The throne room thundered with each strike. Kazel's blade rang against the skeleton king's, sparks scattering across the cracked marble floor. The weremole lunged from the side, claws gouging the stone where Kazel's head had been a breath ago.
Steel shrieked, breath quickened, and still the voices clashed.
"You speak of a world without hunger," said King Vil, his skeletal frame unyielding as he met Kazel's strike head-on. "But to rule is to accept that some must starve for others to thrive!"
Kazel twisted, locking their blades, eyes burning with cold conviction. "No. To rule is to make sure no one starves. Anything less is cowardice disguised as pragmatism."
The weremole's chain-sword swept across the hall, forcing Kazel into a leap. He landed, rolled, and slashed upward, carving a line into the beast's chest. Black blood hissed against the cold air.
"Bold words for a child!" the skeleton king hissed, his strike descending like a guillotine.
Kazel caught it at the last instant, their blades sparking, faces inches apart. His smirk widened."I was a tyrant in peace, a hero in chaos. Don't mistake my youth for weakness."
The king shoved him back, the weremole rushing in again with claws ablaze. Kazel sidestepped, dragging his blade across its thigh, then spun, parrying the king's thrust.
"Then tell me, young master," the skeleton's voice boomed, echoing in his skull as if the entire ruin spoke. "Will you sacrifice blood for this dream of yours?"
Kazel's laugh was sharp, defiant, his sword drawing another arc toward Vil's neck."I already have. I'll sacrifice every drop, except my own resolve."
Their blades collided again, neither yielding, the throne room trembling under the duel of philosophies as much as steel.
They broke apart at last, steel ringing into silence as both combatants slid back across the cracked floor. For a heartbeat, only the heavy breaths of the weremole and the faint clatter of bone filled the throne room.
Then—
Thunder.It rolled deep through the ruins, shaking dust from the fractured ceiling. A moment later, rain bled through the breaks above, thin rivulets dripping onto cold stone.
Kazel lowered his stance, his jagged blade catching a silver gleam from the moonlight above. He pointed the sword straight at the crowned skeleton, his voice calm but edged like a blade's tip."How did you die, King Vil?"
A droplet of rain fell, striking the crown's lone jewel. The gem pulsed faintly as if remembering old glory, while the hollow sockets of the king held still, unreadable.
The hollow sockets of King Vil tilted downward. His bony fingers grazed the crown as the droplet slid down its jewel, leaving a streak that caught the moonlight.
"I died," the skeleton said slowly, his voice echoing in Kazel's mind, "not in the blaze of battle as I always thought I would… but to betrayal."
His hand clenched tight around the crown, the bones creaking with strain."My generals, my council, those who swore upon their blood to uphold Astrea—they traded loyalty for ambition. They poisoned the wells, starved the city, opened the gates to foreign blades. And when I fought to the very end, they… they were the first to stab my back."
The skeleton lifted his head, the empty sockets locking onto Kazel with a searing, invisible weight."Death is not what haunts me, Emperor Kazel… it is the faces of those who once called me their king."
The weremole growled low beside him, as if carrying the rage of its master.
Kazel steadied his jagged blade at his side, rain streaking down his pale face as he smirked with sharp disdain.
"How pitiful," Kazel said, his voice cutting through the sound of thunder. "How did you end up like this, King Vil? Nothing but bones draped in memories. You can't taste food, can't speak a word with your tongue, can't even feel the wind on your skin. What kind of king is that?"
For the first time, the skeleton's stance faltered, the crown tilting slightly on his skull.
"I… refused the silence," Vil answered at last, his voice echoing not from his mouth but from deep within Kazel's mind, rattling with an otherworldly tremor. "Death came, and with it, the endless void. I clawed and clawed to remain. I chose chains over peace. Regret over rest. I was too proud to fade into dust."
The weremole shifted its footing, its massive sword dragging against the stones with a heavy scrape, echoing Vil's words like a dirge.
Kazel's sneer curved into something crueler, his blade lowering just slightly."Death?" he asked, voice laced with mockery.
"Death," said Vil, his hollow tone echoing through the ruined hall. "And I got what I have wanted."
