The drizzling spring rain was falling outside.
Wind mixed with rain blew in through the window, cold and damp, the thick humidity making one feel uncomfortable all over.
Iao III sat on the throne, feeling the weight of that crown on his forehead.
The crown, forged from black iron, was neither splendid nor dazzling. It was simple and solid, unbearably heavy, with seven black iron swords standing within it, inscribed inside and out with ancient magic spell patterns. It was so heavy, in fact, it could be used as a weapon, weighing a good ten or twenty pounds.
It pressed down like a mountain, imprisoning his mind; the Conqueror Ioannos once wore it, his spirit and will condensed upon it, passed down through generations.
Did that glorious and magnificent former King also feel such pressure?
He likely did.
The challenges they faced were entirely different.
But the Black Iron Royal Family's maxim was to endure the weight with a sword hanging overhead.
