──────────
[Identity]: Kayode Nathaniel Balógun
[Age]: 20
[Race]: Human
[Class]: Kingdom Maker (S+)
[Level]: 4
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[Inventory]
— [E] Southern Soldier’s Short-Blade
— [F] Boiled Leather
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[Skills]
- Class Skills
— Loopforged (II)
— King’s Due (II)
— Sovereign’s Presence (I)
— By the Blade (I)
— Iron Fist (I) - Feat Skills
— Goblin Bane (I)
— Cold Resolve (I)
? Relic Skills
— Edge-Kindle (I)
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Interesting that…my sheet has added new sections, Kayode noted numbly.
It was a humbling thing, seeing all he was laid out in front of him in one glowing sheet—especially when Kayode found it wanting in more ways than one. But that was why he was here, in Ezeria, to change what he was.
Okechukwu had promised to handle—or rather get someone to handle—signing him up for the Guild, and finding him an Adventuring Party. He would be going by a derivative of his Velúndéan name, Nathaniel, and assurances had been made to ensure that no one in the party asked needless questions.
Soon, he was certain he would be called, and it would be time to meet his new Party. But until then, Kayode was laying down alone in the room Okechukwu had so generously granted him,
It was smaller than his place at Asoburgh, but that was less a slight and more a commentary on the colossal scale of the royal palace, and the south’s far more conservative sensibilities.
Speaking of Asoburgh, Kayode found himself wondering how the Grand Duke was reacting now. Two of his oathguard were dead, his pawn of a Great Lord gone—absconded—and a vote that had once been cast for his son now stood in opposition. Okechukwu had ensured the last one the moment they landed.
Oh how the old fuck would be fuming right now. Was it possible he’d bust a vein and die? The only thing better than that thought was the one of Femi tantruming at the news.
A knock on his door pulled him out of his daydreaming.
Perhaps it was time to meet his new Hunting Party.
Kayode was on his feet a moment later. He opened the door and saw a familiar face—not Okechukwu’s this time, no not him at all. “Hello, Great Lord,” Lady Lami Fatima Gimba greeted, and waltzed right into his room like she owned the place.
The eldest daughter of the Duchess Sauda Gimba, heir to the Duchy, and one of the few people Kayode could call a childhood friend, had skin as dark as the night sky and eyes a deep, rich black. She wore bright purple, flowing fabrics and smiled as she glided about his room, as though finding every small detail of the soulless box fascinating. “When I heard the Kayode Nathaniel Balógun, Leader of House Balógun was here in Marcholt Uloma with us, I just had to rush over and check.”
“Well, it’s me, in the flesh,” Kayode said, and found himself genuinely smiling for the first time in a while. And then a question came to mind. “What are you doing here?” The far south was not exactly neighbours with the north—the exact opposite actually, one might deduce if they were well versed in the complex nuances of geography.
“You first,” she shot. “Last I heard you were trekking all across the Kingdom.”
“Well, I found what I was looking for,” Kayode told her, and felt happy to.
Her eyes widened with surprise and awe. “You—wow!” She hugged him and smelt of flowers. “Kayode, that’s such good news!” Then pulled back too quickly. When she looked at him now it looked like she was trying to see underneath his skin. Then something flashed behind her eyes. “Hope you don’t mind me snooping, but your Class, whatever it is, has high Ice magic affinity.”
“Oh?” Ah, he didn’t even know that, and here she was boasting a Skill that told her with a glance. That left Kayode certain that there were Skills out there that could see his whole sheet.
He had to be weary of A Tier Classes, like her Cryoblade.
“I can teach you a few Skills, if you’ll have me,” she offered.
Well, there was no reason he shouldn’t learn new Skills—that the process would grant him Lami’s company was just a happy coincidence. “Sure, I should be able to fit a lesson here and there in between hunting.”
She smiled, and then in instant later her face scrunched up in a frown, suddenly serious now. “Wait—So you’re here to Level…and if you’re here and not with the Grand Duke…that means…” She wore concern. “Are you sure about this, taking part in their games?”
It was good to know she wasn’t a shade less quick than when they were kids. “They’re going to force me into them regardless…” Kayode told her. “Might as well play.”
She looked just a bit disappointed in him at that, and he hated that it made him feel any type of way. “So, I’ve answered your questions?” Kayode cleared his throat. “What about you? What are you doing here?”
Lami opened her mouth to answer and the door swung open.
