The shouts drew nearer, rolling like distant thunder. The golden-brown armor of the approaching Scorpion Legion glimmered menacingly under the scorching sun, each metallic plate flashing like a shard of fire. The banners swayed—a field of skulls and barbed stingers etched in black and crimson—marching symbols of inevitable carnage.
The colosseum, moments ago a boiling pot of excitement, now churned with raw terror. What had been an eager crowd now surged into chaos. The stands shook as men and women scrambled over stone benches, clawing for escape. Children wailed, sandals slapped against marble floors, and in less than ten minutes, order had crumbled into a screaming storm.
A stampede erupted. Boots, bare feet, and hooves collided in blind panic. Screams split the air as bodies fell and were crushed under the merciless tide of fleeing souls. Blood darkened the pale stone steps. Without a single blade raised by the enemy, death had already claimed its due.
Amidst the pandemonium, a single figure vanished like smoke in a gale. Groa Aratat, the Emperor—the Lion of the Nazare Blade Empire—slipped from his designated exalted seat without so much as a whisper. No guard saw him go. No noble noticed him leave, enough to call his name. Everyone was too distracted to notice. One heartbeat he was there, a towering presence cloaked in imperial majesty; the next, he was gone, swallowed by shadow.
His seat stood empty. The empire stood leaderless.
Panic spread like wildfire through the ranks. Imperial guards clustered in confusion, blades drawn but directionless, like a nest of hornets whose queen had perished. Orders clashed. Formations broke.
In the midst of this frenzy, two voices cut through the din.
Adolph Li, the Royal Regent—a man draped in obsidian silk, his silver rings gleaming as he gripped his ceremonial staff—shouted, his voice cracking like a whip:
"Hold the lines! Form the barricades! You are soldiers of the Empire, not spineless worms! We march as one coordinated army!"
Opposite him, Darke Dean, the Head Trainer of the Imperial Legions, strode forward like a mountain in motion. His scarred armor bore the marks of a hundred battles; his voice was a growl wrapped in steel.
"Forget barricades! Steel to the front! Archers to the walls! Every man with a sword to the gates!"
They locked eyes, the tension sparking like flint. For years, these two titans had clashed over everything—training methods, military strategy, even the Emperor's favor. But now, with death knocking at their gates, the old feud flared even as necessity forced them closer.
Adolph sneered. "Your brute tactics will doom us all, Dean. We need order, not chaos! We need intelligent tactics not mindless hitting!"
Darke spat on the blood-slick floor. "Order? You pompous worm, your 'order' will have us roasted alive while you prance about with your scrolls!"
Before steel could cross between them, a voice boomed across the colosseum like the blast of a war horn.
"Enough!"
All heads turned. Striding across the cracked marble steps, framed by the smoking sunlight, came Prince Balek—the First Prince of the Empire. His armor, though hastily donned, shone with crimson enamel, the sigil of the Aratat line blazing on his chest. His black hair whipped in the wind, and his golden eyes blazed like molten coin.
Behind him, two figures lingered—Prince Jaden, the second prince, lean and sharp-eyed, and Princess Zemira, her emerald gown torn, her jeweled dagger clutched in pale hands.
The other royals were gone. Vanished like the Emperor.
Balek mounted the central dais with the ease of a predator ascending a peak. He spread his arms, his voice a storm given form:
"Listen to me, all of you citizens of this great empire! Soldiers, nobles, commoners—every soul that still draws breath! Right now, we have death approaching a few kilometers away, we have no time for drama, but to work together as one unit. "
The crowd stilled, as if his words had cast a spell. Even the stampede faltered, fear bowing to the iron in his tone.
"Adolph. Darke. You will stop your bickering and forge the line together. Archers on the walls, spearmen to the gates, cavalry to the flanks. Every blade we have bleeds today for the Nazare Blade Empire!"
He turned to the trembling masses in the stands.
"And you—people of the Nazare Blade Empire! Find steel, find wood, find fire! If you can lift a hammer, you can crush a skull. If you can hold a rope, you can pull down a traitor! We fight—not for the Emperor who fled, not for thrones or crowns—but for survival!"
His voice rose, each word hammering their souls like a drumbeat of destiny.
"We stand now, or we never rise again!"
A roar erupted, primal and fierce, from the throats of soldiers and civilians alike. For a heartbeat, fear gave way to fury. Men seized broken benches as makeshift clubs. Women gripped daggers stolen from fallen guards. The ground trembled not from panic—but from the march of defiance.
Darke Dean cracked a grin, his hand tightening on his broadsword. "Hah! Finally, someone with a spine."
Adolph Li's lip curled, but he bowed, silk trailing like ink. "As the Prince commands."
Far beyond the gates, the war drums of the Scorpion Legion thundered louder. The banners swelled in the wind. The storm was almost upon them.
And from somewhere in the labyrinth of corridors, a whisper slithered like poison:
Where has the Emperor gone? And why did he run?
Lola and her group had fanned out across the crumbling colosseum, blending into its ancient shadows like whispers of a forgotten age. They crouched behind broken pillars and shattered stone balustrades, each heart pounding in quiet synchrony. Dust motes drifted in shafts of sunlight that pierced the ruins, making the air seem almost sacred—if not for the scent of blood and the echo of war drums growing louder with every beat.
The silence was unnerving. No one spoke. Even the wind dared not stir too loudly, as if fearful of betraying their positions. Sweat glistened on Lola's brow, sliding slowly down her temple like an hourglass counting down to chaos. Her knuckles whitened around the hilt of her dagger as her eyes narrowed, scanning the arched entrance where the enemy would soon pour through like a swarm of venomous ants.
The Scorpion Empire.