The Book of Hypokretis the Disruptor - 1

Chapter 1: The Age of Crowns (642)

An old man sat by the hearth, the flickering firelight dancing across his lined face. He opened a tattered copy of the book and read aloud to his eager grandchildren, "The truth does not break you; it reveals the cracks already within." For a moment, he lingered on the words, his voice carrying an almost reverent weight, as if the phrase had once unraveled his own illusions.

The children sat silently, the weight of the words settling upon them like a thick blanket. "Grandfather, what does it mean?" asked the youngest, her wide eyes reflecting the flames.

The old man smiled faintly. "It means," he began, "that the lies we tell ourselves can keep us whole for a time, but truth—truth always finds the weak points and demands we mend them."

He closed the book for a moment, his gaze lifting to the shadows cast on the walls. "In the waning days of the Age of Crowns, the world teetered on a knife’s edge. Borders blurred as rival kings waged ceaseless wars, each claiming divine right over lands scorched by their ambition. Famine crept like a shadow, and whispers of rebellion simmered beneath the weight of unbearable taxes. Once-mighty kingdoms were fractured by wars, their rulers more preoccupied with their own vanity than the cries of the people. Cathedrals loomed over cobbled cities, their gilded spires reaching for heaven, though the hearts of those who prayed beneath them were as tarnished as old brass. Merchants counted their coins with one hand while clutching the hilt of a dagger with the other, and generals whispered of alliances even as they sharpened their swords for betrayal."

The children leaned closer, their imaginations painting vivid pictures of the fractured world their grandfather described. "And it was then," he continued, "that the book first appeared. Its pages were not filled with tales of heroes or gods, but with the truths that no one dared speak. Truths that changed everything."

He opened the book once more, his voice steady and low as he began to read another passage, pulling them deeper into the age of masks and the reckoning that awaited. "Before the book," he explained, "there were no whispers of change—only the dull silence of oppression. The world was divided: rulers in their gilded halls, priests in their sanctified chambers, and the common folk toiling under their burdens. Wars ravaged the land, not for justice, but for pride, and the words of those in power were as empty as the promises they made."

He paused, glancing at the eager faces around him. "It was a time when truth was feared more than swords, and masks were not just worn at feasts, but in every interaction. The merchants disguised their greed with piety, like Arvid the spice trader, who donated gold to the temple by day while swindling widows by night. The generals cloaked their ambition in patriotism, such as General Ralvos, whose stirring speeches for unity masked his secret treaties of betrayal. Even the poorest among them donned masks of humility to survive, like Lena the beggar, who feigned piety to soften the hearts of the wealthy and earn a crust of bread. It was a time when the heart of the world beat with lies, and the arrival of the book tore open wounds long hidden."

The old man’s voice grew softer, but the weight of his words deepened. "It was said that the book did not simply appear but was summoned by the cries of those who had suffered too long. And in its pages, it carried not only truths but the strength to bear them. This is why it changed everything."

He leaned forward, his voice now a conspiratorial whisper. "I will tell you about Ventheros, a city of marble walls and golden streets where the book first revealed its wrath. There was a man named Daran, a noble who stood above his peers in wealth and prestige. Yet beneath his fine clothes and courtly manners, he was a thief of the people's lifeblood. His taxes starved the farmers, and his bribes swayed the courts."

The children gasped. "What happened to him?" the eldest asked.

"One evening," the old man said, "Daran hosted a feast in his great hall. Laughter filled the room, and music played, but as the final course was served, the book appeared at his table. No one saw who placed it there. It was opened, and Daran’s crimes spilled out in black ink: the names of the farmers who died under his taxes, the clerks he had silenced, and the gold he hoarded. The words bled into the minds of his guests, and they turned on him. By dawn, Daran’s name was a curse upon the city’s lips."

The old man’s hand trembled as he traced the book’s cover. "In another land, there was the story of Priestess Althea of Vetra. She was beloved, seen as a beacon of light among the faithful. Yet her copy of the book told a different story: secret chambers beneath the temple where she hoarded wealth meant for the sick and the poor. The book revealed her treachery during a sermon, its pages glowing as they listed her betrayals."

He paused, watching the firelight flicker. "Do you see now? The book does not lie. It does not bend to power or piety. It strikes where the heart is weakest. ‘Truth walks with its back straight,’ says the book, ‘and leaves no room for shadows to cling.’"

The shadows of this era were alive with rumors of rebellion and divine reckoning. Kingdoms teetered on the edge of collapse, their rulers blind to the growing unrest simmering among their people. The common folk, burdened by unrelenting taxes and unfulfilled promises, had long whispered of change. Yet these whispers rarely grew louder, stifled by the fear of reprisal. Wars between nations drained resources, leaving fields fallow and stomachs empty, while the clergy grew fat on the tithes of the desperate. In this fractured world, the masks of power and piety were unchallenged, concealing greed, ambition, and corruption beneath veneers of nobility and sanctity.

It was into this world of veiled truths that The Book of Hypokretis arrived. It was not carried by armies or heralded by trumpets but delivered in whispers, left in marketplaces, temples, and courts by figures cloaked in anonymity. Some claimed these shadowed couriers were neither mortal nor divine, but something in between, driven by an enigmatic purpose known only to them. The book’s presence was quiet, almost unremarkable, until its pages were opened and its words were read aloud. Then, like a spark to dry tinder, it ignited the kindling of discontent that had lain dormant for so long.

Its text did not spin tales of heroes or gods. Instead, it spoke with unsettling precision, cutting through the pretense of those who held it. “The king drinks the blood of his people in goblets of gold,” one passage read. Another declared, “The priest blesses with one hand while stealing with the other.” These accusations were not vague condemnations—they were truths, specific and irrefutable, each passage crafted as though the writer had sat unseen in the chambers of power, recording every act of deceit.

But what lingered in the minds of all who encountered the book was the prophecy etched on its final page: "When the masks fall, the Disrupter will return to count the faces."

Who was Hypokretis? A prophet, a revolutionary, or a wandering nephalim? No one could say for certain. Yet his name became a specter, haunting the dreams of kings and the prayers of commoners alike.

The children leaned closer, their eyes wide with curiosity. "Grandfather, what happened next?" the youngest asked, her voice barely above a whisper. The old man closed his eyes briefly, as though the weight of history pressed heavily upon him. He carried memories of whispers in the night, of kings trembling in their halls and common folk daring to speak forbidden truths. Each line of the book he’d read over the years seemed to carve deeper into his soul, a reminder of the cost of unveiling the world’s lies. "The story moves beyond this room," he said softly, "to the vast kingdoms where the book's whispers became thunder."

As the firelight flickered, his voice took on a measured, somber tone. "From the quiet hamlets to the grand courts, the book began to weave its way into the fabric of society. It exposed truths that could not be ignored, truths that shattered alliances and unmasked lies. Ventheros was the first, but it would not be the last. Each revelation left behind a question: Would those exposed crumble, or would they rise, unmasked, to face the truth?"