RISING OF THE GOLEM KING FROM ZERO TO HERO, Volume 1, Part One by H. L. Watson - HTML preview

V1 RISING OF THE GOLEM KING FROM

ZERO TO HERO

Part One

(Free Ebook)

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Work Title: V1 Rising Of The Golem King, From Zero To Hero Work Type: Literary Work

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Prelude

In the distant past, in the lands of Iriddoria, there existed the Forgotten Age, a time steeped in myth and legend, where magic users, revered as gods in human form, wielded powers so extraordinary they shaped the very foundation of civilization. These formidable beings stood tall among ordinary folk, their appearances marked by ethereal glows that emanated from their skin, eyes that shifted colors with their moods, and robes adorned with symbols that pulsed with arcane energy. The air around them crackled with power, leaving behind the scent of ozone and exotic spices that lingered long after they had passed.

These mages established the great tribes, guiding them with arcane wisdom and strength from their towering citadels of crystal and stone that pierced the sky like reaching fingers. Each citadel reflected the temperament of its master—some spiraled in delicate patterns that caught the light in dazzling displays, while others stood as stark monoliths of obsidian and iron, casting long shadows across the lands they dominated. The mages descended from these heights to walk among the people during grand ceremonies, their footsteps leaving momentary impressions of glowing runes upon the ground that slowly faded into the earth. Yet, this era was not one of tranquility; it was defined by profound hardship and strife, a turbulent period of relentless struggles against both rival tribes and the unforgiving forces of nature. The skies often turned black with storm clouds conjured by warring mages, while the earth split and trembled beneath their fury. Fields once fertile became scorched wastelands where nothing would grow for generations, and rivers ran with unnatural colors—crimson, violet, or the sickly green of decay—carrying the taint of magical warfare to distant settlements. Ordinary folk built their homes from whatever materials could withstand the magical fallout— dense stone, enchanted timber, or in some regions, the crystallized remains of magical creatures. Village squares centered around protective wards embedded in circular patterns, glowing faintly during times of peace but flaring to brilliant life when danger threatened. The persistent scent of burnt stone and metallic tang of transmuted elements became as familiar to the people as the smell of cooking fires or blooming flowers.

The cycle of destruction continued until at last, peace settled upon the land. Not through any grand treaty or noble sacrifice, but through sheer exhaustion. The mages found their powers diminished by constant warfare, the sources of their magic depleted or corrupted. The landscape, once vibrant with life and natural energy, had become a patchwork of regeneration and devastation—forests of half-alive trees with leaves that whispered forgotten incantations, mountains with veins of ore that pulsed like beating hearts, and great plains where the grass grew in patterns that spelled out words in lost languages.

The great tribes, battered by centuries of conflict, eventually found solace in unity, forging alliances and establishing their borders with resolute determination. Messengers traveled between settlements, carrying tokens of truce carved from the bones of fallen magical beasts or crafted from metals that could only be forged in the heat of magical flame. These tokens would warm in the presence of benevolent intentions and grow cold when treachery was near—simple but effective tools in maintaining a fragile peace.

As time marched forward, this hard-won peace endured, sustained by a delicate balance of power across the land. In the great meeting halls built at territorial crossroads, tribal leaders gathered beneath smoke-stained timber beams to discuss matters of mutual concern. These neutral grounds were adorned with the trophies of past victories and symbols of each tribe's heritage— banners of hide painted with family sigils, weapons of legendary heroes mounted on walls, and ceremonial chairs carved to reflect the personality of each chieftain.

