April, 1st, 1810
Time had a way of slipping its leash. More than two weeks had passed since the destruction—an incident that had ripped through the night without warning—and the human world had not recovered. It didn't just whisper through the towns; it roared. Newspapers burned through ink and breath alike as The Lantin Society, a secretive underground network, leaked the most grotesque truth the public could stomach.
They called it the Superior Project.
The revelations spread like wildfire. Names once spoken only in hushed corridors now stained every front page. Politicians, ministers, heads of states—men and women whose faces once smiled from gilded portraits—found themselves dragged into the light. The documents were explicit, the horrors undeniable. For every line printed, another family's life had been torn away.
"How could they hide this from us?" people demanded in the streets. But the question had an edge of futility: whatever had been done could not be undone. Those stolen by the project were gone. No apology, no tribunal, no law could stitch the missing back into being.
"Will they pay?" the crowds cried. "If the courts won't act, we will." The chant threaded through cities and villages, a sudden, raw hunger for justice that felt dangerously like revenge. Already, tongues wagged of civil uprisings and mob tribunals—of ordinary men stepping into the role of executioner.
Among the ruined reputations, one name eclipsed the rest: Percival Ashford.
To many, he was the architect of modern industry—the mind who had pushed humanity into a new mechanical age. He was the engine of the Industrial Revolution, a genius who bent steam and steel to his will. To others he'd been a benefactor, a man whose factories promised livelihoods and whose patronage gilded whole cities.
Now, as the documents proved, he was a different thing entirely: the puppetmaster behind a cruelty so vast it dug graves in the conscience of nations. Percival—idol, kingmaker, man of science—had become public enemy number one.
His image, painstakingly built over decades, lay in shreds. Influence, trusts, alliances—gone. Governments that once courted him now called for his head. A war criminal, a pariah, and an open bounty worth fortunes.
If I were Percival, I thought, I would never return.
He had enemies enough to fill a small army. Nations, private mercenaries, grieving families—each would tear him apart if they could. Yet I could not imagine him cowed by posters and threats. Devils, after all, enjoy the storm. To his mind, this might be just another machine to be understood and outwitted.
WANTED
Percival Ashford
Dead or turned in to any national government.
Bounty: 152.8 billion
The posters pasted themselves to every inn, alley, and tavern—an invitation to fortune and damnation. Catch him, and a life of comfort would follow. Try, and most would find the last thing they saw was the barrel of someone else's pistol.
Finding Percival was not a matter of money; it was a matter of impossibility. Whoever hid him had done so with a care and cunning that made the devil look tidy.
"Try if you may," the whisper read between the lines. "But beware: death knocks first for those who seek him."
Country: Imperial Kingdom of Russia
Location: House of Ivanovich, Tsarigrad Citadel
While the world burned with rumor beyond its walls, a small, deliberate intruder traversed the Tsarigrad Citadel's vaulted hall toward the throne room.
It moved with the indifferent grace of a hunter and the casual arrogance of a sovereign. No one stopped the cat that wandered beneath the banners and tapestries. But that cat was no ordinary creature.
That cat was Alcmena—the Dragon King.
"I'm thankful Lady Anastasia was able to arrange this meeting for me in advance," Alcmena thought, his voice heavy with unspoken weight. "It's been over two weeks, and Xavier still hasn't woken up."
He remembered the frantic moments that followed the battle. "I was fortunate his siblings arrived in time, to rush him back to Russia and call upon their family's sacred Ethereal Instrument—the Holy Grail. Without it, his body never would have survived those fatal wounds."
But even miracles had limits. Xavier's lack of an ethereal core had only worsened things. "The corruption had nowhere to flow," Alcmena reflected. "It couldn't settle in his core—because there was none. So it spread through him like poison."
He had tried to intervene. He remembered the burning weight as he drew some of the corruption into himself. "I don't regret it," he admitted. "He was at death's door. His heart had already stopped."
Alcmena's gaze softened as he thought of Xavier. "Even so… taking half his punishment nearly destroyed me. I'm amazed I still draw breath. My life expectancy has been carved away, shortened by centuries, perhaps more."
He let the silence linger. Then, with a humorless smile, he muttered, "What am I worrying about? I'm a dragon. We live for thousands, even millions of years. A chipped stone is still a mountain. This price isn't so terrible."
But the weight never quite lifted.
At the end of the citadel hall stood a towering door, flanked by knights clad in white armor, their spears glinting under the torchlight. Alcmena padded forward on silent paws until the knights noticed him.