Okechukwu stepped in, smiled at Lami and then pressed his lips eagerly against the Lady’s. She let out a muffled giggle and an instant later returned the gesture just as, if not more passionately.
Ah.
Kayode suddenly found the ceiling a rather interesting thing to stare up at and give all his attention to.
“I see you’ve met our new guest,” Okechukwu said, and for the first time since Kayode had known the man, he sounded happy.
When Kayode looked down, Lami was nodding and smiling at the Lord. “Yes, love, he’s a childhood friend. Remember I studied under Master Ogunleye in Asoburgh?”
“Ah, yes?” Okechukwu nodded back.
Lami patted his shoulder. “Kay, Okechukwu is my fiancé,” she said excitedly.
“That’s,” Kayode forced a smile, “lovely news! When’s the wedding?!”
Her smile flickered only somewhat. “Well, with all going on now, we don’t quite know yet. But we’ve made a promise to each other that no matter what we’ll be wedded in two months.”
“Enough conversation.” Okechukwu cut in, and set an arm on Kayode’s shoulder. “You, have your Party members waiting, and I,” he began, grinning at Lami now, “finally have the luxury of spending some quality time with my fiancée,” he said, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her against him. He set his eyes on Kayode now. “Ask for the Red Falcon Party Hall,” he told Kayode, and then the two were out of his room, giggling, laughing, and whispering their way off.
Kayode needed something to kill. So he went searching for the people that would give him some targets.
###
Kayode didn’t struggle to find the Red Falcon Party Hall, it was a massive building with a red falcon emblazoned on its door.
He stepped up to it, knocked, and a moment later the door swung open. An Elf woman—not much younger than Kayode—answered him. Like most of her kind, her skin was cloud-pale, lighter even than that of the natives, and her hair a reddish pink, a bright, unnatural hue no human he knew was born with.
Like him she wore boiled leather armor, though hers had a base white colour, accented with red. Clipped to her left breast was a Copper-coloured badge with three lines on it. Then there was the massive symbol of a crimson falcon emblazoned on the chest.
She saluted him. “Red Falcon, Support-Type, Xaqel Hifyre at your service, how may I help you today!”
Kayode smiled. “Hi, my name is Nathan Bal, I was told to come here to get accustomed with the Party.”
She nodded and stepped aside. “In that case, step right in, and head for Harlan Pierce.” She clarified before Kayode could ask any question. “He’s the grumpy man at the desk.”
And with that Kayode entered the hall.
It was a large thing, filled from top to bottom with the imagery of falcons. On the wooden floorboards, on the marble walls, on the high ceilings, and all painted red. Men, women, people of various shapes and sizes filled the room nearly to the brim. They were sat in the many chairs, eating, talking, chatting, arm wrestling.
All, without exception, wore armor of white and red, and of course with the massive falcon emblazoned on their chests.
He made his way past the sea of people and towards the desk he was told about. True to Xaqel’s words, the man tending it looked miserable. A Native: four decades old at least, black hair and a sunbeaten face, mister Harlan Pierce wore a bored expression along his features, and quickly wiped that expression off and jumped to attention at the sight of Kayode. “Good morning sir, what can I do for you?” he said, posture straight and back stiff.
“I’m Nathan Bal,” Kayode introduced himself and slid over the false identification papers he used when travelling in places he would rather not be known in as a noble.
The impression seemed to have worked on mister Pierce, because his shoulders relaxed upon the introduction and the man fell back into his seat, then entered into the beginnings of his once lazy posture. “Oh, the boss told me you might be coming today.” By the Ancestors, you look positively Ayédán for a scribe.”
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‘Scribe,’ a polite word for a noble’s bastard.
Kayode smiled, well used to playing the role by now. “Strong blood on my father’s part. Banished the Native right out of me.”
Harlan laughed, shaking his head. “That he bloody did. That he did.” Then he slapped his hand on the table as if punctuating that conversational beat. “Alright then, back to work. You came at the right time because the boss wants us out in a few hours—there’s a family of Sunweavers need killing. I already have your name and age. Let me just get your essentials.” He gestured to the two crystals resting on the desk. One bore the label ‘Level-Identifier Stone (E)’; the other, ‘Class-Type Stone (E)’, with the possibilities—Offence, Defence, Support, and Utility—listed beneath.
Kayode hesitated. He knew the classifications were crude, as not every Class could be neatly categorized into those boxes, but he still wanted people knowing as little about his own Class as he could get away with.
