Emperor Groa Aratat stood rooted in place, utterly dazed—like a man who had just stared into the mouth of a god and found only madness staring back.
A full hour passed. He didn't move. He couldn't. The room still stank of an eerie silence, like time itself had paused to consider whether the Trickster God had truly vanished, or was merely waiting behind the next breath.
The emperor's hands twitched by his side. A drop of sweat trailed from his temple to his chin, but he didn't even notice.
His eyes, however, kept drifting downward—to the two concubines crumpled at his feet.
They looked… broken. Their silken robes bunched around their fragile forms, their skin pale as moonlight. Eyes wide open, but utterly vacant—like shattered glass that once held a reflection but now contained only the echo of something that used to be alive.
A chill crawled down Groa's spine.
He crouched, trembling, and gently brought two fingers beneath the nose of the one closest to him. There was breath—barely. Shallow and thin, like it struggled against some invisible weight. But they weren't dead.
Not physically.
It was something far worse. Their minds had been touched. Drenched in the Trickster God's cruel presence. Spirits cracked, souls shaken loose from the mortal coil without dying.
He staggered back, breathing hard now. There was a pit forming in his stomach that felt black and bottomless.
And then—panic.
Groa spun, stumbled toward the far end of his chamber, and slammed his palm against the alarm sigil embedded in the gilded wall. It flared bright red, and a booming siren erupted through every corner of the palace like the heavens themselves were wailing.
Down in the inner courtyards, soldiers leapt to their feet, knocking over stools and spilling goblets of wine. Conversations halted, laughter died mid-chuckle. The usual assumption was that the emperor had once again indulged in some midnight mischief or theatrics.
But this sound was different.
This wasn't the self-important ringing of an emperor craving attention.
This was the desperate cry of a man who had glimpsed something other.
Within minutes, the palace halls thundered with footsteps.
A surge of people came rushing—elite guards in obsidian armour, robed chamberlains, high-ranking advisors, the Court Physician, male servants and maids, and even the grand marshal of the imperial guard himself. The sound of booted feet echoed like drums of war.
They stormed into the emperor's grand chamber, only to stop short, shocked into silence.
Their emperor stood in the centre of the room, barely robed, hair dishevelled, sweat coating his brow like a man who'd just escaped execution. The two palace beauties lay motionless by his feet like broken dolls.
No enemy in sight.
No blood.
Just chaos and terror in the eyes of the man they called ruler of the Nazare Blade Empire.
Groa didn't wait for questions.
He spun to face them, seething now with a fury born of helplessness.
"WHERE WERE ALL OF YOU?" Groa bellowed. "A god—a GOD—walked into this room! Not a thief, not an assassin—a creature from the Fifth Dimension! He stood right here! Mocked me! Threatened me!"
His voice echoed with hysteria. The onlookers exchanged glances in bewilderment and fear.
"I could've died! I should've died! And none of you noticed! No barrier flared! No spell triggered! What use are your swords, wards and formations?!"
One of the head mages of the imperial order of mages stepped forward cautiously. "Sire… we detected no dimensional rip, no teleportation signature, no magical presence whatsoever."
Groa's face twisted in rage and dread. "That's because he didn't come using low level spells. He was just here. He bypassed everything—every single thing I spent decades building. He is not bound by our rules!"
The room went cold.
No one knew what to say.
And Groa?
He collapsed in a sitting position, on his bed, shoulders heavy as mountains, mind spiraling as the realization settled deeper.
He had just been visited by a god who did not knock, did not announce, did not need permission—and who now intended to use him as a puppet in a play scripted by madness itself.
And there was nothing—not a single damn thing—he could do to stop it.
"Court Physician..." Emperor Groa Aratat's voice rasped through the chamber, still stained with the lingering dread of the Trickster God's presence.
A scrawny, hunched man with a spine like a question mark emerged from the crowd of officials, trailing the scent of dried herbs and old parchment. Behind him was a younger man, tall, handsome, and wide-eyed—the apprentice.
They both bowed low.
"Yes, my Lord?"
The emperor gestured sharply toward the unconscious concubines sprawled like discarded porcelain dolls on the carpet.
"Examine them. Can they be healed?"
The court physician knelt beside the women, mumbling incantations under his breath as he waved a diagnostic crystal across their bodies. The crystal shimmered a pale blue for the first woman, then dimmed for the second. He placed two fingers lightly on their temples, brows furrowed in deep concentration.
A minute later, he turned to the emperor with calm assurance.
"They are alive, Sire," the physician said. "Their souls are slightly bruised, but not in any way—broken. There was a moment—perhaps just a few seconds—where something tried to splinter their spiritual core. Whatever did this didn't aim to kill. It was... a demonstration."
He glanced sideways, visibly unsettled by what he'd just said.
"They'll awake within eight hours. Full recovery will happen in two days, that is if they remain in a stable mana-restoring environment. I recommend transfer to the Healing Chambers immediately."
The emperor nodded slowly. The diagnosis aligned eerily with the Trickster God's words—except, when he said it, it had been wrapped in sinister riddles and laughing contradictions that made Groa question his own sanity. Here, the truth was spoken plainly... and it still chilled him.
"Take them to the Healing Chambers. Round-the-clock monitoring. If their condition worsens, I'll have your head served with morning tea."
"Understood, my Lord." The physician bowed deeply again. The apprentice carefully lifted one of the women, surprisingly gentle for someone built like a soldier. Servants rushed to assist with the other.
As the figures exited, Groa rubbed his temples, the events weighing down on him like an avalanche.
He exhaled slowly, then called out—
"Manuel Stunner!" the Emperor called to the hand of the emperor, his right hand man.
A fairly tall man, in a regal brown decorated robe with neatly combed hair and a handsome face stepped forward and knelt. His gaze was steady—loyal, calculating, dangerous. The kind of man whose words could put two empires against each other in the morning, and still set some time apart for chess by lunch.
"Yes, my Emperor."
Groa leaned forward, a dangerous gleam flickering in his eyes.
"I want the entire imperial court, the noble houses, and all military units summoned to the Imperial Colosseum by sunrise. There will be an official announcement—one that must echo across every region of the empire."
Manuel looked up, slightly surprised. "Shall I inform the general public too? I mean the common folks— about the meeting in the colosseum?"
Groa hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then smiled—tight-lipped, rehearsed, false.
"Yes. I want this... to come from me. Let the everyone who can come, let them show up, and hear it when the important heads do."
He stood, adjusting the folds of his imperial robe. His fingers still trembled slightly. The facade had to be flawless now.
He couldn't tell anyone that the Trickster God wasn't the true emissary of the gods. If people even suspected the deception—if rumours spread—then his proclamation would be ignored at best, ridiculed at worst. No. He had to fool everyone.
It was a dangerous game.
But the other option was death.
And Groa Aratat, for all his vices, had always known how to survive.
"Make the announcement grand, Manuel. Drums. Trumpets. Bring out the golden banners. Give them a show."
Manuel's lips curved in a knowing smirk. "Of course, Your Majesty."
And with that, he turned and left to carry out his orders. The others also took their leave, completely emptying the formerly packed inner chamber.
The emperor remained behind, he stood up and walked towards one of the open palace windows, staring out through the wide window. The stars above seemed dimmer tonight. The horizon stretched like the edge of a blade—and hanging over it all, in the back of his mind, was the grin of a god who laughed like madness and whispered like prophecy.