Chapter 689: Thrace's Preparations
“Your Majesty, rest assured—we have reinforced defenses across all border cities, including Leon in the North, Karrel, and Weilinst, and will not allow the Empire’s forces to exploit any weakness,” said the mage in a long robe, kneeling on one knee, his voice trembling with unease.
“Fools!” A thunderous roar shattered the silence of the hall. On the Golden Throne, Wilhelm’s flawless face twisted with wrath. His wings flared behind him, and the sacred golden eyes blazed with uncontrollable fury.
“How dare that abominable dragon cast a profane magical illusion across my domain? Panic spreads like plague. The ignorant commoners flee south like frightened deer, and even the royal city’s great bell cannot still the stampede of escapees!”
The Golden Scepter slammed into the ground, sending embers flying—sparks that reflected in the king’s blazing eyes. “And you—those lazy, robed sycophants, wrapped in Sun Robes—have you truly lost even the power to dispel illusions? Have the dragon’s flames erased that ability too? Tell me, what use are you, the Arcane Legion, if the kingdom spends hundreds of thousands of gold coins each year to sustain you?!”
Boom!
With a single gesture, a jagged beam of golden light lanced across the hall. The mage was hurled backward, crashing into a beautifully carved pillar. Blood sprayed from his mouth.
Had it not been for the ancient Othlokian rune spheres guarding his back, the mage would have died on the spot—reduced to a lifeless pile of bone powder.
Struggling to open his eyes, he wiped blood from his lips and whispered, “Your Majesty… that illusion was not merely a vision. It carried the essence of fire—an artifact imbued with terrifying power. Our illusionists, when they attempted to approach, were instantly vaporized. Only twelve Great Conjurers working in unison managed to suppress it.”
A few more mages stepped forward, trembling, and whispered, “Your Majesty, we have truly given our all.”
They knew: though Wilhelm now appeared radiant, his visage once again that of a semi-god, his soul had grown colder, more brutal. Death in the throne room had become routine. The palace maids had grown accustomed to cleaning blood and brain matter splattered across the walls.
So every mage who came for audience carried a trigger spell and protective wards—just in case. The king’s wrath had already claimed too many lives.
Wilhelm glanced at them coldly, said nothing more, and turned his gaze to the armored generals standing at attention.
The commander at the front—General Dares—stepped forward, bowing low before the throne. “Your Majesty, your Holy Crusade Army has revealed its divine might on the southern front. Cassander’s forces are in continuous retreat, now driven back beyond the Cassen Mountains. The reclaiming of the Holy City, the restoration of the Sacred Fedran’s crown—this victory is now within reach.”
Wilhelm nodded slightly. The fire in his golden eyes dimmed. A faint smile returned to his perfect face. “Now you speak like a man. Remember: Thrace is the sole rightful heir of Sacred Fedran. I am the true, the only Holy Emperor Faldran. As for my brother…” His golden eyes flickered with fine red veins, glowing with an eerie, chilling light. “He is merely a blasphemous fool, blinded by power. One day, I will cut off his head myself and spill his blood upon the altar of my father’s memory. Do you understand?”
His gaze swept the hall—cold, piercing, like invisible claws raking over every soul present. The courtiers shivered, their bodies trembling, chilled to the bone.
“Of course, Your Majesty! You are the one and only Emperor of Fadalan!” The foremost general bowed low, voice shaking.
As loyalists, they knew the truth beneath the king’s radiant, godlike exterior: a soul corrupted beyond redemption, twisted and defiled by the fires of Hell. This general had once glimpsed Wilhelm’s true face—without the masterful illusion masking it—and the sight had been far more horrific than he could ever imagine.
The others echoed in unison: “You are the true Emperor of Fadalan!”
“Thrace is the rightful kingdom!”
“Cassander and Seleucus—the blasphemers—shall be annihilated! And Your Majesty Wilhelm shall ascend the throne!”
The courtiers clamored to prove their loyalty, desperate not to be the ones who remained silent. For while the king might not notice who spoke, he would always notice who did not.
