"They said kings were chosen by gods… But I am no king. I am the CAESAR. Gods don't choose the Caesar—the Caesar chooses the gods."—Aurelian Van Caesar (The OG)
Sigh…
"Look how they massacred my boy!"
The voice of a ridiculously handsome young man echoed through the golden hall, oozing with disappointment—and just a sprinkle of smug satisfaction—as he closed the manga and casually let it slide off his lap, landing with a dull plop beneath his overly dramatic golden throne.
This was Krashina, third prince of the empire that ruled the entire world of Planetos.
A world that included:
Westeros, filled with knights in shiny armor who call their wives "like a sister to me" (for legal reasons),
And Essos, the supposedly "free" continent where freedom comes with hidden taxes and getting your ball sacked removed when you were five.
The empire also rules some more land here and there.... Not that important right now though.
The name of this all-powerful, all-glorious, all-conquering empire?
ROMAN EMPIRE.
The Empire of Eternal Glory™.(I am rome glazer)
Krashina, who had been lounging across his throne like a bored cat, finally sat up straight with a face that basically screamed, "I'm not mad, I'm just incredibly disappointed."
Just then, a soft voice cut through the air like a passive-aggressive dagger.
"You seem rather upset today, Your Highness," said the man standing beside him—radiating the kind of pretty-boy energy that makes fathers double-check their Sons' phone history.
He was so pretty people might say "You are prettier than both of my daughters" To his face.
The guy looked like a walking K-pop demigod. Long silver hair, glowing purple eyes, and arms respectfully cradling a smug-looking cat with a rectangular mustache.
A nameplate hung around the feline's neck:
"Tudolf Kittler."
Yes. That was the cat's name. No, there was no way to unhear it.
Both the man and the cat gave off the kind of devilish aura you'd expect from people who could commit war crimes at 3 PM, sip tea at 3:01, and sleep like babies by 9.
It made sense, though. The man wasn't just any royal decoration. He was the Roman Empire's Master of Torture, Kratos,—a guy so good at his job, he could make a corpse spill secrets like a high school girl spilling tea about her ex-bestie.
Krashina, on the other hand, didn't even bother giving the man a single side-eye. He just stared down from his unnecessarily tall, unnecessarily shiny golden throne into the massive golden hall below.
All he could see was carnage. Glorious, over-the-top, "who let the Roman Empire cosplay as a death metal album cover" carnage.
There were bodies everywhere.
Some were jesused—crucified like it was Good Friday on steroids.Others were gojoied—sliced up into aesthetic sashimi pieces, like a certain white-haired anime teacher with too much swagger and not enough plot armor.And a few unlucky ones got the full Joan of Arc special—flambéed alive for the crime of existing on the wrong day.
"It's not that I'm upset..." Krashina finally spoke, his voice as heavy as his golden bathrobe. He waved his hands dramatically, like a Greek tragedy actor who also moonlighted as Kratos' therapist. "It's just that…"
He paused, trying to find the strength to go on.
"I've been reading this manga called Naruto for a while now," he said, the pain evident in his tone. "And then I made the mistake—the fatal mistake—of reading the sequel."
He took a deep breath.
"They called it Burrito, man."
The sigh he let out wasn't just deep—it was the kind of sigh that could extinguish campfires and kill vibes in a 10-mile radius.
Krashina muttered under his breath, his tone soaked in disgust, "That emo kid got nerfed, the fox orphan looks like he needs therapy and a nap, and now there are cum-skin aliens invading the shinobi world... Everything's gone to hell in this manga."
He slowly rose from his oversized, extra-golden throne like a man burdened with the weight of witnessing too much anime slander. With a slight flex of his fingers, he picked up the offending manga from the floor—and then, without hesitation, BOOM.
Fire exploded from his palm, engulfing the book instantly in a dramatic inferno, as if it had personally offended the gods of Rome and anime at the same time.
Ash floated in the air.
"I wish I could burn some Targaryens like this…" Krashina muttered, way too casually, and definitely loud enough to make sure Kratos—his extremely sketchy right-hand man—heard him.
Kratos flinched. Just a little. His eyes twitched wide for a fraction of a second like a man who just heard his boss say, "Hey, remember that family you betrayed? Let's barbecue them next."
Without wasting another second, he moved to follow Krashina, who had begun descending the most overkill staircase in existence—a staircase forged entirely from the bleached bones of Rome's enemies, arranged in such a way that every step creaked ominously, like they were still in pain.
If the Iron Throne had a creepy bone cousin with delusions of grandeur and no safety railings, this was it.
