So it is done

Standing behind the small, peculiar curtain that hides him from the eyes of the assembled people- thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions of people, does the number change anything? Jonathan was feeling nervous. It was far, far more than he had ever been in front of. As the time for his impending part comes closer, Jonathan was deep in thought.

When did his life change so dramatically? What series of events had exactly led him to this moment he had found himself in? Holding the prepared speech in his hands, preparing to utter precisely these words, for a very specific purpose, Jonathan was suddenly struck with a sense of vertigo. When did it happen? The thing that led him to this point?

Did it happen a week ago? When Captain Aisa had shared her plan with him, the craziest idea he had ever heard?

Did it happen two weeks ago? When he had changed the geography of Mount Glenn with meteors?

Was it eight weeks ago? When he had escaped Atlas to this city?

Was it when he traveled the Umbra with the old man?

Or did Fatum truly exist, that destiny something more than just the consequence of human actions?

That everything was already predetermined the moment he was born - no, even earlier? That the established rails of certainty simply followed the pre-established form in a single canvas, drawn at the time of the creation of the universe?

What would the Old Man say? Would he laugh at his rambling and give a pat on his shoulder? Maybe shook his head reproachfully? Would he give some parting advice?

What would the Order say? His Friends, few of them there are? His Teachers?

What will the people say? What will their descendants say? Would what he did be remembered at all? What will happen next after this?

What will he do, and what will others do in reaction to it? How will his action affect this whole world? And how have they already influenced it?

If nothing else, Jonathan now knew that he suffered greatly from stage fright, if the way his mind seems to be overworking itself from his nervousness.

As the captain's speech was over, not that Jonathan could actually tell what she was speaking about through his haze of thoughts, Jonathan heard his name being uttered. Was that his cue? He had forgotten when he was supposed to enter the stage. It must have been, as there was now a hushed silence. And so, with his heart thumping in his ears, Jonathan took a step forward through the curtain, finally appearing on the impromptu stage.

A moment later, he was pierced, pinned down by hundreds of thousands of eyes. All the people in the room stared intently at him, some with incomprehension, some with respect, some with adoration, in some he could see disbelief, that they refuse to believe that it was this boy, slowly walking, leaning on a cane, who was the one that saved them from Grimm, and yet, those were not the worst that he could see. In some of them an almost alien emotion could be seen, some sort of fervent faith that he was their savior, something more than just man.

In a way, they were right, it didn't mean that their blind faith in him was not any more eerie.

As Jonathan walked to the podium, he heard neither the sound of his cane nor the sound of his footsteps, the hall was completely silent, no whispering, not even the sound of anyone breathing, as if they were holding their breath as one. Everything seemed so quiet, it is as if, the world had frozen, as he walked those steps.

Cinder is a few steps behind him, Jonathan didn't need eyes behind his head to know that she was looking at him with concern, ready at any moment to rush and support him if he were to stumble. In the past few days, she had become more and more desperate in her actions, in her pursuit of something. Jonathan knew that some ideas were floating in her head, something that he never wanted to put in there, but something had found its way there anyway.

Now, Cinder was burning with purpose to help him in any way she could. Jonathan had heard, from the nurse and doctors, that she was bothering the soldiers, demanding that they train her to fight. She was also bothering the Doctors too, demanding them to teach her how to cure all sorts of diseases of the world. Luckily, the adults were happy to indulge her curiosity. And yet - she had never left Jonathan's side whenever he was awake, so he was worried whether he was getting enough sleep.

The sound of his heartbeat was the only thing he could hear, washing away even his worries about Cinder. And, for some reason, as he walked he wanted to look away, or even run away from the gazing crowd - but his body did not seem to be obeying Jonathan's will.

Jonathan could see that in the forefront of the crowd was the remnants of the army and the three captains that makes up the provisional government. In fact, this whole thing was exactly their plan. They needed Jonathan as a linchpin for their plan, which raised some warning bells in his head. What happened with Bor was still very fresh in his memories, after all. Still, the three captains swore that it simply needed Jonathan as a figurehead and not as a puppet. Of course, the fact that they knew what Jonathan could do, not that he was going to be calling down meteors any time soon or ever, was a good deterrence should they started getting ideas.

