Chapter 4: The Roundtable Hold
Amidst a whirlwind of radiant hues, Harry materialized into a vast chamber adorned with an air of grandeur. The room was expansive, its expanse dominated by a monumental round table that stood proudly at its center. This colossal piece of furniture was more than just a table; it was a repository of stories, a canvas of valor, and a testament to the countless champions who had convened here. Swords of varying shapes and sizes were thrust into its surface, like the very roots of the great Erdtree intertwining with the earth.
The room exuded an aura of reverence, every facet of its design echoing with echoes of history and honor. Overhead, a single mote of grace from the Erdtree hung suspended, its radiant glow casting an ethereal radiance over the chamber. Its presence was a reminder of the greater purpose that bound Tarnished champions together.
Flickering torches adorned the walls, casting dancing shadows that seemed to converse with the very spirits of the room. In one corner, a fireplace crackled with warmth, its flames painting the surroundings in a soft, golden hue. The illumination revealed the intricate details of the room's design – the carvings that adorned the walls, the tapestries that depicted tales of valor, and the polished floor that bore the weight of countless footsteps.
As Harry took in the tableau, his gaze alighted upon the doors that branched out from the chamber, each leading to unknown realms and uncharted paths. The very architecture of the room seemed to mirror the diverse journeys that the champions embarked upon, their quests as varied as the directions they could tread.
Yet, amidst the grandeur, it was the ivory statue that held Harry's attention. Standing beside the fireplace, it depicted a woman in an elegant pose, her arms lifted skyward in an eternal gesture of resilience and hope. The statue emanated an aura of grace, a symbol of the very essence that guided the Tarnished champions on their perilous journeys.
Harry stood at the threshold of this hallowed space, a sense of awe washing over him. He had ventured into the heart of the Roundtable Hold, a place where the threads of fate intertwined, and champions converged. The grand table, the motes of grace, the doors to the unknown – all whispered tales of courage, sacrifice, and the unbreakable spirit of those who sought to mend the world.
With a steadying breath, he took a step forward, his footfalls resonating with a reverence that matched the sanctity of the room. The journey ahead might be fraught with challenges and trials, but within these walls, he was surrounded by the echoes of champions who had faced similar tribulations and emerged triumphant. The Roundtable Hold stood as a testament that he was not alone on this path, that his quest was one shared by kindred souls bound by grace, destiny, and the unyielding determination to bring about a new dawn.
Harry's gaze narrowed as he beheld a figure shrouded in dark clerical robes standing beside the fireplace, a silhouette that seemed to absorb the room's meager light. The man's stance exuded a sense of control, his hands clasped before him like an anchor in the tumultuous sea of their world.
Amidst the dimly lit chamber, the figure emerged as a manifestation of ancient authority, an embodiment of knowledge hoarded by time itself. The rustle of his robes seemed to echo the march of forgotten champions, their stories carried in the folds of his garments, secrets and sacrifices enshrouded within his demeanor. "Welcome to the Roundtable Hold," the man's words lingered like the ominous foreboding of an impending storm, his voice bearing the somber weight of truths long buried and wisdom steeped in shadows. Harry's entry into this realm was met not with warmth, but with the chill of grim recognition, as if the very walls absorbed the echoes of countless arrivals and departures.
The hush that fell over the chamber was not one of reverence, but of wariness. The man's presence did not evoke the sense of belonging, but rather the acknowledgment of a shared burden—a burden that transcended time and space, binding them to a legacy of struggle.
"I see you've just arrived," his words held a veiled undercurrent, a hint of skepticism that seemed to question the audacity of all who dared to step into this realm. The realm of champions, where valor came at a price that exceeded the superficial glow of camaraderie.
The dimness of the chamber underscored the notion that the man was no mere guide, but a sentinel of endurance, an embodiment of the trials that were to come. His role as an instructor of incantations did not promise mastery, but rather the harsh lessons that awaited those who dared to wield the power of the Two Fingers.
As his gaze held steady, Harry's perception of the Roundtable Hold shifted. It was no longer a sanctuary of unity and shared purpose, but a battleground where secrets festered, and battles echoed throughout time. The weight of his presence, like a grim reminder of the relentless march of destiny, hung heavy in the air.
