The five knights of the Empire moved like shadows through the mist, their cloaks heavy with silence. Behind them, cloaked by spell and artifact, seventy thousand soldiers waited among the hills—an unseen avalanche, poised to fall at a moment's notice. An enchanted mist veiled their presence, leaving no scent, no sound.
They walked toward the gates of the Beast Kingdom, where a far more visible welcome awaited.
Twenty thousand beast warriors, arrayed in organized ranks, sat in silence before the castle. Their eyes glinted in the rising sun. When the Empire knights came into view, they cheered—wild, animalistic, eager for blood.
From within their ranks stepped Targan, fangs bared in a grin, swaggering forward like a wolf at feast. His appearance made Herald's fists clench, old wounds opening behind his gaze—but the veteran did not act. Not yet.
Targan raised his voice for all to hear.
"The King has reconsidered. The duel will proceed—but only your Emperor may enter. One step out of line, and we'll execute every hostage."
He paused. Then added with a sneer:
"Ah, and one more thing… we have one of your noble,what's his name again?Ah, he is the Count of Valyria."
A murmur broke out among the Empire's knights. Even Lucas narrowed his eyes.
Valyria? How?
Was it a bluff? A trap? Or had the Beastmen struck deeper than anyone imagined?
But Isla remained still. Still as ice.
A noble, even one like the Count, was more difficult to replace than commoners—but not irreplaceable. To Isla, none of them were.
"I see," he replied, voice calm but coiled with fury. "Then I will go alone."
Inside, rage seethed like a storm.
They dare… order me?
They dare… dictate terms to the Emperor of the Empire?
This was more than a hostage crisis. This was a challenge to his reign. To his pride.
If I must destroy the Beast Kingdom with my own two hands, so be it.
He turned to Lucas, locking eyes with his younger brother. The campfire in his gaze burned to embers.
"Burn everything.We take no prisoners of war."
There was no hesitation in his voice. No care for the innocent. Only command, born of divine confidence.
Lucas nodded.
Isla turned and followed Targan alone.
Not a single soldier questioned his decision. None dared. For they knew the truth—their Emperor was not a man. He was a force of nature.
A mere beast would not bring him down.
To the troops and the people, it was a heroic act. Their sovereign, risking his life for hostages. A selfless display of honor and courage.
But that was a lie.
To Isla, neither commoner nor noble had value beyond their utility. This was not a rescue. This was a reckoning.
And Isla was about to show the world why the Empire ruled not by law—but by fear.
Beast Kingdom Palace
The Beast King's throne room pulsed with hostility. Dozens of beast warriors lined the chamber—claws twitching, fangs bared, muscles tensed. Each one looked ready to pounce at a moment's notice.
And yet, Isla walked forward unshaken.
His boots echoed against the cracked stone floor, a slow and deliberate rhythm that silenced even the growls in the air. Cloaked in a robe of midnight black, his dark armor shimmered beneath it like an abyss. White hair framed his face, and his cold blue eyes—sharp, cruel, unflinching—swept across the hall.
Not one flicker of fear.
To him, they were nothing. Just animals in a cage.
The stench of sweat, blood, and pride filled the air, but Isla only frowned. Disgust clouded his gaze. He didn't just want them to kneel—he wanted them to break.
"And this filth dares to call itself a kingdom?" he thought.
"A beast on a throne? Blasphemy."
At the far end of the chamber sat the Beast King,Vilai—perched arrogantly upon a jagged throne of bones, flanked by beast-women draped in war paint and jewelry of fangs. He lounged as if he was already victorious.
But the illusion shattered when a figure crawled between them—bloodied, trembling, broken.
It was the Count of Valyria.
The nobleman dragged himself forward, one arm useless, eyes wide with terror. Tears and blood streaked his face as he begged Isla for salvation.
"P-please… Your Majesty… Save me…"
Isla didn't even look at him.
"Pathetic," he thought, watching the once-proud Count wiggle like a worm.
The Beast King rose from his throne, each step a rumble across the floor. His heavy frame bore the power of a monster and the confidence of a tyrant. A twisted smile split his scarred face as he stepped forward, gesturing toward the wall beside his throne.
"Your head," he said, voice gravelly, amused, "would make a fine addition to my collection."
Isla's reply was cold.
"I remember you knelt before me not too long ago."
A hush fell across the room.
For a heartbeat, the Beast King said nothing. Then his voice erupted in rage, fangs bared, fists clenched.
"Then let's begin, my child!"
The floor trembled. Beast warriors snarled.
But Isla did not flinch.
He took one step forward—and the temperature dropped. Shadows rippled behind him. His presence alone was a declaration of war.
The duel had not yet begun.
But in that moment, everyone in the throne room knew:
This was a battle between two kings.