And now there was nothing more to distract him from his impeding speech. It was too bad that he was in too bad of a shape to cast any spell to slow time.

His cane rested unusually on the wooden platform, or maybe it was? Jonathan was not yet accustomed to the fact that this is how he will now walk… Perhaps, for the rest of his life.

As he was standing there gathering his courage, Jonathan's eyes was attracted to the Hunter team. Their team, luckily all four of them had survived, had not yet left Mount Glenn. Although, it may have been due to the fact that there was nowhere to go from Mount Glenn and no way out really, the few remaining local variants of the aircraft were needed by the army. Furthermore, without communications out of the city still unavailable, they still can't call anyone for help.

Of course, the tower's functionality was slowly being restored over time, and now it could be used. But, it won't be a desperate call for help that they would be broadcasting, but something that was completely different.

Jonathan cast his eyes upward, catching his gaze on the black, unblinking gaze of the TV camera staring at him. Surely now, in what remnants of the city, in every shack, on every projector that the army had placed beforehand, and the people of Remnant was seeing his figure, his face, his slow gait and awkward movements.

Perhaps he was being watched by the people that moves the world, the political advisors ministers, the Tycoons, the generals, and the Hunters… Jonathan wondered what is it they were seeing?

Jonathan took the last step now before the podium, he put the folder he was clutching in his hands on the podium in front of him. It was now or never, he cleared his throat, looking for any point of space where he could bury his eyes so that he doesn't have to look at the crowd, before exhaling and bringing his lips to the microphone and started speaking.

"The people of Mount Glenn," His voice reverberated through the crowd on hundreds of wires and through the hundreds of speakers, "We've all experienced a bleak horror. An event that has no equal and sadly all too common in the history of the entire Remnant. The horror that is the Grimm, a horror that we were able to defeat, a darkness that has receded before our light."

Jonathan paused, feeling his lips becoming dry, but continued to speak further anyway, "Many of you are wondering of who I am, but many of you also already know the answer to this question. I am the reason as to why the sky had fallen to the ground, I who had used the sky to smite the darkness. I who can do this again and again with my semblance, 'Starfall'."

Among the multitude of people in the room, an excitement began to form like a spark, and a hushed whisper began to form from around the room. But Jonathan didn't stop speaking, his speech was just beginning.

"Many of you know me, however, for completely different reasons." Jonathan tried to smile, failing horrendously because of his nervousness. "You know of me as Jonathan Goodman, just a humble postal worker whom some of you had to deal with in the past. Sending parcels or letters, not really something that someone with my kind of power was supposed to be doing, right? To tell you the truth, it is how I would like to live my life, to spend my entire life as a humble postman running a small family business with my adopted daughter and to live with my small dreams and troubles. But it seems that reality has other plans, and I have to yet again use a power that I've sworn to never use again." At that, Jonathan paused. First, because he's really feeling that dry lips. And second, because it literally says to pause here in the speech that Captain Aisa had prepared for him. And then, after he wetted his lips and the audience were at the edge of their seat, he continued.

"It is a power that I, like my great ancestor, had always hoped to use for good. And, standing here today among the people, among the survivors, and among the undefeated - I swear that there is no doubt or regret in me about what I did. And if it will be necessary, to protect the people, to protect the Kingdom, I will use my power again and again. But… Of course, that's not the main point of why I'm speaking in front of you today." Another pause for effect… did Aisa really have to say it like that?

"The identity of my great ancestor and why I've chosen to life in seclusion. Perhaps, some of you might even have already guessed as to his identity. After all, my name 'Jonathan Goodman' is a name that attracts attention, a name that does not obey the 'color rule'. But this is probably why my mother named me so, wanting to hide her biggest secret in plain sight…" And here he is about to acquire his third 'name'... maybe it means that'll be luckier, three is a lucky number after all.

"My name, Jonathan Goodman, is one that is made up, fake." Jonathan sighed, well he's already killed a person, so who cares about lying? It's a really stupid name, though. "My real name is…"

***

"OZPIN!" Ironwood's voice was so loud from his shock that it seemed to be able to reach Ozpin from Atlas itself, even without any help from their scrolls. "IS SUCH A THING POSSIBLE?!"