"I'm Corhyn, a man of the cloth. I teach incantations, the strength granted us by the Two Fingers, and explore the secrets of the Golden Order." Corhyn's proclamation was a grim acknowledgment, a declaration that the path ahead was paved with peril and revelations that could shatter even the strongest resolve.
As Corhyn stood before him, his gaze devoid of any cheer, Harry understood that the Roundtable Hold was not a place of unity, but of isolation. Each champion's journey was their own, and Corhyn's words were not a welcome, but a reminder that the trials ahead would demand sacrifices beyond measure. The gravity of the moment transcended the confines of their exchange, leaving Harry to grapple with the unrelenting truth that this realm held no refuge, only the unyielding demands of destiny.
"I get the feeling that you do not teach these incantations out of the goodness of your heart," Harry's words cut through the air like a blade, the tension between him and Corhyn palpable. The atmosphere in the Roundtable Hold was devoid of any pretense of fellowship; it was a realm of grim realities and bitter truths.
Corhyn's response was not one of denial or evasion, but of a small, genuine smile that seemed to carry the weight of accumulated sorrows. His smile held no illusions of altruism; it was a bitter homage to the harsh reality that had shaped this realm. "Goodness of the heart," Corhyn's voice was a low rumble, the grittiness of his tone mirroring the hardened nature of their existence. "Such concepts are but echoes of a time long past, when hope was a luxury, we could afford. We stand amidst the relics of champions, their names etched in history, their fates a testament to the price they paid."
His gaze swept over the dimly lit chamber, the torchlight casting elongated shadows that danced like specters of the past. Corhyn's words were a somber recounting of the once-great Tarnished champions who had walked these halls, each a testament to the fleeting nature of glory.
"Great Tarnished champions," Corhyn's voice carried the weight of a world weighed down by expectations and betrayals. "Vargram the Raging Wolf, Errant Sorcerer Wilhelm, Mad Tongue Alberich, and Roundtable Knight Vyke—all convened in the Hold in the distant past. Their footsteps, like echoes in the void, once resonated with purpose."
Corhyn's words held no semblance of reverence or nostalgia; they were the stark acknowledgment of a cycle that had long ceased to be fueled by ideals of nobility or unity. Each name he spoke seemed to be carried by a whisper of lost potential, of destinies altered by the relentless churn of fate.
"At one time, I held hope," Corhyn's voice was a reflection of the scars borne by the Hold itself. "I was happy to be of any service to the Tarnished, for they were the chosen few who might ascend to become Elden Lord, heralding a glimmer of change. Vyke, in particular, was poised to claim the throne—a throne that symbolized dominion over this fractured realm."
A pause hung in the air, a somber interlude that punctuated the gravity of Corhyn's words. Vyke's tale was not one of triumph, but of a descent into darkness, a stark reminder that even the mightiest could succumb to forces beyond their control.
"But, without announcement, Vyke traveled far below the capital," Corhyn's voice carried a tinge of resignation, as if recounting a tale that had long been etched into his consciousness. "He was scorched by the flame of frenzy, his fate sealed by the choices he made or was lured into making."
The echoes of Vyke's fate reverberated through the chamber, a testament to the fragility of aspirations in a world rife with shadows and deception.
"I have seen champions rise and fall," Corhyn's voice was a mirror to the cold reality that surrounded them. "Now, all I hope for is an end to these broken times. So that I may offer counsel not born of hope, but of pragmatism. Ensuring order regains its proper form, righting rule over men."
The Roundtable Hold stood as a testament to the end of ideals, a realm where hope had been extinguished by the weight of countless failures. The Roundtable Hold had become a mausoleum of ambition and sacrifice, a realm where each champion's journey was a solitary trek into the abyss.
"Rest assured," Harry's voice cut through the air like a blade, cold and unyielding, "I will give my best to this quest." Corhyn's answer was a short bow as he retreated into the shadows.
"Forgive Brother Corhyn," another voice interjected, slicing through the air like a blade. The words carried no hint of forgiveness, only a stark acknowledgment of the interruption. A tall figure emerged, clad in armor as grey and unyielding as the depths of despair. Each piece of his attire was a testament to a life defined by battles waged both within and without.
His armor, meticulously polished, seemed to reflect not light, but the weight of countless struggles etched into its surface. He carried with him a scepter; a source of power that resonated with the shadows that danced across his face. His helm, an embodiment of his formidable demeanor, cast a veil over his eyes, an obsidian curtain that shielded his gaze from the world.
