As a Balancer, his body was supposed to mend itself in a matter of weeks—two, maybe less if his ether was in prime condition. But the poison changed the equation. It was a silent saboteur, dulling his regeneration, clouding his mind, and turning his once-fluid internal channels into sluggish, molasses-filled veins. The guild's med team had done what they could, but their efforts were like bailing out a sinking ship with a teaspoon. Push too hard, and his system might collapse entirely.
So, for now, he was grounded. Trapped in a sterile crystal chamber, flat on a cot that smelled faintly of meat and regret. The crystal lights above beaming softly, their faint hum blending with the rhythmic pulse of heart beat. His fingers twitched, itching for action, for purpose—but there was nothing. Nothing but the weight of his own thoughts, which was a dangerous thing for someone like him. Boredom was its own kind of poison, creeping into the cracks of his mind, whispering questions he wasn't sure he wanted answered.
He turned his head, his neck protesting with a dull ache, and glanced at the only other occupied cot in the room. The figure there was still, silent, its form obscured by the dim light. "How'd you wake up, loner prince?" Belial muttered, his voice dry as old leather.
The statue-like figure didn't stir, its sunken eyes calm, almost serene in their stillness.
"Yep. Same here, buddy." Belial let out a weak chuckle, the sound fading into the hum of the chamber. He turned his gaze back to the ceiling, counting the faint cracks in the panels above. It was a pointless exercise, but it kept his mind from spiraling too far into the dark.
Eventually, the restlessness won. With a grunt of effort, he pushed himself into a sitting position, his limbs groaning like rusted steel hinges under pressure. He reached for his diamond shaped object, With a flick of his wrist, the grey holographic space unfurled like a spectral scroll, revealing his personal archive—a pocket dimension for the relics and tomes he'd collected in the black theater of his missions. His fingers hovered over the shimmering icons, each representing an item he'd scavenged from the library. His eyes settled on one in particular: a crystalline book, its surface glinting like carved diamond.
He pulled it free, the weight of it surprising in his weakened grip. The tome was rough-edged, ancient, its surface etched with faint etched symbols that pulsed faintly under his touch. The words weren't printed—they were engraved, each character glowing with an inner light.
The title read: The Great Han Empire.
Belial raised an eyebrow. He didn't recall opening this one before. The game had taken him to countless ruins, but the Han Empire wasn't one he'd studied closely. The name stirred vague memories of a civilization so advanced it bordered on divine, a power that had reshaped entire systems before vanishing without a trace. Curiosity tugged at him, sharp and insistent.
He let the book settle in his lap and tapped the cover. A faint light pulsed across its surface, and when he pressed harder, the chamber around him dimmed. The holographic interface enveloped him in a soft dome of vision and sound, a private theater of light and memory. A voice began to narrate, its tone neutral, neither male nor female, as if the ghost of the empire itself were speaking.
Belial was caught off guard but he locked in the voice when it started speaking.
"This moon was not always a bastion of life," the voice intoned, its words echoing faintly in the dome. "Once a barren satellite orbiting their home planet, the Blue Desert, a super-planet, it became the second outpost in the Great Han Empire's terraforming project—an undertaking that took less than three decades and resulted in a flourishing colony of nearly four billion."
Images flickered around Belial, vivid and immersive. He saw futuristic cityscapes bathed in silver light, their towers piercing the sky like spears of crystal. Flying skiffs darted between high-rises, their movements fluid and precise, while endless markets sprawled below, lit by the glow of multiple moons. The air shimmered with energy, a testament to the empire's mastery over their environment. Belial blinked slowly, absorbing the grandeur, the sheer audacity of it all.
"From this moon, they expanded outward, carving civilization into the bones of the solar system," the voice continued. "More planets were remade in the image of the Empire. Jupiter's moons were harvested for their crystal cores. Gas giants' rings were mined, then replaced with orbital defense mechanisms that rivaled the might of the dragon race, perhaps even surpassing the elves."
Belial let out a low whistle, the sound barely audible over the hum of the tome. No wonder the Han had been feared. The Crystallites, as they were called, had done the impossible—turned a single empire into a multi-planetary dynasty, their influence stretching across systems. Their technology wasn't just advanced; it was art, a fusion of science and sorcery that bent the laws of reality.
"By the height of their reign, the Han controlled every planet, from those forged of gold to those clad in silver. Not through brute force alone, but with a philosophy of spiritual dominion. Their leaders were known as Dream-Sculptors—those who could mold reality with thought, merging ether with crystalline matrices to terraform, control, and even reshape time perception in some zones."
Belial leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. Dream-Sculptors. The term sent a shiver down his spine, stirring memories of half-forgotten texts and whispered legends. These weren't just rulers—they were gods in all but name, wielding power that could reshape the fabric of existence. He'd heard stories of civilizations that tampered with time, but to actually control it? That was something else entirely.
"Dream-Sculptors were revered not as kings, but as gods," the voice confirmed, as if reading his thoughts.
Belial exhaled slowly, his mind racing. The Crystallites' power lined up with the myths he'd encountered in forbidden archives and half-burned ruins. Their technology was said to be indistinguishable from magic, their art capable of bending reality itself. So why had they vanished? What could bring down a civilization that wielded such power?
He flipped a few crystal pages ahead, the light within the tome dimming slightly, as if it hesitated to reveal what came next. The voice grew softer, almost mournful.
"Their fall was not due to invasion," it said at last. "No alien armada stormed their gates. No rebellion shook their cities. No plague brought them low."
Belial frowned, his fingers tightening around the edges of the tome. That only deepened the mystery. Empires fell for countless reasons—war, greed, corruption, betrayal—but the Han? They were untouchable, their power absolute. What could have stopped them?
"They collapsed from within."
The vision shifted, and the dome filled with images of devastation. Gleaming towers cracked and fell, their shards scattering like broken dreams. Skies dimmed to blood-red hues, and statues—once proud and radiant—wept molten tears. The air grew heavy, oppressive, as if the weight of the empire's fall pressed down on Belial's own chest.
"The last recorded act of the empire was a council meeting of the Dream-Sculptors—twenty-four of the greatest minds in the system. They sealed the records of that meeting. And then, silence. Communications ended. Terraforming devices went dark. The light of the Han Empire flickered... and died."
Audiobook isn't that bad but i still don't like it, Reading is better he sighted
Belial stared into the shimmering fragments of memory, his pulse quickening.
How could something so strong just stop?
No war, no sickness, no rebellion—just silence. It didn't make sense. He'd seen empires crumble under the weight of their own hubris, torn apart by greed or betrayal, but this was different. It felt deliberate, like a ritual gone wrong, like a god turning its back on its people. Or perhaps—just maybe—something had been awakened.
He looked down at the crystalline tome, his reflection warped in its mirrored surface. The question slipped from his lips before he could stop it: "How the hell does a godlike civilization burn itself out without leaving a single warning behind?"
The book didn't answer of course. It only hummed softly, a sound that felt almost like grief. But something about it stirred him. His mind flickered to the old stories—the ones that spoke of wars between angels and demons, of ancient powers pinned on the wrong culprits.
What if the Crystallites had been the first to fall, targeted by something far older, far stronger, because they were too great a threat?
Belial leaned back, letting the holographic dome play out more scenes of the Han Empire's former glory. His eyes were wide and weary, but beneath the exhaustion burned a quiet hunger.
He had no intention of becoming a historian. In another world, maybe he could've been content to study the past, to piece together its puzzles like a scholar. But that wasn't his path.
If knowledge was a weapon, though…
Then this empire's death might be the sharpest blade of all.