Albert rose, dragging Fernando's headless corpse aside. He seized the severed head, a grim, bloody trophy, and strode out into the carnage.
Amidst the raging fire of the war, he vaulted onto a table, the heavy silence of his entry instantly eclipsing the chaos. He fired a single, deafening shot into the ceiling.
Every fighter, every killer, froze, their weapons dropping, their eyes drawn to the man standing high above them. They gasped, horrified, at the grisly head held aloft in his hand.
Albert raised the head for all to see, his voice a roar of absolute authority:
"Arthur Wayne and Fernando Fiorini are dead! Their thrones stand empty!"
He took a deep, commanding breath that quieted the entire battlefield.
"I AM SITTING ON BOTH!"
He hurled the head to the ground, stomping on it with a vicious, final crunch that echoed like a decree.
"DOES ANYONE HAVE AN OBJECTION?!"
The answer was a terrifying stillness. One by one, their hearts heavy with fear and their spirits broken, every killer bowed.
Albert Avellino—the betrayal made flesh—had claimed his empire. He was now the undisputed ruler, the man who instantly shredded Arthur's only principle and began his unholy conquest. He killed the innocent, his cruelty becoming a legend whispered in the shadows. From that day forth, the world knew him only by his fearful new name: THE MERCILESS MONARCH.