"This is a rare occurrence, indeed. Memory fails me when it comes to the last instance of a fresh Tarnished finding their way to this desolate enclave known as the Roundtable. But such formalities matter little in this realm of perpetual struggle. Very well, then. As your senior, I extend to you a welcome. This place offers a temporary respite, where the demands of constant vigilance may momentarily ease. You may lower your guard within these walls but do so with a tempered awareness. Welcome, in a manner befitting our shared circumstances."
"I'm Harry Potter," Harry introduced himself, extending his hand, which the man—Sir Gideon Ofnir—grasped firmly. A nod of acknowledgment passed between them.
"Sir Gideon Ofnir, the All Knowing," the man proclaimed with a tinge of arrogance that did not escape Harry's notice.
"Quite a lofty title you've assigned yourself," Harry commented, a hint of sarcasm dancing in his voice.
"For some, perhaps," Sir Gideon responded, his tone as oily as his words were grandiose. "But for me, it is the essence of my purpose. A Tarnished set on standing before the Elden Ring, claiming the mantle of Elden Lord, must amass knowledge as a smith hammers his steel. I seek to encompass all, to be all-knowing. I stand as the leader of the Tarnished here at the Roundtable Hold."
"Perhaps," Harry said, his doubt thinly veiled as he took a seat at the massive round table. Sir Gideon Ofnir joined him, his cape cascading in waves.
"Here's a piece of advice, from one of experience to a newcomer," Sir Gideon began, a patronizing edge to his tone. "You, my friend, are but a transient presence here, a house guest yet to earn his stay. Remember your place, young Tarnished."
"What do you mean, 'house guest'?" Harry inquired, his brow furrowing.
"Ah, does the notion chafe, that you are a mere sojourner within these hallowed walls?" Sir Gideon's voice dripped with condescension. "Perhaps you should take to heart the first words of grace that were bestowed upon you: 'Stand before the Elden Ring and become the Elden Lord.' If those words still carry weight in your mind, then heed them. Follow the path that the guidance of grace illuminates. Strike down the shardbearers that bar your way, claim dominion over the Great Runes, and then, yes, then the doors to the inner chamber of the Roundtable shall open for you. Therein lies the wisdom of the Two Fingers."
"If you claim to be all-knowing" Harry began "what do you know about prophecies?"
Sir Gideon Ofnir considered the question for a moment before he answered "There has only been one prophecy that has been told and retold in the Lands Between. It is a tale as old as the Shattering when the prophecy began to circulate. Most dismiss it as old wives tales but I have learned to never discount anything. Why do you ask of that?"
"When I came into this world, I found a journal that mentioned the prophecy. Of a chosen one who would mend the Elden Ring" Harry explained. The prophecy he had found had been eating him up. He had thought of asking Melina on his way to Stormveil but had dismissed the thought upon hearing her worries about her purpose.
"As I said" Sir Gideon repeated "the prophecy is well known. I am not surprised that you found mention of it in a journal."
"Do you know the words of the prophecy?" Harry asked anticipation and dread in equal measure crawling up his spine.
Sir Gideon gave a sigh but then nodded. "I presume you wish to hear it."
"If it isn't too much trouble" Harry replied, his hands clenched by his side. Sir Gideon nodded and began.
In realms where shadows weave their ancient dance,
A warrior's fate lies in the hands of chance.
From mortal coil, to death's embrace he'd fall,
Yet destiny decrees another call.
Born anew in lands unknown and wild,
Chosen by fate, a hero undefiled.
A weapon forged, from creature's essence rare,
A legendary beast's strength to bear.
The Elden Ring, a fractured, shattered thing,
In chaos mired, where discord takes wing.
But from the ashes of a fallen world,
The champion's destiny lies unfurled.
A weapon unique, with powers untold,
In warrior's grasp, its might to be unrolled.
A guardian's heart, with purpose pure,
To mend the Ring, a destiny to endure.
The lands shall tremble as he strides ahead,
Through trials dire, where many would have fled.
Guided by stars and ancient lore's refrain,
He'll bring order back to lands in pain.
Champion reborn, his spirit unyielding,
Across the Lands Between, his path revealing.
With courage true and purpose shining bright,
He'll mend the Ring and set things right.
A legacy etched in time's storied page,
A hero's journey, through every age.
