkelas started in Latin as he assumed an experienced kata with his blade, “is the stone that marks his grave.”