"You destroyed the very thing you swore to protect," Kazel replied sharply, his eyes narrowing.
"Wise," Vil murmured, with a stillness that suggested both pride and sorrow. "I did just that. The ruins you see… half of them are by passing time. But the other half—by my own hand."
Kazel's grip tightened around his sword. His gaze lingered on the skeleton as if piercing through bone."Were you waiting for someone to end you?"
"I am," Vil admitted. His bony fingers slowly traced along the weremole's fur, and though he had no flesh, there was tenderness in that gesture—a twisted, ghostly love. "I want you to end me… and this eternal damned thing."
Kazel smirked, though his eyes flickered with curiosity."I have a lot of questions. Maybe let's start simple… how does one kill a skeleton?"
Vil's voice sank low, almost reverent."Soul."
The word lingered—Soul—and then silence gave way to violence.
The weremole lunged first, dragging its massive sword across the floor, sparks flying as steel scraped stone. Kazel pivoted, his jagged blade meeting the downward swing with a metallic shriek, the shock rattling through his arm. He kicked against the beast's chest, forcing it back a step, but Vil was already moving.
The skeleton king advanced with uncanny precision, each swing of his spectral blade less about brute strength and more about inevitability—his strikes landed exactly where Kazel would be. Kazel snarled, twisting just out of range, his own sword flashing in a diagonal arc that cut across Vil's ribcage. Bone cracked, yet no pain flickered across that crown-bearing skull.
Vil's strikes rained down like an executioner's hammer, each swing of his spectral blade carrying weight far beyond bone and steel. Kazel was driven back, step by step, his jagged weapon screaming under the force of every blow. The weremole snarled beside its master, lunging and forcing Kazel to twist and roll away, the floor cracking where its sword landed.
"Don't give up now, kill me, END MEEE!" Vil's voice thundered directly into Kazel's skull, his skeletal frame glowing faintly with an ominous blue flame.
Kazel caught the edge of Vil's sword on his battered blade, sparks exploding between them. His arms trembled from the impact—but his grin only widened, wild and wolfish.
"Give up? Please," he hissed through his teeth, shoving the skeleton king back with sheer force. His blue eyes burned with a hunger deeper than the grave."I'm enjoying this!"
He darted forward again, reckless yet precise, weaving between the beast's claws and Vil's blade, a predator dancing in the storm of death.
---
The Fang loomed tall and jagged against the curtain of rain as Okhist and his battered band stumbled back into its shadow. The trek had drained them, the silence of the cursed dark hall still clinging to their skin. Relief washed over them like a second breath—survivors' laughter, nervous at first, then bitter.
"Where's that little Immortal Sect brat now?" one sneered, spitting blood to the ground."Ha! Young master my ass. More like dead master."The chorus of mockery rang hollow in Okhist's ears.
He did not join in. His mind was elsewhere, replaying the voice that had seared into him like a blade drawn across the throat. That promise. Those words, those eyes. It wasn't bravado—it was killing intent so potent it still curdled his blood even now.
Okhist's silence stretched, heavy, until the white cloaks of two knights shimmered into view through the curtain of rain. They stood tall, their armor dulled by mud and travel, but their eyes bright with curiosity.
"You've returned," one said with a grin. "So? Tell us, what happened in there?"
Okhist recounted it—the dark, the chains, the throne of bone, the beast that had driven them off. He explained everything… but not the promise. Not that boy's voice. That truth he buried.
When he finished, the knights roared with laughter, echoing through the Fang."Ha! And we thought the lashes were real punishment! Thousand lashes, my ass. Not one of us ever got it.""Not a single knight of the Order. Just words to scare the greenhorns."
Their laughter grated, but Okhist did not flinch. Instead, he lowered his voice, sharp and clipped.
"If you want to keep your bandit business alive, relocate. Decentralize. Spread it thin. Otherwise…"
He let the sentence hang, unfinished but heavier than stone. The knights' grins faltered for the briefest moment, their mirth dying in their throats before they masked it again.
Okhist turned his back on them, rain soaking his cloak, but his mind was burning with that promise.