For in his veins, the heart of valor soars,
A beacon of hope, in chaos's wars.
"These are the words of the prophecy. Though I doubt it will do you much good. Many Tarnished have thought of themselves as the one mentioned in the prophecy and most of them are dead now. I suggest you dismiss it from your mind" Sir Gideon suggested, before he stood up from his chair, staff in hand. "When you make the wisdom of the Two Fingers your own, then, and only then, shall I greet you as a true comrade of the Roundtable. Until then, heed my words, remember your place, and strive for greatness. I have seen too many Tarnished waltz in with misguided notions. They see us as a refuge from the storm, but we are much more than that." With a curt nod, Sir Gideon strode purposefully toward a closed door, which swung open with obedient servitude before sealing shut once again behind him.
"What a pompous windbag," Harry muttered under his breath, his frustration evident.
Harry's gaze shifted around the dimly lit chamber, taking in the imposing round table and the swords embedded in it. The torchlight cast flickering shadows across the room, the flames dancing like mocking specters. Beside the fireplace, the ivory statue of a woman seemed to mock the grandeur of the space, a silent sentinel to the grit and grime that coated every corner.
Sighing, Harry leaned back in his chair, the tension in his shoulders unwinding only slightly. He pondered the encounter with Sir Gideon Ofnir, the All Knowing—what an ego. The Roundtable Hold was no sanctuary of camaraderie and warmth; it was a collection of Tarnished, each driven by their own motives, their own ambitions. The wisdom of the Two Fingers might have been the ultimate prize for some, but to Harry, it was just another step toward achieving his goal.
Melina materialized beside him, a soothing presence amidst the murky atmosphere. Her touch, though intangible, offered a measure of comfort. "So, what do you make of our welcoming committee?" Harry muttered to her, his lips quirking in a wry half-smile.
Melina's ethereal voice carried a mixture of empathy and wisdom. "Sir Gideon Ofnir's ambitions may be grand, but they are his alone. In these lands, trust is a rarity, and alliances are fragile at best."
"Tell me something I don't know," Harry replied with a rueful chuckle. His gaze drifted toward the sealed door through which Sir Gideon had vanished. "But he did provide some useful information. The Great Runes, the shardbearers—I suppose those are the next steps. He also told me of this prophecy. I had just read of it. It is good to know the words that might "
"Yes, and yet tread cautiously," Melina cautioned. "In this world, even the most noble intentions can be marred by desperation. Keep your guard up, Harry. And I do not know much of prophecies except that when you try to avoid it, they become shackles of steel that bind you."
"Indeed," Harry affirmed, his resolve solidifying. The Roundtable Hold might be a cesspool of ambition, but it was also a means to an end. He had faced worse and battled against darker forces. He would not let the posturing of a self-proclaimed "All Knowing" Tarnished distract him from his purpose. He would worry about the prophecy if and when it came to pass. He would not be Voldemort, taking steps to pre-empt the prophecy and bringing on his own downfall.
As he rose from the chair, Harry's gaze flitted once more to the swords embedded in the round table. Each blade held a story, a testament to the struggles of those who had come before him. It was a reminder that his journey was far from unique, and that countless others had faced trials and tribulations in these lands. And like them, he would forge his own path, navigate the treacherous terrain, and claim his destiny, whatever it might be. With a sigh, Harry turned away from the table, his thoughts drifting to the words of the prophecy that Sir Gideon Ofnir had recited. "Born anew in lands unknown and wild," Harry murmured, his voice a whisper amidst the chamber's shadows. His mind wandered to Dumbledore's words, memories of the old wizard's guidance filtering through his thoughts.
'To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.'
'The man had always been sharp. Perhaps this is what he meant' Harry thought. The sage advice had once been a comfort in the face of mortality, a reminder that life was a series of interconnected experiences. And now, in this enigmatic realm, the words took on new meaning. Perhaps Dumbledore had foreseen this very moment, a truth that extended beyond the boundaries of life and death. He finally dismissed the prophecy from his mind and turned to Melina.
"I believe it is time for us to go back," Harry muttered under his breath. Melina tilted her head in acknowledgment, extending her hand toward him. Harry grasped it, and once again, the world around him blurred and twisted as they were pulled into the vortex. In a matter of moments, they were back where they had triumphed over Margit, with the assistance of the enigmatic Sorcerer Rogier.
