"So, initially…" the Trickster God drawled, casually circling the trembling emperor like a predator sizing up a soon-to-be-devoured meal, "I was going to wipe out the entire empire."
He said it with the kind of lightness one might use to discuss the weather.
"Just... you know, level the cities, split open your temples, crack your capital in two like a melon. A proper bloodbath. Rivers of red, screams echoing into the void. Something memorable."
He smiled again. That slow, curling smile that had already pushed two palace maidens into unconsciousness. And now, it was threatening to collapse Groa's lungs.
The Emperor felt like his very heart had grown some teeth and it was chewing its way out of his chest.
"But…" the Trickster continued, suddenly halting in front of him, voice dipping into a purring menace, "I've changed my mind."
He leaned in close, just enough for Groa to feel the chill radiating from him—like standing near the crack of an open tomb.
"I've decided to have a little fun instead."
Groa's knees nearly gave out.
The Trickster's tone shifted as if discussing a trivial administrative task.
"So here's what I want you to do. Announce me—as the Emissary of the Gods."
Groa nearly choked on his own breath. His throat locked up as sputum caught mid-swallow, and he hacked violently, clutching his chest like he'd been stabbed.
The words echoed in his head.
Emissary of the Gods.
It was the single most sacred title in the entire empire—reserved only for the rarest of mortals chosen directly by divine forces. It was a title that made kings kneel, armies obey without question, and even the High Priests lower their eyes.
To name someone an emissary without divine approval was a death sentence. Not just politically. Celestially. It meant drawing the wrath of the gods themselves. And worse—it would place the people under the control of a liar. If the "emissary" commanded them to leap into lava? They'd leap. If he asked them to slay their children in the name of celestial purification? They'd do it, smiling, believing resurrection awaited them.
But there would be no resurrection. Only endless death.
Groa saw it. Saw the end of his empire in vivid colour. Blood, fire, worship of madness—and himself, strung up before a divine tribunal, screaming as the heavens passed judgment.
Still, the Trickster God wasn't finished.
"Oh, and one more thing," he said with a smirk so chilling it could extinguish sunlight. "We'll be hosting combat sessions."
"Combat...?" Groa whispered, dazed.
"Mmm," the Trickster purred. "Yes. Entertainment! I'll personally select brave soldiers, reluctant citizens, convicts, scholars, maybe even a few poets—anyone, really. I'll pit them against each other. One-on-one. To the death."
He tilted his head. "A true celebration of chaos. Blood. Bone. Spirit. I want to see them tear each other apart... while the people cheer."
Groa's mouth opened, but no sound came out.
"Oh, and I plan to indulge," the Trickster added, walking lazily back toward the fireplace, "in... shall we say... fleshly whims. Just like you, my dear mentor."
He gave a sideways glance that made Groa feel stripped, dissected, and insulted all at once.
"I want ripe women," he continued, "wine brewed from the oldest grapes of Galthir, a bed made of feathered silk woven by moonlit spiders or whatever ridiculous extravagance your tailors can dream up."
He turned, spread his arms wide, and grinned. "A throne crafted to my design, a golden chariot to carry me through your streets, and the freedom to pursue any desire that seizes me—without resistance."
Groa could no longer feel his hands. Or his feet. Or his will.
His mind was unravelling thread by thread. Every order, every sentence from this mad god was like a nail in his coffin. If he obeyed, he betrayed the gods. If he refused, he died instantly. There was no winning.
Only survival… for now.
The Trickster took one final step forward and whispered near his ear:
"Refuse... and you'll wish your soul had never crawled out of your mother's womb."
Groa Aratat's eyes twitched violently.
He nodded—slowly, barely. It was all he could manage.
The Trickster smiled and gently patted his cheek like one would a frightened child.
"Good boy."
The emperor looked at the Trickster God—his jaw clenched so tightly, it seemed his teeth might shatter. His voice was taut, barely restrained.
"Master… may I change into something else? I—I cannot go around half-naked. Not like this."
The Trickster God tilted his head, as though Groa had asked for permission to breathe. He stared at the emperor's loosely tied robe with mild amusement.
"Of course you can change," he said with a lazy chuckle. "Put on something royal, shiny, embroidered with the tears of your conquered enemies. Make it dramatic."
Then, his smile twisted into something too wide, too unnatural.
"In fact, I won't be around to see your little wardrobe choices. I've got errands, Groa. Mischief to make. Bones to rattle. Souls to twist."
He turned as if to leave, but then paused, speaking over his shoulder with a singsong finality.
"I'll be back by evening tomorrow. I expect everything done. The public declaration. The festival preparations. The arena. The throne. The wine." He chuckled. "Fail me, and I'll get myself a new emperor. One with manners. One with… obedience."
His last word rang in Groa's ear like the snapping of a noose.
Then Groa blurted out the question that had been dancing like fire behind his eyes.
"But… Master—what if… what if the gods revolt? What if they come for you?"
He expected a flippant answer. A laugh. A joke.
What he got instead was silence.
Then, the Trickster's face shifted.
The grin evaporated. His eyes—those eyes that were little more than voids glowing from under a shadowed hood—narrowed into pure, god-scorching wrath. The room dimmed, the torches shivered, and even the golden sword on the emperor's bed frame cracked ever so slightly.
"Don't test me, boy." His voice dropped to something darker than death.
"I am a god. The Title- 'The Trickster god' is not for decoration!"
His words hit like thunder. Not loud, but dense—as if each syllable carried a planet's weight.
He took a step forward. The floor beneath his feet blackened with frost.
"And those… overgrown excuses for male prostitutes you worship—those preening cosmic egotists in robes—sat on their ivory clouds while by the hands of their own creation, which they infused with their combined powers, I, V'zaleth, was cast into the 5th dimension."
He spat the words like poison.
"They knew. They let it happen. They sat back and drank their nectar while I screamed in a prison made from the bones of dying stars. And now they think they can stay hidden?"
His voice dropped further, now little more than a tremor that vibrated inside the emperor's ribs.
"I want them to come."
He smiled again, but this smile held no humour—only cruelty.
"That's why I haven't crushed your pathetic empire yet. I want them to come looking. I want them to step foot into this rotten little realm—so I can break them one by one and feed their divinity to the dirt."
Groa Aratat's knees buckled. His hands trembled.
And suddenly, he saw it.
The Trickster didn't just want power.
He wanted revenge.
He wanted war on heaven itself.
And Groa? Groa was the worm dangling on the hook. The Nazare Blade Empire was the bait.
He saw it now—clearer than ever.
This wouldn't just get ugly. This would be apocalyptic.