Past treasurers had been executed simply for their silence.
Wilhelm’s lips curled into a grotesque, exaggerated smile—like a carved wooden mask. He leaned forward, placing a hand on the trembling general’s shoulder. “Karell. Your work in the south has been commendable. Now I command you: take full charge of the northern defenses. Do not let a single Empire soldier cross my lands. Can you do this?”
“Of course, Your Majesty! With your mighty Holy Crusade Army, the Empire’s forces are nothing more than ants!” Karell replied eagerly.
Wilhelm laughed heartily. “Of course! Only I—the true heir—can train an army worthy of my father’s divine bloodline!”
“Indeed, Your Majesty. We all await the day you ascend the throne, when the glory of Fadalan shall be reborn.”
Though his words were praise, Karell knew the truth: those so-called “Holy Crusade” warriors were not angels. Beneath their radiant wings and sacred dignity, they were fallen half-demons who had made pacts with Hell.
And now, trapped within the system, Karell could not escape. To prove his loyalty to the king, he had even bound himself in a pact with a notorious devil—despite being a Paladin of the Amanata faith.
Divine Sun God… may Your last hope forgive my sins, Karell thought, head bowed.
The golden dome still shimmered with brilliance. Crystal chandeliers reflected the silver scales of the generals and the embroidered sashes of the nobles, glinting like stars.
On the throne, the king—crowned with the Crown of Sacred Thorns—held the Golden Scepter. His wings were pristine, untouched by dust, as if bathed in eternal holy light.
But in the eye of true sight, the chamber was a living purgatory. Blood-stained, twisted sigils covered every wall and floor.
Clang—
Suddenly, the bells rang out in a thunderous chorus. Hundreds of white figures burst through the stained-glass dome. Their wings unfurled, blotting out half the sky. Hymns and sword-chimes wove a symphony so chilling it made the soul tremble.
Yet—why did blood-soaked feathers fall from the sky with every beat of their wings? The stench of iron hung in the air. As they struck the ground, they burst into flame.
“That’s the Holy Crusade Army?” The tavern keeper swallowed hard, his eyes wide with dread, reflecting the crimson feathers falling like snow.
The blacksmith, bandaged hands trembling, drew a circle in the air. “May the sun’s radiance protect Thrace.”
Outside the palace, hundreds of “angels” rose into the air at the king’s command, flying north in formation.
The citizens looked up. In their eyes: awe, reverence… but beneath the surface, a creeping fear.
Were they truly angels?
The question lingered in their hearts—but no one dared speak it. For the king’s personal guard appeared without warning, dragging any “defamer” into the dark, endless dungeons.
In the past year, the city of August had seen too many horrors. Walls warped with unnatural distortions. Strange, ancient symbols scrawled everywhere. Hundreds vanished. Night after night, screams echoed through the streets.
Women were found in the sewers—skin stripped, hanging from the pipes, their bodies a ghastly sight. Yet the kingdom’s guards ignored it. They forbade all discussion, and anyone caught spreading rumors was thrown into the dungeon.
Most citizens lived in silent terror—paralyzed by fear. Some, broken by the weight, took their own lives.
Once the “City of Dawn,” August now felt like a vast, haunted prison.
---
Empire of Ashen. Anzeta Great Wasteland. Dragon Blood Peak.
Sulfur mist drifted slowly from the mountain’s flanks. A colossal form stirred within the fog—its body crackling with ember sparks, glowing like a living volcano.
This was the Emperor of the Ashen Empire—Kai Xiusu, co-ruler of the Anzeta Great Wasteland, Ugo Great Plain, and Northern Aether Plain. The very name sent shivers through every realm—Nightmare made flesh.
In Kai Xiusu’s claw rested a regiment of pulsing crimson light—the divine power stolen from Ghuush.
Before the red dragon stood a dozen human corpses, their forms grotesque, their bodies charred beyond recognition.