Still, forward seemed the only way to go.
He placed a hand on the first stone, and nothing happened. The crystal glowed a moment before casting light into the air between Harlan and he, and glowing text not too dissimilar the kind he received from the System floated into view—he wasn’t the only one privy to its details this time.
[(E) Level-Identifier Stone: Would like to analyze your Level. Y/N]
Kayode granted it permission
[(E) Level-Identifier Stone: Level 4 Detected.]
Harlan scribbled that down somewhere.
He placed his hand on the Class-Type Stone. It too glowed after a moment. The request came up and after Kayode accepted, it showed his Class Type.
[(E) Class-Type Stone: Offence Type Detected.]
Odd that, given that most of the Skills he’d been gaining weren’t directly combative ones. Either the stone really was junk or that meant he had a good number of Offensive type Skills to look forward to in the future. It was good to know if it was the latter, but until then he decided he’d find another way to satisfy his need for Offensive Skills.
“Ah, you look like a fighter,” Harlan nodded and scribbled more on his notepad. “You’ll be on the front lines with me. Things might get hectic but just follow my lead and you’ll be fine.”
He reached into a drawer and handed Kayode a Copper badge in the shape of a shield, with three lines etched into its surface.
“Congratultations. Now you’re a Copper-Three Adventurer,” Harlan told him.
Kayode looked at the man’s chest and saw that his was a Copper with a single mark on it. Copper one, the highest tier of copper. And Kayode was at the lowest.
Then Harlan’s eyes were up at him, eyeing his armor. “Last thing on the checklist is to get you in uniform.”
He smiled, very much not eager to squeeze into some gaudy falcon themed wears. “Ah, don’t worry, I’m quite satisfied with the armor I brought; you don’t need to bother getting me a new set.”
Kayode hadn’t made a joke, yet Harlan laughed liked he’d heard the funniest thing ever. “A new one?” he chuckled. “Yeah, everyone here brought their own gear. What the boss offers—but really mandates—is this lovely design you see all of us sporting.” He mockingly gestured to his clothes. “It promotes synergy.”
Ah, bugger.
###
Kayode’s boiled leather had been ruined. It looked like—like someone had just painted it a blinding white and slapped a gigantic falcon on the chest.
Walking through the streets in it did nothing to improve his mood. Marching alongside a mass of people all sporting the same ridiculous colours only made it worse. If he was going to look stupid, he would have preferred it be taken as an individual decision at the very least.
There aren’t even any falcons in the fucking south…
“It suits you!” Xaqel chirped, walking up beside him.
Kayode forced a smile. “Thanks.” And then he was moving onto other matters. “This Party, how many people are in it?” They weren’t marching in anything close to an orderly form, and that made it hard for Kayode to count.
“We Red Falcons are thirty strong—thirty one now with you!” She beamed.
Ah, that sounded about right. A single party of about thirty people. But judging by the state of their weapons, the fact that he had only seen one person with an adventurer ranking as high as Copper-One, and the general lack of discipline and cohesion everyone here carried, they were not exactly an elite fighting force.
And he wasn’t the exception to that rule. At level 4, still early into his First Awakening, it wouldn’t be hard at all to find a person of greater power than Kayode. His one saving grace was the S+ rank of his Class. Rank S made you stronger, Level being equal, than an A, A made you stronger than a B, B stronger than a C, than a D, than an E—and E was the most common Tier once you stepped out of particularly well-funded military bodies.
Kayode hadn’t enjoyed much opportunity to compare himself to other Classed humans just yet, so he couldn’t know how much of an edge he was sitting on, but if it was at least equal to that provided by the Arch Arcanist Class then he’d be making a nuisance of himself in combat with those of the Second Awakening, at least. Provided they were of the very lowest Tiers themselves.
Combat. He rested a hand on the hilt of his weapon.
[Relic]
Name: Southern Soldier’s Short-Blade
Type: Sword
Tier: E
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[Material(s)]
— Battle Steel
— Relic Stone (E)
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[Bound Skill(s)]
— Edge-Spark (I)
──────────
Compared to Mercy, this was a serious downgrade more akin to some elongated butterknife than a sword. But Okechukwu had insisted he not carry a powerful noble blade while masquerading as a commoner, and Kayode unsurprisingly hadn’t found any error in the man’s words. If it didn’t blow his cover, it would just mean he was making himself the world’s easiest mark.