"James," Ozpin, his expression unusually serious, slowly tapped rhythmically on the table with his finger. The broadcast from Mount Glenn, from this 'Jonathan Goodman' had shaken him greatly. "This is… I... Probably, for the first time in the many years of our acquaintance, I cannot give you an answer to this question."

"IS WHAT HE'S SAYING TRUE?! HOW COULD IT BE TRUE?!"

"This is…" Ozpin thought for a second, trying to remember something from lifetimes ago, literally, before slowly inhaling and exhaling at the blank he's drawing. "I suppose it is not entirely impossible. I… I've always been careful in such matter, but I can't truly say that it is improbable. I've made too many mistakes over the years, James, to deny the possibility of another."

"BUT… HOW?!" As if he had just seen pigs flying, Ironwood could feel his brain rebooting at what he was hearing. "HOW COULD SUCH A THING HAPPEN ?! AND FURTHERMORE, HOW COULD WE MISS, AND NOT EVEN HAVE AN INKLING ABOUT THIS?!"

Ozpin said nothing to Ironwood's rambling, he supposes that he has the right to be so out of sorts, he is feeling the same shock after all.

But, could he truly… He definitely could have. Ozpin knew the answer to this question, no matter how much it seemed to him that he had foreseen everything, prevented everything from going wrong, he could have always made a mistake. Though he guessed, with a mirth unfitting the debacle he's in, that he has to take the advice of using 'protection' seriously.

Ozpin, for all his many long life, in his endless struggle against her, had always hoped for a miracle and truly believed in miracles. Therefore, he could not deny that even the most incredible of events could indeed happen. Now, the fact that it happened because of the astronomically low chance of a prophylactic failing was quite the cosmic joke.

When he had felt the earth shaking, he had felt something in the winds. Instantly he knew that the shaking was not from an earthquake or an erupting volcano, but something else entirely, something incredible, something that is… familiar. It was something new and unknown, something that is dangerous. Of course, he never expected the answer to this question to be something so… unexpected.

The mystery that had suddenly appeared before his eyes only became more and more complicated the more he found out.

At least the how of how it happened was easily answered. But why now? What was the reason for him to appear now, and what will be the consequences? So many questions, so little answers.

Ironwood, seeing Ozpin's silence as a dismissal, hung up. But Ozpin was not worried, James would return, perhaps even in an hour or two. He would shout at a couple of his subordinates, shoot his oversized gun at the shooting range, sleep, and then return to ask Ozpin questions in the morning.

Ozpin chose him to join his little 'club', as Qrow would put it, precisely for this reason as much as aforementioned Qrow would incessantly complain. So hot headed, but always able to allow for cooler heads to make decisions. Someone who sadly always reacts to unknown situations with force, but at the very least is always open to suggestions. Sadly, very predictable, which is both a positive and a negative. Not stupid, but predictable.

Dealing with Ironwood is at least something that he has a handle on.

Theodore, on the other hand? His reaction would be much less predictable, but his mind is extraordinary, so recruiting his help to sort out this mes is paramount. He will have to contact him personally to see if the both of them could unravel this mystery.

Should he contact Lionheart? No, he's one of the person he could trust with some secrets, but contacting him will not help sort this event. Sadly as much as he's a competent combatant, he's too much of a follower, he will simply follow along to whatever it is Ozpin had decided. There would be no discussion or theory crafting, only agreement. Useful for one that is guarding the door to one of the most important Relics, but no use as an advisor.

Ozpin could only sigh at the latest surprise that had come his way, slowly before moving his gaze to the young man's face, frozen on the screen. Could he actually… Was it true…

And if it is, what action should he take? Should he reach out? But what if it's all just a trap?

Ozpin got up and took a step towards the steaming hot chocolate teapot.

He needed the boost for the long and sleepless night that awaited him.

***

Aifal. It is a name that made one shiver. At least, if the person was aware of the world underneath.

The son of a drunk and a prostitute, he had begun his journey by stealing wallets. Who would have thought that such a person would have turned out to be Remnant's most dangerous person?

Neither his closest friends nor his worst ill-wishers speaks his name aloud lightly.