Whenever any single tribe grew too numerous or too dominant, threatening to overshadow the others, the remaining tribes would band together in a concerted effort to weaken the rising power, reducing it to the most vulnerable among them. Warriors would don armor distinctive to their tribal affiliations—plates of bronze etched with family histories for some, hardened leather cured in secret solutions for others, or garments of woven fibers enchanted to turn aside blades. Their weapons carried the essence of their homelands—steel tempered in mountain springs, wood harvested from ancient groves, or stone chiseled from sacred cliffs. This cycle of equilibrium persisted for centuries, an unbroken rhythm of peace, war, and strife that defined their existence. The people adapted, developing traditions to mark the phases of this cycle—festivals of abundance during peaceful times, with tables laden with harvests from fields that had recovered from magical devastation, and solemn rituals before conflicts, where families would exchange tokens to be returned when peace was restored. Markets flourished in the spaces between tribal territories, becoming neutral grounds where goods and stories were exchanged with equal enthusiasm. The air filled with the aromas of exotic spices, cooking meats, and the distinctive smell of different leathers and metals from varied lands. Merchants displayed their wares on tables covered with cloths dyed in colors specific to their home regions, while entertainers performed tales of the old mages with elaborate masks and enchanted props that glowed or changed shape at dramatic moments. Eventually, this fragile harmony was shattered by the sudden emergence of a great gate, a phenomenon unprecedented in the planet's history. Unlike fleeting anomalies, this gate did not merely appear and vanish; it opened and stabilized, embedding itself as a permanent fixture in the landscape, its towering frame radiating an unsettling, otherworldly aura. Standing nearly fifty feet high, its structure defied the natural laws of Iriddoria—metals that should have corroded remained pristine, stone that should have eroded maintained sharp edges, and crystals embedded throughout pulsed with a rhythm that matched no known heartbeat or tide. The gate emitted a constant, barely audible hum that set teeth on edge and caused nearby wildlife to behave erratically. Birds would fly in complex, unnatural patterns around it, while predators would approach to the exact same distance before turning away, as if repelled by an invisible boundary. At night, the structure glowed with a light that cast no shadows, illuminating the surrounding area in a pallid, bluish hue that made even familiar landscapes appear alien and threatening.

At first, the denizens of this world were gripped by confusion, unable to fathom its purpose or origin. Sensing an evil omen, the chieftains of the great tribes convened to investigate, their instincts warning of danger. They forbade anyone from probing too closely, stationing armies around the gate to stand watch with unwavering vigilance. The encampment that formed around the gate grew into a makeshift settlement of its own, with tents and temporary structures arranged in concentric circles. Guards rotated shifts, their movements coordinated by the beating of drums at specific intervals, while scouts patrolled the perimeter, their routes marked by torches that burned with specially treated oils to signal different levels of alert.

The aroma of cooking fires mingled with the metallic tang emanating from the gate, creating a unique scent that came to be associated with this period of anxious waiting. The soldiers developed their own superstitions and rituals—some would refuse to sleep with their feet pointing toward the gate, while others inscribed protective symbols on their armor using pigments made from local plants believed to ward off harmful influences. Three weeks after its arrival, the gate stirred, and people began to emerge from its shimmering portal. The air around the threshold rippled and distorted, releasing waves of heat that carried the scent of strange minerals and unfamiliar vegetation. The ground trembled slightly with each new arrival, as if the world itself objected to these intrusions from beyond its boundaries. Clad in robes and long, flowing garments unlike anything the humans of this world had witnessed, their attire was almost majestic in its grandeur, shimmering with intricate patterns that bespoke a foreign sophistication. The fabrics seemed to change color depending on the angle of light, and moved with unnatural fluidity, as if partially liquid or perhaps responding to the thoughts of the wearer. Their garments bore symbols that appeared to shift and change when not directly observed, and emitted faint notes like distant wind chimes when disturbed by the breeze. Calling themselves emissaries from the Donnagarian Empire, a small contingent of about 100 arrived, bearing gifts of exquisite craftsmanship and seeking to communicate. Their voices had an unusual resonance, as if each word carried multiple harmonics, making even simple statements sound musical and complex. The gifts they presented defied understanding—objects that maintained impossible temperatures, containers larger inside than out, and instruments that played melodies that seemed to affect the physical world, causing plants to grow or small objects to levitate.

Yet, branded as outsiders and tainted by the gate's sinister reputation, they were met with hostility. The tribal warriors, adorned in their battle regalia with faces painted in patterns denoting their commitment to protect their lands, approached with weapons drawn and spirits emboldened by ceremonial intoxicants. The tension in the air was palpable, hanging heavy like the stillness before a violent storm, as two fundamentally different civilizations faced each other across a divide far greater than mere physical space.

The people of the land attacked, only to discover that their assault faltered against the gate people's surprising prowess. Skilled in magic and supported by powerful magic warriors, the newcomers repelled the onslaught with ease, retreating back through the gate unscathed. Their defensive magic manifested in ways unfamiliar to Iriddorian warriors—shields that appeared as geometric patterns of light rather than physical barriers, weapons that seemed to phase through solid matter before solidifying to strike, and spells that manipulated time itself, causing attackers to move in painful slow motion while defenders operated at normal speed. Alarmed by this display of strength, the great chieftains reinforced their armies around the gate. Warriors from distant regions arrived daily, bringing with them distinctive fighting styles and weapons unique to their territories. The encampment expanded, becoming more organized and permanent, with defensive structures erected from local timber and stone. Shamans and lesser mages joined the gathering, bringing potions, enchanted weapons, and protective talismans to bolster the combined forces.