The Marquess had taken his Ida, looked at its System Profile, asked him which of the Skills within it he had learned and had one of his men hand him the sword he was now currently wielding. Before Kayode could ask more questions the man was gone, so he just hoped and prayed this thing wouldn’t crumble at the first sign of trouble. He could surely have been given a less shit weapon than this, right?
Right. Okechukwu was just being a dick.
The march continued. Until they made it past the city gates and out into the hostile dry and rocky lands of Southern Velúndé. It was there that Kayode spotted someone up ahead.
A man stood before them, covered from head to toe in lamellar. The armor was white at its base, marked with the animal Kayode was growing all too familiar with across the chest. On his breast sat a bronze metal badge, etched with three marks. Bronze-Three.
The craftsmanship of the armor was much like Okechukwu’s in style—if it had been made to be worn by Femi instead. It was crowded with badges and crests, crossed by a sash and adorned with layered fabrics. Beneath him was not a horse, but a sandstrider—a giant, lizard-like reptile the South often preferred to ride over horses. It too was clad in armor, emblazoned with the Party’s logo.
“Halt!” came Harlan's voice up ahead. And the Party did, however roughly and disorganised they went about it.
The man on the steed dropped down with a thud, upkicking sand in the air as he did. His eyes scanned the men and women assembled before him like they were faeces he had the displeasure of picking through with his fingers. And then his helmet came off, revealing a face of contradictions.
He had the pale skin of a native, their light blue eyes, but the kinky black hair and facial geometry of an Ayédán. A ‘fellow’ scribe then, Kayode thought absently. Perhaps that might give him and his new boss something to bond over, he hoped.
“You animals are late,” the man said, instantly setting the tone Kayode had been expecting. He paced, slowly now and, Kayode was certain the man thought, dramatically. “I am raising Falcons, not rodents! Killers, not be-killeders!”
The crowd was silent, but not surprised; it seemed this behaviour was nothing new to them, which signalled to Kayode that this was not at all out of the norm. Very well…he just had to keep his head down and Level in this Party until he was strong enough to go out on his own.
And then the Party Leader’s eyes fell on him. He did not look pleased. “It seems we have a new member.”
“Hi, I’m Nathan Bal,” Kayode greeted civilly.
The man snorted and walked towards Kayode, the crowd desperately clearing from his path. “Yes, I was told you would be latching onto my Falcons…” he practically sneered those words out, making it clear that Kayode being here was not something he had much decision making power over, and that he was of course not pleased by that fact. “Harlan’s what’s this one’s Level?” he said, eyes still fixed on Kayode.
“Uh, 4, Boss!” Harlan replied.
“Seven Levels below,” he snickered. “I guess you inherited the skin of an Ayédán but not the spirit. Try not to slow us down.” He poked Kayode in the chest.
And Kayode did not tell him to stick that finger up his ass.
The man spun, got on his sandstrider and turned back to the crowd. “To me my Falcons! We have killing to do!” and then he was riding off. Like a cunt.
Kayode and the men jogged behind.
He picked up his pace to meet Harlan at the front.
The man gave him an apologetic look. “Sorry bout’ that, kid.”
“Don’t mention it,” he reassured. “What’s the Boss’ deal anyway?” he asked.
Harlan’s eyes fell on their galloping leader. “Clarke Oak. He’s a bastard—in both senses of the word—no offence. Brother is the Marquess so he gets to do whatever he wants.”
Like hiring a thirty strong force of low Levels when he could have hired a small force of elites, simply to feel like he was leading a small army.
Like having his men march through the city then jog through the plains while he sat high atop a steed.
“Well, fuck,” Kayode sighed and kept on jogging.
It didn’t take long for him to feel his body begin to protest. He was sweating, muscles burning, face hot. And the men around him seemed even worse for wear. Many of them were practically soaking their armor with sweat, not jogging so much as letting their body carry them in a vaguely forward direction. Just when it looked like they could not take anymore, Harlan’s voice came again.
“Halt!” he called out after what Kayode was certain were several hours.
And the Party dropped to their knees.
Xaqel and a few others who had already lagged far behind the main force lay on the hard stone, panting and heaving.
Kayode himself needed to rest his hands on his knees to keep standing.
They were up on a hill, with Clarke looking down at something below from the top of his steed.
Kayode followed the man’s gaze and found nothing but rocky red sand.
Then he saw the spiders.