After all, he was the man who heard everything, saw everyone, and knew about everything. People could have worked for him for decades without ever realizing that the boxes of fish they picked up from the docks each day contains piles of documents some days of the week. The delivery men also had never an inkling to the fact that his next door neighbor was a part of the chain that makes up his network all over Remnant.

To anyone that know of him and what he represents, it must have seemed as if Aifal was everywhere. To anyone with eyes, his influence could be seen in the political reshuffle of Vacuo and the military exercises of the Atlas, in the various strikes of Mantle's workers and even the White Fang recruitment drives in Menagerie. The biggest players, the smartest and most dangerous of them, suspected each other - and sometimes in a fit of paranoia, themselves - of working for him. They looked for his contacts and eliminated intermediaries, they always failed and subsequently paid for their hubris.

Sometimes it's from planted bombs or even poisoned the wine. Sometimes it is something simple and direct, like an organized night raids and or a turncoat seduced with money. Aifal's hands was in a lot of pies.

Of course, it means that sometimes his hands was could be seen, but nobody knew for sure.

He is a man whose mere existence was enough to regulate the entire global shadow world of remnant. It was his influence that allowed the Mantle bandits to negotiate with the Mistral clans, that made the Vacuo raiders afraid to cross the Branwen tribe, for Vale's drug dealers to refuse to cooperate with the White Fang. All these agreements, pacts - all of them had the invisible seal of approval of a person who could shake the world just tossing and turning in a dream. It was this man's actions that made it all possible.

And he was dying.

It was a chronic disease that tormented him. Each day, he would suffer from constant vomiting and pain, making him unable to even swallow a morsel of food. Each day, he would spend in pain, scratching his itchy skin with his nails madly.

Aifal was dying. The most terrifying man in the world was dying, just like everyone does.

He was not particularly old, never did the drugs he peddled, never smoked, and his alcoholic festivities ended in his tumultuous youth. He was not responsible for his affliction, nor was he the victim of an accident. While it was definitely possible that someone had a Semblance that cursed him so, he had spent the last few years debunking that theory, and there's not a lot of things that remains secret for him. No, he was dying simply because fate had decreed it.

He had remembered his diagnosis, down to the smallest detail, and the countless doctors afterwards that told him the same thing. It's funny, how he remembered that moment as clearly as he remembered everything else. He remembered it the way he remembered how the lilacs smelled in his first wife garden's, or the numbers on the fences he had walked past by when he was a child. Even the night where he first tasted wine and got drunk from it. He remembered it all. He had remembered every trauma and every moment of anguish in his life, every disfigured face and every cry of a dying man.

And now he was dying.

He was not even a shadow of his past self, simply the ashes that is left after the disease burned through him. He remembered how he had looked not so long ago, a smiling man with a long thin mustache, a well-groomed beard, and a mischievous childish gaze and sharp facial features. He remembered that he had a habit of humming under his breath and whistling some random tune. Now? Now he was nothing more than bones covered with parchment dried skin, his eyes sunken his pupils clouded, his hair had long all fallen out and only quiet, hoarse breathing came out of his mouth now.

Was it a year or two? Three. No, for years he had not once left his abode. His thousands of agents no longer bring their reports to him, and no longer did he have the energy to direct the various gangs under his thumb. He could no longer apply pressure at the various council hearings to pursue his own goals. For countless days he had just laid in his bed, not moving, hoping that each day would be the day his pain would go away, when he could live. Even if only for a few seconds - he will remember these seconds, but alas he was not that lucky. He would be laying in his bed, helpless, in pain, until the end of life.

And yet the world still moved, Aifal still casts a shadow even while lying in his tomb.

Even when he had spent years doing nothing, the world still moves according to his design. He's done enough already.

Actions, and plans taken decades ago, have continued to bear fruit. The mechanisms that he had established to control the world still existed. He was a legend, a figure, the machine called 'Aifal' still existed even when the person dies. Like an intelligent robot surpassing the mortal shell, it continued to do its function day after day.

Aifal didn't even have to move to make the world play by his rules.

But still… Aifal did not want to die, he did not want to die in torment, and yet also did not want to die quietly and without torment. He wanted to live.

But some things were beyond the control of even the greatest of men.

And yet, when, with a quiet screech, a black-red tentacle crept into his room, a sphere floating in the air by itself, Aifal smiled for the first time in a long time.