"I am here to see your king," he declared, his voice low yet carrying the authority of command.
The knights stiffened in shock. A talking cat? Their doubts had no time to root. A voice rolled through the hall, vast and commanding, drowning every other sound:
"Let him in."
It was the King himself.
The knights obeyed without hesitation, pushing open the colossal doors. Light spilled out—golden, divine, as if the heavens themselves had poured into the throne room. Alcmena stepped inside calmly, unhurried, though every eye was on him.
The chamber was vast, drenched in sunlight pouring through stained glass. Nobles in tailored silks lined the red carpet, their gazes sharp and suspicious, tracking his every step. Judgment flickered in their eyes, as if weighing the worth of the creature walking before them.
At the end of the carpet stood four thrones. Two smaller ones at the lower dais, one at the upper right, and the grandest of them all at the center. The King's throne, carved in majesty, unmatched in splendor.
On the lower seats sat Violet Ivanovich, Princess of Russia, and beside her, Prince Aleksander Ivanovich, heir apparent. And at the apex of power sat their father—Head of the Ivanovich family, one of humanity's Four Great Monarchs, one of the Four Pillars of power itself—Saint Emperor Graviil Ivanovich.
One throne remained empty. The Queen's. She had passed quietly in her sleep many years ago, leaving the King to rule alone beneath the dawn skies.
Now the chamber fell into silence. Alcmena stood before the Emperor, eyes locked with eyes, two sovereigns measuring each other without words: the Dragon King and the Emperor of Russia.
Graviil broke the silence, his voice a thunderclap wrapped in solemn divinity. "I was surprised when Anastasia told me you sought an audience. I wasn't expecting a… cat, asking for a summit with a king. But clearly, you are no ordinary beast."
Alcmena said nothing at first. Then, quietly but firmly, he answered: "You are correct, fellow Emperor."
As the words left his lips, light spilled from his form. The small feline body began to swell, bones stretching, scales shimmering into being. Gasps echoed across the chamber as the cat's disguise unraveled, giving way to his true majesty.
Alcmena, the Dragon King, stood unveiled in the throne room of men.
His voice deepened, vast, carrying the weight of an ancient crown. "It would be dishonorable to stand before another King in false form. Today, Emperor, I will speak plainly. I will tell you everything."
"I see," Graviil replied, narrowing his eyes. His stare bore into the dragon before him, gauging his measure. Even diminished in size to fit the hall, Alcmena's form towered, his majesty undeniable, his presence filling the chamber with awe and dread alike.
The chamber erupted in shock. Councillors and politicians recoiled, pale and trembling, unable to comprehend what they had just witnessed. A talking cat transforming before their eyes was astounding enough—but a dragon? In the human realm? In this age? It was unthinkable. Worse, it was a violation of the peace treaty that had ended the Great Race War.
Aleksander and Violet were no less shaken, their voices caught in their throats.
"My goodness…" Violet whispered, awe and terror mingling in her voice. She clutched at her chest, staring at the dragon with wide eyes. "Ark… you were a dragon all along? Why would you—and Xavier—hide such a secret from us?"
Aleksander, however, was not awed. His jaw tightened, his eyes sharp with unease. "To think a dragon ate, slept, and walked among us in our own halls, and we never knew… It unsettles me. Deeply."
"I understand how you feel, Aleksander," Emperor Graviil said at last, his voice measured. Yet even he admitted, "Your disguise was powerful enough to deceive even me. To slip past my watchful eye… impressive."
Alcmena's lips curved faintly, pride flashing for a heartbeat. "I am a Dragon King, after all."
The words struck like lightning. Murmurs turned to gasps. Dragon King? The phrase alone froze the air. Fear rippled outward, choking the hall.
Graviil's aura flared, restrained but lethal, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. He studied Alcmena with wrathful caution. The possibility clawed at his mind—could this be that Dragon King? The infamous one whispered in dread across centuries? A being of destruction said to rival even Julius at the height of his prime?
Tension climbed higher with each heartbeat. Even the royal children stiffened, breaths caught in the rising storm.
Then Alcmena let his own aura flow, vast and ancient. It rolled through the chamber like a tide, pressing on every chest, demanding reverence. His voice boomed, resonant and undeniable:
"I am the Great and Mighty Dragon King, Alcmena D. Regaliath—Prince of Stars, Dragon of Creation… Grand Herrscher of the Cosmic Realms."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in before finishing: "And Guardian Keeper of the Legendary Blade, Excalibur—the Sword of the Divine Hero."