As Harry approached the imposing closed gates of Stormveil Castle, he could not help but notice the rows of knights positioned behind the gaps in the metal bars. Crossbows were ready, poised to unleash a barrage of deadly bolts. He studied the situation for a moment, his mind racing to formulate a plan that would allow him to breach the castle's defenses undetected.
His eyes caught sight of an alternative path—the gatehouse to the left of the main entrance. It seemed to be a less guarded route, and Harry's instincts told him that caution was paramount in this unforgiving world. He made his way to the gatehouse, where he discovered an emaciated man huddled in a corner. The man's clothes were tattered, his face etched with lines of worry and weariness. Despite his weakened appearance, his eyes held a glint of knowledge.
"You there. Come over here, would you?" The man's voice was a fragile whisper, carrying a hint of urgency. Harry warily approached him, his senses on high alert.
"You're Tarnished, aren't you?" the man continued, his voice shaky. "I would advise against taking the main gate into the castle. It is tightly guarded by hardened old hands. Try the opening right here. The guards do not know about it. You'll breach the castle undetected."
Harry's skepticism flared anew. "How can I trust you? And who are you?"
"Fair enough," the man replied, his voice a mixture of resignation and understanding. "You certainly don't have to trust me. As for my name, I am a servant of this castle, Gatekeeper Gostoc."
The mention of a name gave the man a semblance of credibility, but Harry's instincts remained cautious. He could not afford to make a hasty decision in these perilous lands. The man, though looking frail and tired, had an air of guile and cunning.
"Gatekeeper Gostoc," Harry repeated, his voice measured. "If I choose this alternative path you suggest, what will be waiting for me on the other side?"
Gostoc's eyes held a mix of weariness and something akin to slyness. "A path less traveled, where the shadows hide secrets untold. There may be challenges, but there may also be opportunities. Your trust is not easily given, nor is mine. But the choice, Tarnished, ultimately lies with you."
With a decisive nod, Harry made his decision. "Get the gates open, Gatekeeper."
Gostoc bowed low, his movements a mixture of servitude and a hidden layer of amusement. "Of course, I understand. When you approach the gates, I'll signal them to open. It's only your neck on the line, after all."
Exiting the gatehouse, Harry advanced toward the imposing gates of Stormveil Castle. He could feel the weight of the guards' gazes upon him, their eyes tracking his every movement. As he neared the gates, the gatekeeper's voice rang out, cutting through the tense silence. "The gates! Open the gates!"
There was a moment of hesitation, an exchange of glances among the guards. But then, as if obedient to the gatekeeper's command, the gates slowly creaked open. The gaps between the metal bars widened, revealing a path into the castle that beckoned like the mouth of a predatory beast.
As soon as he stepped into the castle, Harry was met with a relentless barrage of deadly projectiles. The crossbows snapped, and arrows whizzed through the air, aiming to find their mark on his body. Drawing upon years of Quidditch reflexes and combat experience, Harry's instincts kicked in. A physical shield, conjured swiftly, materialized on his left hand. It covered him entirely, a shimmering barrier that absorbed the impact of the incoming onslaught.
With determination etched into every step, Harry pressed forward, his shield steadfastly deflecting the projectiles. The barricades housing the guards who were unleashing the volley of attacks were his first target. His sword glinted with deadly promise in his grip.
As Harry neared the barricades, he seized the moment when a slight gap appeared in the onslaught. Swift as a striking serpent, he lunged forward, his sword cleaving through the air with deadly precision. In a shower of crimson, the nearest guard's head was severed from his body, an abrupt end to his assault. The guard's lifeless body crumpled, and Harry pressed on, undaunted. Amidst the chaos and danger, a hoarse cackle rose, echoing through the corridor. Harry's attention snapped towards the source of the sound, finding Gatekeeper Gostoc standing near the gatehouse, his laughter a disturbing counterpoint to the violence that surrounded them.
Harry's gaze locked onto the cackling figure, his grip tightening on his sword. The gatekeeper's twisted amusement grated against his nerves. For a moment, Harry's gaze flickered toward the gatehouse where the gatekeeper stood, his mirth echoing through the corridor.