Perhaps his Queen had decided to have mercy on him.

***

Salem could feel her hand gripping the table until furrows had begun to form as she stared at the screen in front of her.

Was this really a part of Ozma's plan? Was this his best weapon? And, what shocked her the most was that it… worked?

Mount Glenn was an easy target for the Grimm — a den of vice and weakness, a human cesspool for the dregs of society. An easy target, as if it was put there for the express purpose to be destroyed. And it had to be destroyed, it was getting too big, and it served her purpose well.

How would the entire world react if the three million inhabitants of Mount Glenn were destroyed overnight? Wiped off the face of the earth before they even had time to send a signal for help? What blow would that be to all of humanity? What would happen to people, with their fears, with their so-called 'unity' in the face of danger, if they saw that this danger was too great?

It was supposed to be a moment of triumph for Salem and a sure-fire thing. She had sent a Super-horde along with one of her favorite creations, the dragon, there would be no way for them to survive. She had chosen the most ideal moment to attack, carefully choreographed to crush hope. It would be a magnificent blow against Ozma, to humanity, and to the whole world.

And it was repulsed.

It was as unexpected as it was a devastating blow to her army.

It was not the lost of Grimm that troubled her. No, it was not difficult to create such a horde, a few months maybe, and there are no deadlines for the ever-living. But, to move such a large horde… Years.

Several years of preparation, all to detract from attracting attention, the delicate dance of constantly losing Grimm in small parts under the onslaught from those mad dogs of Ozma… wasted. The correct atmosphere to properly 'attract' the horde… Decades.

Such good chances turn up so rarely, maybe once in tens of years, generations. She might once again meet such a vulnerable settlement, such an ideal target to strike, maybe in fifty years? In a hundred? In two hundred? All of that time… wasted.

Still, no amount of time wasted was too much for Salem. Ages will pass, but she will still be there waging her war against the Gods, ready to strike. A little boredom and a little annoyance are a part and parcel in her millennia of waiting. She was familiar with those.

But, there was more to what have happened than just a slight delay in her plans. This was… a challenge.

The dragon was not the greatest of her creations - but one of her favorites, one of the very early ones. A creation that was not made for mass production, but as her personal little masterpiece. And it was destroyed, killed.

It was not invulnerable, far from it. With Ozma's help, humanity had learned how to build very entertaining toys that were dangerous even for her most impressive creations. But, in that place, Mount Glenn, there was supposed to be no such thing.

There was no Atlas navy, ready to blot the sky with explosions. Nor does it have the might of the ever watchful Ozma, someone that had turned back a Super-horde in the past. There was no might of magic there, no Maidens, no relics. Nothing.

Mount Glenn should have easily fallen. But, instead of that, her favorite toy had been killed.

It was a slap to the face. It was a challenge. But more importantly, it was a very blatant sign of her eternal enemy's plan.

Salem has always believed that Ozma has tired of his mission, and was simply waiting for the end, of her victory. After going through the Great War, he had used his newly gained clout to create the various academies, rather than becoming the Emperor of Remnant as she expected. In the height of his power, he decided that he for some reason had reached his goal, after which he retreated into the shadows.

Surely that was not all? How could bear to see his lofty aspiration, his grand plan of 'democratic councils' devours itself in their hunger for power. Could he not see his dream degenerating into cheap populism and the oligarchy of the most influential families, who have long divided power among themselves? And she should know, they were very useful in her task of destroying humanity.

She had long believed that Ozma had simply refused to face the truth of his mistake, all the while continuing to maintain the façade of normality simply because it's what he's used to doing. That he had given up in this war of theirs, as he found that he was unable to do anything against Salem. But… Was he simply acting all this time?

Was his passivity really not an admission of defeat, but simply a part of his plan all along?

Is it possible that all this time he was simply preparing his weapons, lulling her into a sense of safety? Creating an appearance of weakness, all the while preparing the weapon of his retribution? Something greater than the maidens, something that will overcome Salem?

Ozma was also not afraid of time. Their battle had gone on for so long that it was inscribed in the very geography of the world. But Salem was always the one that wrote them, only she could act on such a large scale, but it seems that that have changed.

