In the heart of the grandest castle in the human kingdom, within a chamber adorned with tapestries depicting glorious victories and walls echoing with the weight of centuries, King Theron sat at his ornate desk, his face etched with frustration and a deep, simmering anger.
The room, usually a symbol of power and prosperity, felt heavy with a sense of impending doom. Before him, his attendant, a thin, nervous man named Finn, shuffled through a stack of parchment scrolls, his hands trembling slightly.
Finn cleared his throat, his voice barely a whisper.
"Your Majesty, the reports...They are...discouraging. The latest raids, they have all failed." He swallowed nervously, avoiding the king's gaze. "The supply ships...they were lost at sea. All hands...lost." He paused, bracing himself for the inevitable reaction. "The...The temporary coastal settlements...they were smashed by the incoming storms. Many...drowned."
He hurried on, eager to deliver the few slivers of good news he could find. "However, Your Majesty, the engineers...they have made progress on the...safe passage. It is...expected to be completed...soon. It won't be long before—"
Thwack!~
Finn flinched, narrowly dodging a crystal orb that the king had hurled at him. It shattered against the wall behind him, sending shards of crystal scattering across the floor.
Theron then rose from his chair, his face contorted with rage.
"That's what you've been telling me for months, Finn!" He roared, his voice echoing through the chamber. "Months!...'Soon'! 'Progress'! 'Almost'!...I'm sick of hearing it!"
"...Every time I ask for an update, it's the same song and dance! 'Progress'! What progress?! My ships are at the bottom of the ocean! My soldiers are starving! And my treasuries are draining faster than a sieve in a rainstorm!"
He paced back and forth, his anger growing with each step.
"My ancestors! None of them ever attempted to invade that accursed continent! They knew better since magic still existed! But now magic doesn't exist and I saw the opportunity!"
"...The chance to etch my name in history! To claim that land for the glory of the human empire! A prize so rich with resources and potential!"
He slammed his fist on the desk, rattling the inkwell and sending scrolls tumbling to the floor.
"And what have I accomplished?! Nothing! Worse than nothing! We've wasted time, we've wasted resources, and we've wasted lives! All because of...incompetence!"
He stopped pacing and glared at Finn, who was cowering against the wall.
"If I don't hear good news by next week, Finn." He hissed, his voice dangerously low. "I swear, I will personally send you to the front lines! You can tell me all about the progress from there! Perhaps a little...firsthand experience...will improve your reporting!"
He turned and stormed out of the chamber, leaving Finn trembling in his wake. The attendant, his face pale and his heart pounding in his chest, scrambled to gather the scattered scrolls, his mind racing with thoughts of the horrors of the front lines.
He knew the king's threats were not idle. He had to find a way to deliver good news, and he had to do it fast. His life, he knew, depended on it.
•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°
King Theron stormed down the grand corridor of his castle, his heavy boots striking against the polished marble floors with each furious step. The maids lining the hall bowed deeply as he passed, their heads lowered in silent fear, not daring to meet his gaze.
His expression was twisted with frustration, his mind consumed by the mockery that was his so-called campaign.
His ancestors had lived in the age of magic, when the demi-humans possessed unrivaled power, their mastery over the arcane making them untouchable. Even the smallest human expeditions into their lands had ended in complete and utter disaster. Back then, they were monsters—beings beyond human comprehension, wielding magic that could reduce entire armies to ash.
But he was different.
Theron had been born into a world where magic no longer existed. The era of mystery and power was long gone. Civilization had taken its place, science and strategy replacing sorcery and gods.
And he had built everything necessary to crush the demi-human continent.
Factories churned out weapons, fleets of ironclad ships were constructed, armies trained to perfection. The demi-humans were at their weakest, their magic long lost, their numbers dwindling. This should have been an easy conquest, a swift claim over a land left ripe for the taking.
And yet—
They were still holding.
It infuriated him beyond reason. How?! How could they still be resisting? With no magic, no resources, no advanced weapons—what was keeping them alive?!
His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms.
"I need to ruin something to vent my anger." He muttered under his breath, his voice a quiet growl.
And then he remembered.
His gaze flickered toward the two young maids he had just passed, their delicate figures hurrying away after bowing to him.
His anger twisted into something else.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, slow and predatory.
Yes…Yes. They would do.
If he couldn't take out his frustrations on the battlefield, then he'd vent them in a way that would satisfy him another way. He turned sharply on his heel, making his way toward his grand bedchamber, already imagining the 'relief' he was about to enjoy.
He pushed open the heavy double doors to his room, stepping inside with anticipation going through his chest.
But the moment he did, his entire body froze.
A stench hit him.
A sharp, acrid, unbearable stench.
It assaulted his senses, slamming into him like a physical force. His breath caught in his throat, his stomach twisting violently. It was rancid, foul, a smell unlike anything he had ever encountered before.
