Elias

I have often wondered whether history remembers people correctly, or whether it simply chooses the most convenient version of them. In my case, it chose a simple one: the Demon King was defeated, the world was saved, and a hero was born from the ashes of war. A clean ending. A satisfying story. I cannot say I dislike it. Every tragedy needs a clear conclusion, and every legend requires a villain who eventually falls. My name is Elias Aurelianus Valenbrook. At least, that is the name I use now. Names tend to accumulate over time, much like regrets or unfinished conversations. Once, I was something else—something larger, louder, and far less polite. The world no longer requires that version of me, and I no longer feel compelled to offer it. If I were to describe myself honestly, I would say I am a man who outlived his own story. A former sovereign of a forgotten empire, now reduced to the quiet role of a bookseller in a narrow street where nothing particularly important ever happens. It is, I suppose, an acceptable form of retirement. There is a certain irony in it. Those who once feared me would likely find the present situation almost insulting in its simplicity. I spend my days repairing torn pages, recommending novels to indecisive customers, and correcting the occasional misfiled book with far more care than I ever applied to matters of state. Yet I find a strange satisfaction in it. There is clarity in paper, ink, and silence that war never offered. People often assume I am simply a young man with an unusual interest in history. They are not entirely wrong. I do have an interest in history. The inconvenience lies in the fact that I lived through most of it. Still, I do not correct them. Every story deserves the version that is easiest to tell.