The silence that followed was absolute. Not even a breath dared disturb it. Jaws hung open. Even Graviil and Aleksander faltered beneath the revelation.
"D-Dragon King Alcmena!" one councillor stammered, his voice cracking. "It… it can't be! No such being could be standing here!"
"He's right!" another shouted, fear breaking his composure. "It's impossible!"
But Alcmena's answer cut their doubts cleanly, calm yet sharp as steel. "And why would I lie? No dragon would dare take the Regaliath name in vain—not even for a heartbeat. To do so is to invite death. It is sacred. Untouchable. And I tell you now… I am who I say I am."
The hall fell into a silence so heavy it seemed years passed in that stillness.
Aleksander's lips barely moved as he muttered under his breath, "What has Xavier dragged himself into? To consort with such a being… the Dragon of Creation himself?"
Beside him, Violet trembled, fingers pressed against her chest as her heart hammered. The weight of revelation bore down on her—yet she knew worse was still to come. All she could do was watch, and pray.
At last, Emperor Graviil stirred. He had remained motionless throughout, but now his chest rose with a sharp breath. And then—laughter. Deep, booming, unsettling laughter. The sound echoed through the chamber, filling it with unease, as though the Emperor found amusement in a moment that should have frozen the blood of every mortal present.
"Never in my life would I have guessed I'd be granted the grace of speaking face to face with such a prestigious figure," Graviil mused aloud, his tone edged with humor. His smile, however, carried a shadow. "Dragon King Alcmena, hm? The Great and Fierce Dragon once compared to his late father—the First Dragon, Eldoria."
He let the name hang in the air before continuing, his words colder now. "A being so mighty, not even the Dragon of Destruction could surpass him. Brothers of equal power… both feared, both remembered. But I'll admit," he said, voice dropping into something sharper, "had your name been your brother's, I would've struck you down without hesitation, fellow Emperor."
Alcmena's laugh was low, unbothered. "Understandable. My brother, Destroroyah, does not inspire goodwill among… anyone. He is the Dragon of Death and Chaos, after all. Fear and hatred follow him like a shadow. And as his brother, I am left to carry the weight of that burden. Such is the curse of blood ties."
Graviil chuckled, easing the tension only slightly. He gestured to a folded newspaper at his side, flipping it open to reveal a grainy photograph. The black-and-white image showed a vast, winged shadow stretching across the London night sky. The bold caption beneath screamed: A DRAGON SPOTTED IN LONDON—IS THIS THE BEGINNING OF THE END?
"You may be powerful, Dragon King," Graviil teased, though his eyes stayed sharp, "but you've never been subtle when showing your true form, have you?"
Alcmena's smirk was edged with sarcasm. "It could not be helped. My vessel was in danger. Revealing myself was the only option. And if mortals glimpse what they cannot comprehend, then so be it."
The Emperor's laughter rumbled again, smoother this time. "Well, 'Dragon King,' I should warn you—burying these rumors won't be simple. A dragon appearing in the human realm? That spreads faster than wildfire." His tone turned almost boastful. "But you're fortunate. I'm well acquainted with Britain's Emperor. With a word, I can pull strings, silence these reports, and dismiss them as nothing more than hysteria stirred by opportunists chasing fame. The recent destruction in London only helps the story—smoke, panic, confusion… who wouldn't mistake a bird for a dragon in the chaos?"
Alcmena raised a brow, a flicker of genuine surprise in his eyes. That the Emperor would extend such effort for him was unexpected. His lips curved faintly. "You would go to such lengths to cover for me? I am… grateful."
"No need," Graviil replied curtly. "You didn't call me here for trifles. This is about my grandson Xavier, isn't it?"
Alcmena inclined his head once. "Indeed."
The Emperor clapped his hands together, the sound sharp in the heavy air. "From this moment on, nothing spoken here leaves these walls. Understood?"
Aleksander, Violet, and the councillors exchanged uneasy glances, beads of sweat glinting on their brows. No one dared object. Graviil's decree was final.
Straightening in his throne, the Emperor's eyes blazed as they locked onto Alcmena's. "Now then, my fellow Emperor," he said, voice steady, commanding, "tell us what you came here to reveal. What truth warrants such a gathering?"
Alcmena stood tall, silent for a breath that seemed to stretch an eternity. His gaze swept the chamber. The weight of destiny hung in the air, thick and suffocating.
Fate had begun its course. The first domino had already fallen. And the revelations to come would change everything.