His vision blurred for a split second, his balance faltering as the sheer intensity of the stench clouded his mind.
"Ugh—!" He stumbled forward, quickly pinching his nose shut.
His eyes watered. His brain screamed in protest.
'What in the gods' names is that?!'
His first thought was that some filthy servant had left a rotting animal in his chambers—perhaps a dead rat, festering somewhere in a corner. His rage ignited once again.
He raised his head, preparing to call for a servant and tear into them mercilessly for failing to maintain his personal quarters. Someone was going to be lashed for this disgrace.
But then—
He saw it.
And his words died in his throat.
His eyes widened. His pupils shrank.
His entire body locked up, his breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. The hand covering his nose dropped, falling limply to his side.
His knees weakened, the strength in his legs vanishing.
It was as though he had been thrust into the depths of hell itself.
He wanted to scream. To run.
But his body—his very soul—refused to move.
Cold sweat poured down his back, his heartbeat pounding so violently that he could hear it in his ears.
And in that moment, for the first time in his entire reign, King Theron knew true fear.
...What he saw for him look as if he had walked into the devil's den?
Well, he saw was a handsome young man with an air of casual indifference, sitting cross-legged on the plush carpet in the middle of his royal chamber.
The sight itself was enough to send a jolt of alarm through Theron.
No one, not even the most skilled assassin, could have bypassed the layers of security, the thousands of soldiers, the impenetrable barriers, to enter his private sanctum. Yet, here this man was, a trespasser in the most secure location in the kingdom, an intruder in his very bedroom.
A shiver ran down Theron's spine, a cold dread creeping into his heart. But this was merely a prelude to the true horror that awaited him as his gaze dropped to the man's lap.
And his blood ran cold.
The man was holding something, tapping his fingers against it in a lazy, almost playful manner.
A smooth, rounded object.
At first, Theron couldn't quite process it. The dim candlelight flickered across its pale surface, casting deep shadows over its contours.
Then—
Then his mind finally understood what it was.
His stomach twisted violently.
It was a head.
An actual, severed human head.
And not just anyone head, but his is eldest son's head who was supposed to be the next heir
Prince Aldric...The crown prince.
Theron's body locked up in sheer, unfiltered horror.
The face was frozen in terror, the mouth slightly open as if in a final, silent scream. The skin was pale, drained of all blood. His once proud, regal features were now distorted in a grimace of agony and despair.
Aldric had suffered...Horribly.
Theron felt his breath stutter, his hands numb at his sides. His mind screamed at him to do something—to speak, move, demand answers, summon his guards, anything!
But he couldn't.
Because the nightmare wasn't over.
No...It was only beginning.
His eyes drifted—against his will—past the grinning intruder, past the head in his lap, and to the floor beyond him.
And that was when his very soul fractured.
The ground—his lavish marble floor, his once pristine, regal chamber—was drenched in blood.
It was everywhere. A dark, sticky pool, soaking the fine carpet, seeping into the cracks of the stone, staining the very air with its putrid, metallic scent.
And the heads on top of that very pool of blood...Dozens.
Dozens of severed human heads—arranged in perfect, eerie circles around the man, layer upon layer, each one placed so that all of them were staring directly at him.
The dead, glassy eyes bore into him, their lifeless gazes filled with the final moments of horror and suffering. Some had mouths gaping in silent screams, others twisted in expressions of agony and disbelief.
Some he recognized immediately—his nobles, his generals, his advisors. The very backbone of his empire.
All of them—butchered.
Their severed remains turned into a grotesque audience, bearing witness to the monster that sat among them like a king on his throne of carnage.
Theron's knees buckled. His fingers twitched at his sides. His throat tightened, refusing to let out even the smallest sound.
His body wanted to scream. His soul wanted to flee.
But the man sitting before him just tilted his head, still smiling, tapping his fingers lazily against the decapitated skull in his lap like it was nothing more than a toy.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"Ah, you're finally here."
His voice was casual, almost lighthearted, as if he were greeting an old friend at a dinner party. He turned the severed head in his hands slightly, examining its face before flicking his eyes back to Theron.
"Your son, yeah? Had a lot to say before he went out." His smirk widened. "Well. Mostly screaming, but that counts, doesn't it?"
Theron's breath stopped. His hands trembled. His chest ached from the sheer force of terror gripping his heart.
The man chuckled, leaning back slightly. "You know, I was just thinking." He mused, tapping a finger against Aldric's lifeless cheek. "For someone with royal blood, he really didn't put up much of a fight."
He exhaled through his nose, lips curling slightly as his dark eyes gleamed with something almost…disappointed.
"And here I was hoping he'd last a bit longer."
Theron's vision blurred. His breathing turned shallow.
This wasn't real.
This couldn't be real.
It had to be a dream. A hallucination.
Because if it was real—if this wasn't some horrible, twisted illusion—
Then he had lost everything before he even realized the battle had begun.