A week later, the portal flared again, this time disgorging a far larger force—over 1,000 individuals, not all robed, accompanied by massive, 30-foot-tall iron golems. The gate's energy surged visibly during this larger incursion, sending out pulses that temporarily disrupted natural magical energies for miles around. Birds fell from the sky, only to recover and fly in erratic patterns; plants wilted and then grew at accelerated rates; and water sources briefly changed color or consistency before returning to normal.

These towering constructs, walking on two legs, were titans among titans, their presence a chilling testament to the gate people's advanced craft. Standing taller than the oldest trees in Iriddoria, their metal bodies gleamed with an unnatural luster that suggested alloys unknown to local smiths. Each step they took left deep impressions in the soil, and the ground trembled beneath their weight. Their movements were accompanied by the groan of metal and hiss of steam, creating a rhythmic, mechanical cadence that contrasted sharply with the natural sounds of Iriddoria. Eyes that glowed with internal energies surveyed the landscape with methodical precision, turning in unison to track potential threats with unsettling coordination. Fear and fury seized the people of the land, and the great chieftains united to confront this encroachment, viewing the outsiders' power as a direct threat to their unity and balance. The allied tribal forces gathered on ridges overlooking the gate, their numbers swelling to proportions not seen since the legendary conflicts of the distant past. Campfires dotted the landscape at night, their combined glow rivaling the eerie illumination of the gate itself. War drums beat continuously, building a rhythm that matched the heartbeats of warriors preparing for battle, while shamans led groups in rituals designed to strengthen resolve and protect against foreign magics.

Despite their resolve, they could not prevail; the gate people not only held their ground but decisively rebuffed the attack. The battle was brief but devastating—tribal warriors found their weapons ineffective against the golems' metal hides, while the gate people's magic bypassed traditional defenses with ease. The smell of burnt flesh and scorched earth permeated the battlefield, accompanied by the distinctive tang of blood and the acrid scent of unfamiliar magical residues. Smoke rose in thick columns, visible for miles and carrying messages of defeat to watching settlements.

Unlike their previous retreat, the gate people now stood firm, swiftly establishing an outpost with remarkable efficiency. Within days, structures of unfamiliar design rose around the gate— buildings that seemed to grow organically from specialized seeds rather than being constructed by hand, towers that defied gravity, and walls that rippled like water yet proved impenetrable to physical attacks. The scent of freshly disturbed earth mingled with unusual odors from their construction materials—metals that smelled faintly sweet, stones that emitted the fragrance of flowers when cut, and mortar that cured with the aroma of baking bread. The people of the land launched several more attempts to drive them out, but each effort crumbled against the outsiders' formidable defenses. Warriors returned from these failed assaults with tales of weapons that turned to smoke upon impact, arrows that reversed direction in mid-flight, and spells that transformed attackers into harmless creatures before reverting them to human form once removed from the battlefield—demonstrations of power meant to discourage rather than destroy.

As time passed, the gate people's numbers surged, bolstered by continuous arrivals through the portal. Their settlement expanded into a great city, a marvel by the ancient standards of the land, its spires and structures a blend of magic and ingenuity that awed and intimidated the natives. The city grew in concentric rings around the gate, each level reflecting different architectural philosophies and purposes. Outer walls incorporated defensive enchantments that caused them to blend with the surrounding landscape from certain angles, while inner districts featured buildings connected by arched bridges that appeared to float unsupported. At the center, surrounding the gate itself, rose structures of pure crystal that captured and refracted sunlight, creating spectacular displays of color that changed with the position of the sun and phases of the moon. During this period, the gate people extended offers of peace, seeking to forge connections through trade and shared knowledge. Emissaries ventured out with samples of their crafts and agricultural products—foods that could grow in previously barren soil, textiles that adjusted to the wearer's body temperature, and simple tools that performed complex functions. They established meeting grounds at the borders of their territory, neutrally designated spaces where representatives of both civilizations could interact under agreed-upon protocols. Yet, the great chieftains, unyielding in their defiance, rebuffed every overture, launching relentless attacks at every opportunity. The rejections of peace offerings became ritualized— returning gifts with deliberate damage, burning diplomatic documents without reading them, and sometimes executing messengers in symbolic locations. These actions, intended to demonstrate resolve, instead revealed a growing desperation as traditional strategies failed against the newcomers' superior capabilities.