“Give it to me… please…” A desperate cry echoed from below. “I beg you, King Kai Xiusu! Just let me have it—any fraction, even one percent! I’ll serve you as your most loyal slave!”
The voice was a wail of a man driven mad—like a junkie pleading for a fix. It was the Chaos Eye, screaming in agony.
“Ah… so you’d give me the divine power of Ogres—your divine power—to a being born from Ghuush’s corpse? You think I’m a fool?” Kai Xiusu’s right claw clenched. Chains buried deep beneath the earth tightened with a clatter. Flames erupted from all sides—dragonfire roaring in a merciless inferno, scorching the Chaos Eye’s body.
A scream tore from the depths. But Kai Xiusu’s voice remained cold. “Ivennis. Stop pretending to be mad. It’s not amusing. It only makes me more impatient. Haven’t you heard the old saying? Never provoke a furious Red Dragon. If you truly anger me… even I don’t know what I might do.”
Boom!
The fire intensified. Flames roared from every crack in the rock, threatening to consume everything.
The sound of flesh burning cracked through the air. The Chaos Eye, weakened, finally pleaded: “Your Majesty… King Kai Xiusu… I’ve learned my lesson. The fact that you can draw divine power from my true form proves your strength.”
Kai Xiusu’s gaze, sharp and merciless, flicked toward it. Only then did he snap his claw—reducing the fire’s intensity, keeping the Chaos Eye alive, but barely, so its will would not be extinguished.
In the Chaos Eye’s desperate, hungry gaze, Kai Xiusu seized the blood-red orb. “Speak, Ivennis. How do I create an Ogre subspecies loyal to me?”
He was fascinated by the green-skinned race—ferocious in reproduction, terrifying in growth speed. He wanted an army of his own.
To that end, he had fused dragon blood with the blood of earth-crawling dragonbeasts, shaped the body, and infused it with the divine essence of the Ogres’ realm. He’d experimented again and again.
But each time, the Ogres turned on him—frenzied, hostile, charging like beasts. They were reduced to charcoal by the fire from his scales.
The Chaos Eye whispered, “King Kai Xiusu… my true form holds the Divine Office of the Ogres. It controls the Edict of Bloodline Essence. Every Ogre born in the multiverse bears its mark from birth. Since you now stand as its enemy, any Ogres you create will inherit that instinctive hatred. It cannot be changed—only my true form can erase it.”
“Damn you, old green-skinned bastard,” Kai Xiusu cursed in silence. He envied the authority of a race’s god—the power to imprint every child of that race, irrevocably, unbreakably.
The Ghuush avatar he’d fought earlier… even if it was only a fraction of the true god’s power, it had nearly killed him. That was the difference between deity and mortal—astronomical.
As the Third Era neared its end, the veil between Prime Material Plane and the divine realms would fray with each cataclysm. Then, the gods would walk the earth again—just as they had in the ancient times.
And Kai Xiusu felt the pressure mounting. He had to achieve godlike strength—now, or face annihilation.
Seeing the Red Dragon lost in thought, the Chaos Eye seized the moment. “Since this divine power is useless to you… might I ask you to bestow it upon me? As part of Ghuush’s legacy, I can wield it fully.”
Boom!
The cracked rock sealed shut. The fire beneath surged again, hotter than before. The ancient abomination screamed in agony, its eyes filled with hate, forming black mist—but it was quickly burned away.
More crimson chains wrapped around the Chaos Eye—layer upon layer, binding it tightly, almost sealing it completely.
“Hmm. For safety’s sake… I’ll reinforce the seal every time I return. No room for escape,” Kai Xiusu mused, his mind focused.
He turned to gaze upon the sealed Dragon Blood Peak, summoning every ounce of strength from his Empire Domain.
And… it’s time. Time to face those three great kingdoms head-on.
On the peak, the Red Dragon spread his vast wings, standing tall. His molten lava-ball iris—pale golden, flickering—gazed southward, toward the horizon.
(End of Chapter)
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