"My lord," Kratos spoke up, trying to sound composed but sweating a little internally, "I promise we'll find those damn Targaryens for you soon. I haven't forgotten my oath."
Ah yes. The Oath.
The very serious, very bloody, very Roman oath to capture whatever was left of the Targaryen bloodline and personally deliver their heads like Amazon Prime packages—free shipping included.
Because, plot twist, Kratos' full name? Kratos Targaryen.
Yep. That's right. Homeboy betrayed his own family.
Why? Was it for honor? Justice? Revenge?
Nope.
It's because being a lapdog for the world-dominating Roman Empire was way easier than getting hunted down by five million legionnaires with flaming javelins and daddy issues.
"I mean, come on," Kratos once explained to himself in the mirror. "They bullied me when I was ten. I got called Scaly McFirepants for three straight years. Let 'em burn."
And then, as if this fever dream wasn't chaotic enough, Tudolf Kittler—the dangerously smug, overly intelligent cat being carried in Kratos' arms—decided to chime in.
"Meow meow meow meow meow. Meow, meow meow meow."
Translation (roughly):
"My lord, give me 20 bottles of wildfire and I'll build a gas chamber so massive, you'll be able to torture every last Targaryen punk in alphabetical order."
Krashina paused mid-step, turning slightly to glance back. A mischievous, almost proud smirk crawled across his face. "Those are some bold statements coming from you, Kittler," he said, chuckling as he reached the bottom of the stairs.
And in that moment, like a scene from a totally deranged documentary, a memory flashed in his mind—the day he found Tudolf Kittler.
He had been casually strolling through the capital when he noticed something strange: all the cats in the city were acting... off. Very off.
Like organized rebellion off. As it turned out, Tudolf had somehow manipulated the entire feline population into committing genocide against the ravens.
Why the ravens? Nobody really knows.
What they do know is that Tudolf had rounded them up into "gas rooms" powered by cat farts and scented candles. The smell? Devastating. The effectiveness? Questionably high.
Krashina didn't know whether to be impressed or overly impressed.
So he adopted the little lunatic.
Naturally.
Though sometimes… just sometimes, that little lunatic of a cat goes off the rails. Especially when he's giving speeches about torture or genocides. His eyes glow, his tail twitches violently, and he starts foaming at the mouth like a furry Napoleon on a war crime bender.
Honestly, he truly takes after his owner.
But before anyone could comment on Tudolf's latest "10-step plan to mass interrogation efficiency," something caught Krashina's eye.
"Kratos… is that a dragon?"
That was the last semi-coherent thing Krashina said, his voice flat and confused, like someone watching a UFO land in their backyard while holding a half-eaten sandwich.
Because, yeah. Right there. Outside the tower's massive stained-glass window—was a dragon. A big one. A very big one. And it wasn't just chilling—it was flying straight at them.
On its back? A silver-haired whigga in full "I'm him" mode, riding like he's trying to win the world's edgiest jousting tournament.
Kratos turned to the window slowly, eyes narrowing.
"....."
Kittler also stared. He didn't meow. He didn't blink. He just narrowed his eyes like a cat who'd just realized the birds were unionizing.
And then…
BOOM.
The dragon collided right into the tower—specifically the part where Krashina's extra-golden, taxpayer-funded throne was parked. The entire upper level exploded like someone added Mentos to a soda bottle of chaos.
Fire. Screaming. Dust. The throne room didn't just get remodeled—it got Thanos snapped.
And just when you think, "Whew, okay, at least the other tower's safe…"
BAM!
A second dragon—because why stop at one?—slammed into the second tower like it had a personal vendetta against architecture.
Both towers? Gone.
Up in flames.
Reduced to rubble.
A Few Hours Later…
TV static flickers to life on some unknown monitor.
{BREAKING NEWS! DRAGONS HAVE HIT THE TWIN TOWERS!}
Casualties unknown. The golden toilet of Emperor Krashina has been declared "melted beyond divine recognition." Kittler's whereabouts? Unknown. Kratos? Suspected survivor, but emotionally damaged.
Tyrant emperor? Dead!
The empire? In full panic mode.
Meanwhile… in another world… somewhere disturbingly peaceful…
A chime echoed across a space that looked like a Zen garden mixed with a heavenly IT department.
{DING!}
{The Will of Fire has finally acquired a suitable soul to incarnate!}
A glowing orb floated up from the ground, looking suspiciously like it once belonged to a very loud, very petty Roman emperor who hated Boruto and loved war crimes.