Eventually, exasperated by the ceaseless aggression, the gate people took decisive action, declaring full-scale war against the tribal leaders. Unlike previous defensive maneuvers, this campaign marked a coordinated offensive strategy. The golems marched in formation, supported by magic users who manipulated weather and terrain to disadvantage the tribal forces. Maps were drawn and redrawn as territories changed hands, while refugees fled from contested regions, bringing with them stories of lands transformed beyond recognition by foreign magics. The conflict raged for a year, a brutal clash of wills and might, but the gate people emerged as decisive victors, their superior magic and technology overwhelming the tribes. The lands and territories of the great chieftains were absorbed into their domain, ushering in an unprecedented era of prosperity and growth. Former battlefields were reclaimed through advanced agricultural techniques, while injured warriors from both sides received treatment from Donnagarian healers whose methods could restore limbs and cure afflictions previously considered fatal. This golden age transformed the land with an influx of innovations: technologies of all sorts, from mechanical wonders to advanced medicines that mended once-incurable ailments, exotic foods that tantalized the palate, and new forms of magic that broadened the realm of possibility. Markets that had once traded primarily in necessities now overflowed with luxuries previously unimagined—fabrics that never tore, lamps that required no oil, preservatives that kept food fresh for months, and toys that seemed to anticipate a child's desires. Workshops echoed with the sounds of collaboration as native craftspeople learned from Donnagarian masters, creating hybrid techniques that combined the best of both traditions.

Everyone seemed to thrive in this period of abundance and enlightenment. The knowledge exchange flowed in both directions—native healers shared their understanding of local plant properties, while tribal hunting techniques were adapted for Donnagarian military applications. Intermarriage became common in border regions, producing children who navigated both cultures with natural ease and developed unique magical affinities that reflected their mixed heritage.

But, as with all things, nothing lasts forever. One day, without warning, the great gate that had birthed this era abruptly collapsed and imploded, its destruction stranding many gate people who had not evacuated in time. The catastrophe was preceded by subtle warnings noticed only in retrospect—animals fleeing from the city center, unusual fluctuations in magical energies, and vibrations in the earth that gradually increased in intensity. When the collapse finally came, it generated a shockwave that flattened buildings for miles around and a sound so profound it was felt rather than heard, leaving a perfect silence in its wake that lasted for several minutes before the first cries of the injured broke through.

Cut off from their distant authorities, the survivors rallied, organizing to establish a new kingdom calling it the Lesser Donnagarian Empire. Though not as grand or powerful as their lost empire, it remained innovative and significant in its resilience. The leadership structure reformed around those with the strongest magical abilities and most practical knowledge for surviving in their adopted world. Archives were established to preserve as much of their original culture and knowledge as possible, with scribes working tirelessly to record information previously stored in now-inaccessible Donnagarian databases.

Yet, weakened as it was, this new kingdom lacked the authority of its predecessor and soon faced renewed challenges from the land's inhabitants, particularly the descendants of the great chieftains, who harbored deep-seated grudges. These inheritors of ancient tribal identities had preserved their traditions in secret, passing down stories of past glory and maintaining old allegiances through coded language and hidden symbols. They emerged from the shadows gradually, first as isolated incidents of sabotage and unexplained disappearances of Donnagarian officials, then as organized resistance movements that established territories beyond imperial control.

A period of strife and warfare erupted once more, sowing devastation across the land. Fields that had flourished under Donnagarian agricultural methods were salted or burned by tribal forces, while imperial outposts found their water sources poisoned or magical defenses unexpectedly neutralized. The landscape began to reflect this renewed conflict—forests became battlegrounds where ambushes were common, rivers served as natural boundaries between contested territories, and mountain passes were fortified by whichever side controlled them, changing hands frequently as fortunes shifted.

As time wore on, the once-mighty empire began to falter, losing territories as the people of the land rose up on every side and front, their rebellion fueled by a thirst for retribution. Resources became scarce, forcing difficult decisions about which regions to defend and which to abandon. The remnants of Donnagarian technology grew increasingly unreliable without proper maintenance, while magical constructs began to fail or behave erratically without the specialized knowledge needed to sustain them. Ultimately, the empire collapsed entirely, its final city razed and salted to ensure its desolation.