Ozma's immortality required him to be born in a new body every time the last died, meaning that his plans could not span beyond several decades at most. After all, how could he manage his agents if he was dying every time, wearing a new face every time?

But… She was wrong. Ozma, who was supposed to be a tired, broken man, had struck a blow against her. One that had delayed her plan by several decades at least.

And worst of all, Salem could only bite her lip in response. It was a blow that she could not foresee.

Not to toot her own horn, but she was a wise, experienced, patient, cunning and reasonable ruler, she was once able to unite all of humanity under her rule after all. But she was not a great strategist, tactician or intriguer, and that's why she's the way she is right now. Why does she need to be educated in that task? That was supposed to be Ozma's role, after all.

She's educated and experienced enough in intrigue to know how to strike at the most sore spot of her enemy. As well as, she knows how to seize the chance of getting rid of her opponent. But, in the end, her schemes never had a complex breadth, she did not have hundreds of agents and many pawns nor had she ever needed it.

In her war, she had several loyal followers, each of whom was perhaps the equal of a dozen soldiers, though she supposes they're called Hunters now? That and her army of endless Grimm was enough to achieve her victory… Though, should it be expected of a cornered rat? Ozma's way of fighting is an antithesis of hers, he created webs and webs of conspiracy, all to strike from the shadows.

Her way of fighting was simple, she struck with overwhelming might, killing millions, then recuperating her numbers in the shadows, until once again striking out once again. Time after time it works like a charm, like the sun rising, her victory using such a method was inevitable… but it was too simple.

Ozma… He has always been much more dangerous in that regard, he simply lacks the means to kill her off for good, or he would've won already. And as far as Salem could remember, he always had eyes and ears among all people.

Yes, in the past it seemed to her that Ozma had surrendered, that he had long ceased to fight with Salem, having retired defeated to his castle, she should have known better. Instead, he was preparing a weapon.

And Salem knew that this time... Ozma had won. Not the war, no, just one battle, but Ozma had long been the one on the back foot, that tasted defeat. The bitterness of defeat, how long ago was it that she last tasted it?.

And so, with that bitter reminder, she made a decision.

Aifal, one of her oldest minions. A man of intelligence and skills, a horror, a man that is able to rival even Ozma's web of conspirators. Yes, with the greatest manipulator and criminal mastermind in the world in her hands, she would win.

He was… Not perfect. Too intrusive and too obnoxious for his own good. Worse, he has no sense of loyalty to her, she would take her orders as he sees fit and would disregard orders that he doesn't like. He would play both sides, trying his best to benefit not only from Salem's victories, but also from her defeats. He always wanted more than he was allowed to, betraying friends and negotiating with enemies alike for the better hand. But, as much as it galls her to admit, he was irreplaceable, for now.

He was dying, he was dying for a long time, and Salem doesn't see any reason to change this fact. Ozma was already defeated, he had stopped fighting Salem, there was no more need for Aifal. He served her worthily, and was compensated accordingly, now, a tool that is no longer needed, is to be discarded.

But if on the other had, Ozma was still fighting, If he's still plotting in the shadows, then… Salem needed Aifal, his mind and his abilities. He was one of those who could even fight on even footing against Ozma if he put his mind to it.

And with Mount Glenn continued existence, with her dragon killed, and if this boy, Jonathan Goodman, was indeed who he called himself… then Ozma was far from being defeated.

***

Jonathan swallowed the sticky saliva in his mouth and repeated his lie once again, "My name, Jonathan Goodman, was nothing more than fiction. My real name is…"

Jonathan exhaled and spoke with purpose, infusing a bit of his lagging stamina into his voice. He has only one chance to get this right. "Osmond Vale the Third. Through my mother, Rosetta Vale, I am the grandson of King Oswald Vale the Great and remain the only legitimate heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Vale!"

For a second, as if everyone who heard had heard his words was frozen. Counselors, miner, tycoon, soldier, merchant, scientist, beggars alike was hanging on his every word.

"My mother… My mother wanted to hide me from the world, choosing for me a fake name and surname on the day of my birth, all in order to hide my power from those who wanted to abuse it. A power that I inherited from my grandfather, Oswald, who had once in the past cast away the Darkness like I did." Okay, another pause here, make them be reminded of my action… and continue.