In that moment of distraction, an arrow whizzed past Harry's shield, grazing his arm. The sting of pain jolted him back to the grim reality of the fight. With renewed determination, he advanced toward the next barricade, sword at the ready. Another guard, clad in armor, lunged at him with a battle axe. Harry's shield flickered as the axe struck, the impact reverberating through his arm. With a deft maneuver, he sidestepped the guard's follow-up strike and countered with a swift sword thrust, piercing the guard's exposed flank. The guard let out a strangled cry before collapsing, his weapon clattering to the stone floor.
Harry pressed on, his every movement calculated and precise. He weaved between the wooden barricades, his shield and sword an extension of his body. Arrows whizzed by with some finding their mark in the wooden barriers, others deflected by his shield's shimmering barrier. Each step brought him closer to the next barricade, his focus unyielding despite the chaos that enveloped him.
With each guard he dispatched, the cacophony seemed to grow more frenzied. The guards' shouts mixed with the clang of metal on metal and the twang of bowstrings drawn taut. Adrenaline coursed through Harry's veins; his senses heightened by the battle's intensity. He locked eyes with another guard, determination etched on his face.
The guard's crossbow was raised, an arrow aimed for Harry's heart. With a burst of speed, he closed the distance between them. The guard's eyes widened in realization, but it was too late. Harry's sword swept through the air in a deadly arc, cleaving through armor and flesh alike. The guard's body crumpled, the crossbow clattering to the ground beside him.
The walkway was painted in shades of red, a testament to the ferocity of the clash. Harry's breath was ragged, sweat mingling with the scent of iron and adrenaline. Furiously panting, Harry looked around the walkway, looking for any more hidden attackers but found none. Satisfied, he rounded towards the Gatekeeper who was waiting for him back at the gatehouse.
"I did warn you, Tarnished warrior," Gostoc's raspy voice echoed through the chamber, a twisted hint of satisfaction lurking within. Harry's steps were deliberate as he stalked toward the emaciated figure. "This was a path that would be filled with peril."
A seething rage surged within Harry, mingling with the sweat and blood that adorned him like a gruesome trophy. His grip on his sword remained unwavering, knuckles white against the hilt. The chaos of battle had ebbed, leaving behind a chilling silence punctuated only by their exchange.
"Yes, you did," Harry seethed, his voice low and dangerous. "That does not excuse you from laughing like a psychopath when I was fighting for my life."
Gostoc's lips twisted into a grotesque smile, a grim mockery of amusement. "Does it matter?" He raised his arms in a mock gesture of surrender, his voice dripping with a sickly sweet sarcasm. "They are all dead."
The words hung in the air like a venomous cloud, the implications sinking in. Harry's chest heaved with each breath, his anger a roiling tempest beneath his skin. This man—this gatekeeper—had orchestrated the massacre, goading the guards into a frenzied attack while reveling in the bloodshed.
Harry's fingers tightened around his sword, his knuckles popping audibly. His gaze bore into Gostoc, a silent promise of retribution simmering in his eyes. The battle-hardened warrior in him recognized the twisted cruelty of his adversary, the utter lack of remorse or empathy.
Gostoc's cackle continued to reverberate within the chamber, a disturbing soundtrack to the confrontation. The gatekeeper's thin frame seemed to shiver with an unhinged energy, his eyes gleaming with a deranged spark.
"Is this your idea of entertainment, Gostoc?" Harry's voice was a low growl, the words heavy with condemnation. "Manipulating lives, relishing in the chaos you've orchestrated?"
Gostoc's grin widened, revealing yellowed teeth that seemed to belong to another world entirely. "Entertainment? No, Tarnished warrior. I find no pleasure in mere entertainment. But I find solace in the truth of this world—survival of the fittest, strength prevailing over weakness."
"Your strength means nothing if it is built on the suffering of others," Harry retorted, his voice heavy with condemnation. He turned away from Gostoc, his grip on his sword loosening. He could not stand to be in the presence of such malevolence any longer. Gostoc's laughter faded into the distance, the echoes lingering as a haunting reminder of the darkness that had taken root in Stormveil Castle.
AN: Hi, dear readers. Here is the next chapter for you folks. And here we come to know of the prophecy that will define Harry once again. Do tell me what you thought of it. As always, please read and review. Your valuable feedback about my writing and my story gives me hope that I might have a future in this. I have already started to include some aspects from the feedback that I have received so far. As for the update schedule, chapters will be usually posted every Tuesday.