In the aftermath, the successor states that emerged from the empire's ruins turned viciously on its remnants, brutally hunting down anyone suspected of bearing the royal blood of the old emperors. This ruthless purge drove many surviving gate people into hiding, seeking refuge in distant outposts scattered across the world. These refugees adopted native appearances and customs, changing their names and teaching their children to hide any distinctive Donnagarian traits or abilities. Some established hidden communities in remote locations, preserving what they could of their heritage while developing complex codes and signals to identify fellow survivors safely.

As time passed, these successor states coalesced into new empires, but none rivaled the Valtterrium Empire in significance or martial prowess. Rising from the northeastern territories where Donnagarian influence had been strongest, Valtterrium incorporated elements of both cultural traditions—the organizational structure and military discipline of the gate people combined with the adaptability and territorial knowledge of the native tribes. Their architecture reflected this fusion, with buildings that featured Donnagarian efficiency modified with tribal aesthetic elements and constructed from local materials using advanced techniques. The Valtterrium Empire rose swiftly, expanding with relentless ambition, absorbing territories and lands into its growing dominion. Victory followed victory, yet this expansion exacted a heavy toll, depleting the empire's most precious resource in an age of conquest: the martial magic classes, elite warriors whose blend of combat and magic underpinned its success. These specialized fighters required years of training and possessed innate magical affinities that could not be manufactured or replicated through conventional means. Their numbers dwindled through combat casualties, while the expansion of imperial territories demanded more garrisons and defensive positions than could be staffed effectively.

As the need for these fighters grew dire, the emperor's advisors presented a bold plan, drawing on the legacy of the old empire. During its height, the gate people had crafted dimensional gates in a futile bid to return home, opening portals to new worlds but never their own. These lesser gates, smaller than the original but based on the same principles, had been carefully hidden or dismantled during the fall of the Lesser Donnagarian Empire. Records of their locations existed in fragmented form, scattered among various imperial archives and private collections, requiring extensive research to compile.

Many who emerged from these gates wielded exceptional magic, though their strength often made them hard to control, leading to the program's abandonment. The historical accounts described otherworlders with abilities that manifested differently from native magic users— powers that operated according to unfamiliar principles or affected reality in unexpected ways. Some had proven invaluable allies, while others had caused significant damage before being contained or eliminated, making the program as dangerous as it was potentially beneficial. The advisors urged the emperor to locate and reactivate these gates, using them to summon otherworlders—beings from these alien realms—and draft them into military service to bolster the empire's ranks. The proposal was debated extensively in the imperial council, with opponents citing the historical dangers and proponents emphasizing the desperate need for magical reinforcements. Maps were redrawn, ancient texts consulted, and surviving Donnagarian artifacts examined for clues about gate locations and activation methods. Convinced of the plan's merit, the emperor instituted a system to find, activate, and harness these gates, conscripting otherworlders into his forces. Specialized teams were formed, combining scholars who could interpret ancient texts, magic users who could manipulate the necessary energies, and military personnel to secure both the gates and whatever came through them. Initial attempts resulted in failures—gates that remained dormant, portals that opened to empty or hostile environments, or connections too unstable to allow passage in either direction. Gradually, techniques improved, and successful activations became more common. Processing centers were established near each functioning gate, where otherworlders could be evaluated, classified, and assigned appropriate roles within the empire based on their abilities and aptitudes. Integration programs were developed to teach imperial language and customs, while magical researchers studied the unique properties of otherworlders to better understand and utilize their capabilities.

Thus began a new chapter, where the Valtterrium Empire turned to the powers of other worlds to fuel its relentless ascent. The flow of otherworlders became a steady stream, bringing diverse beings with varied abilities into imperial service. Some adapted readily to their new circumstances, finding opportunities they had never imagined in their home worlds, while others resisted or planned escape, creating an ongoing security challenge for their handlers. Regardless of their individual reactions, collectively they represented a significant enhancement to imperial capabilities and a fundamental shift in how the empire approached both warfare and magical research.

The consequences of this program extended beyond military applications, as otherworlders introduced concepts and perspectives previously unknown in Iriddoria. Their influence began to shape imperial culture in subtle ways—new artistic expressions, technical innovations, and philosophical approaches that gradually integrated into mainstream thought. The very fabric of society started to transform, setting the stage for developments that would reverberate through generations to come and ultimately lead to the circumstances that would one day bring Eric Henson to this world, forever changing the course of history in Iriddoria.