They were giant things, skittering across the sand on long, spindly legs. Most were small by the standards of their kind, a second group loomed nearly twice that size, and behind them moved a single massive spider—easily three times larger than the gradation before it. It was a testament to how well they blended in with their environment that Kayode hadn’t noticed them before. Twelve juveniles, five adults and a mother, if his eyes weren’t failing him. Kayode had seen a few on his travels and he’d learned how to estimate them fast.
“Twelve Juveniles, five Adults, and one Mother,” Clarke noted, surprisingly perceptive. “We can’t let them get away,” he said, a hunger in his eyes.
Harlan’s voice was laced with concern and caution. “Perhaps we should scout them, Boss; get them when the lads are all rested and ready.”
“No. Can’t risk another Party getting our kill,” he nearly growled—not at Harlan, but at the very idea of something he considered his being taken. It didn’t change the outcome. “Get the Falcons up! It’s time to go hunting!”
Harlan winced, then turned to the Party. “Alright men! On your feet!” he roared.
There were groans, gasps, and moans of despair, but eventually the group began to standing. A sound of leather, and metal rubbing accompanying them in their wake. Even the lowliest Classed could endure fatigue and recover stamina better than any Blighted, but they’d barely been resting for a minute.
“Offence!” Clarke called. “With me! Everyone else, get into position!” And the man was riding down the hill.
Harlan drew his blade and turned to Kayode. “Stay sharp lad.” And then they were following behind, sprinting at their arachnid foes.
As they got closer, Kayode began to appreciate the true size of these creatures. The smallest ones—the juveniles—were as tall as a man’s hip, the adults would meet his eyes, and he would have to gaze up to see the mother’s glare.
Clarke met the enemy first, slashing an Adult with his greatsword and sending it spinning through the air—a trail of yellow vitae streaking in an arc.
That emboldened a great number of men with roars, but Kayode found himself unmoved. He was still just as confident—or unconfident—in this charge. But it really was too late to back out now.
A line sprinted past him and dashed for the enemy first—either out of excitement, exhaustion-borne stupidity, or an eagerness to see the affair brought to an end, Kayode could not tell.
The Sunweavers didn’t seem to care either way. They pivoted, showing his party their backs, and silk burst from the spiders’ rear, snapping taut as it struck stone and flesh alike.
And there was a lot of flesh to strike.
Three men fell. Others were clipped; a few stumbled forward—right into the enemy, which leapt at them, razor-like claws coming down hard and tearing open flesh.
The air was filled with screams and blood, but nobody was dead yet. Yet.
“Push them back! Drag the injured to the Support line!” Harlan roared.
And now it was Kayode’s turn to meet the enemy.
Hi all,
Thank you so much for reading Crown of Velúndé.
I figured it was about time I properly introduced myself to everyone who’s made it this far.
I’m A. C. Erinle, a writer born, raised, and still living in Lagos, Nigeria. I’ve always loved Epic Fantasy and Progression Fantasy, and I think the two blend exceptionally well—which is why Crown of Velúndé exists.
This is a project I’ve been working on for months alongside my best friend and co-author, Ian B. Urns (the man responsible for all the good parts). What started as an idea quickly became a passion project, and I’m both eager and terrified to finally be sharing it.
Eager, because West African culture is rich, powerful, and lends itself beautifully to fantasy storytelling. Terrified, because this is the first time I’ve put an aspect of my own culture into my work—especially in a genre where West African influences are still rare. It feels like a responsibility: introducing something new to readers encountering it for the first time, while also hoping I can do justice to West African readers who already know what to expect.
You’ve probably noticed the images scattered throughout the earlier chapters. For the most part, they’re just something I enjoy including, and I hope they help with visualizing the world and characters. That said, the written canon always comes first. If there’s ever a discrepancy between the text and an image, the text is definitive. Any inconsistencies are likely due to the AI, my prompting, or—let’s be honest—both. And if an image doesn’t match your mental picture, I firmly believe your interpretation should always win. After all, I am but one Author and you are many readers.
If you’ve been enjoying the story so far, I’d really appreciate a rating or review on the fiction page. Since the story is still new, that support makes a huge difference in visibility on Royal Road.
And if you’re already hooked and want to read ahead—or just feel like supporting the work—we also have a , where you can read up to ten chapters ahead of Crown of Velúndé and access all our Royal Road stories under a single $9.99 plan.
I’d appreciate it greatly. I like money. Money lets me buy things. I enjoy buying things.
In any case, thank you again for reading Crown of Velúndé—and thank you for reading this.
— A. C. Erinle