"But on that fateful day, when darkness once again threaten to consume us all, I decided to throw off my mask, my dream of a simple life. This world still needs my strength, and so, in the name of all the people of Vale, and in the name of all the people of Remnant! I announce the restoration of the monarchy of Vale, the restoration of the true and legitimate Kingdom of Vale within the borders of the city of Vale and the city of Mount Glenn, the reorganization of its governments and the adoption of a new constitution! On this day, I appeal for a meeting with the provisional government created by my grandfather, the Council of Vale, for a meeting to discuss the changes in laws and the constitution."

Jonathan was tired, but he still needed to speak, as if he stopped now, he would be unable to continue, so he forced himself to open his mouth and continue, "On behalf of the new government and the monarchy of the Kingdom of Vale, I reiterate my complete and unconditional commitment to protect the people of the city of Mount Glenn, the people of the Kingdom of Vale and the people of all Remnant from the Grimm, from the military threat and from the seizure of power by any illegitimate bodies. Today, I declare my complete and unconditional condemnation of the previous government of Mount Glenn, and to break off the reorganized monarchy from the provisional government of Vale, my full and unconditional support for the people of Mount Glenn, my readiness to support the people of all Remnant, my determination, will and readiness to confront any hostile actions directed against the legitimate government of the Kingdom of Vale and the people of the City of Mount Glenn with all possible force and power." Okay, it's almost over, deep breaths, Jonathan.

"At this moment I announce that the birth of a new monarchy, a new form of government replacing the outdated council governments and the outdated government of the old of absolute monarchy. Today is the creation of a new state and the creation of a new world for all the people of Remnant." Jonathan threw up his hands in the air to finish his speech. "Long live the monarchy! Long live democracy! Long live the new world!"

As if on command, although, it was probably so - tens, hundreds, thousands of soldiers in the square threw up their hands, saluting as they clicked their boots in unison, after which they burst out in one chorus - "Long live the monarchy! Long live democracy! Long live King Osmond Vale the Third! Long live King Jonathan Goodman!"

Then once more, and again. Loudly, over and over again, they saluted and gradually the people of Mount Glenn began to join in as well.

One, two, ten, one hundred, then thousands of voices echoed through the whole city. "Long live the monarchy! Long live democracy! Long live King Osmond Vale the Third! Long live King Jonathan Goodman!"

Jonathan was buffeted by the noise, it was like a force had struck him, causing him to sway slightly. But, before Cinder could rush to him, he grabbed the podium, standing strong, looking ahead at the people that had put their faith in him.

Hundreds of thousands, no, millions of people. Through the streets, through the squares, looking out of the windows and ruins. They chanted with his name.

Long live the monarchy!

Jonathan could only blink foolishly at the fervor, and to make sure he was awake.

Long live democracy!

He could physically feel the gaze of hundreds of thousands of people staring at him, each of them repeating the same words like a mantra, like their lives depended on it.

Long live King Osmond Vale the Third!

Jonathan could only take a deep breath as he was overwhelmed by the noise. However, in the roar of voices, his reluctance was drowned without even attracting attention.

Long live King Jonathan Goodman!

And so Jonathan smiled.

He desperately wanted to ask the Old Man for guidance now, to tell him on what he should do. To smirk that goddamn smirk of his while telling an incredible story…

But the Old Man was not here, there was no one to guide him.

Jonathan had nothing, nothing to guide him on the path that he's in. No knowledge, nor skills in governing a group of mages, let alone a whole city! He… He must have suffered from temporary insanity when he agreed to this venture. What was he thinking! Declaring himself the heir to a legendary king, then declaring the creation of a new state, all the while calling himself a king… Ha, that was the action of a crazy person!

As insane as summoning hundreds of meteorites, sacrificing both your life and health to do so.

As crazy as opening a delivery store and abusing teleportation to complete the orders.

The same madness as saving one unfortunate girl in another world and then dragging her along with you, basically adopting her.

Jonathan turned around and found Cinder, she was smiling at him.

Ha… Every month, every week, nay every day he spent here, the more he understood the motto of his order...

Nec pulvis.

Nec flamma.

Nec tempestas.

Nec timor.

So It Is Done.