The Demon's Throne
A small Britannian airship soared over the scorched remains of what was once central Australia—now restructured into a secretive weapons testing facility. Inside the vessel, Bartley Asprius, a nobleman of minor standing, sat trembling in silence. He wasn't en route to a meeting—he was being summoned.
The death of Prince Clovis at the hands of a masked revolutionary named Zero had shaken the empire. And now Bartley feared he would be next.
The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom:
"Approaching Area 12. Prepare for the descent."
Bartley exhaled shakily, gazing out the window. The land below had been scorched and repurposed—experimental weapons, black banners, and mysterious towers of Gothic design dotted the sands. At the edge of the sea stood the main fortress, carved into obsidian and wrapped in strange symbols—the hidden bastion of Claus Valentina-Britannia, the enigmatic prince known to those who served him as:
The Demon Heir
Ra's al Ghul Reborn.
The ship landed with a quiet hiss. The hatch opened. Waiting at the base of the ramp were silent, robed figures in dark armor—each bearing the sigil of the League of Assassins, a serpent coiled around a sword. One stepped forward.
"Lord Claus is waiting."
Bartley followed, anxiety coiling in his stomach like a viper. He had heard the rumors—everyone had. Claus was unlike any other prince. He scorned noble blood and claimed descent not merely from Britannia, but from ancient bloodlines lost to history. It was said he had walked across centuries, mastered countless forms of warfare, and rebuilt the League of Assassins as his army.
As they walked through the fortress, Bartley saw soldiers in silent training, monks meditating before strange glyphs, and laboratories where arcane science and forbidden alchemy were fused. In one chamber, prisoners—condemned for treason—were subjected to weapons that defied understanding. One begged for mercy. The response was a silent gesture—and a burst of searing light.
Eventually, they reached the throne chamber—massive, dark, lit by braziers and cascading water. There, upon a high dais beneath the crest of the League, sat Claus Valentina-Britannia, cloaked in shadow, robed in deep emerald and black. His voice echoed like a whisper from ancient tombs.
"Bartley Asprius... Welcome."
He gestured, and a chair was brought forward.
"Sit. Let us speak of betrayal."
Bartley bowed quickly, voice trembling.
"T-thank you, my lord."
Claus rose from his throne and began to circle him, hands clasped behind his back.
"My father gave a speech, did he not?"
He pressed a sigil on the wall. A large screen descended, playing the recorded imperial address.
Charles zi Britannia:
"Equality is a lie. Progress belongs to those who struggle, who dominate. The weak shall serve, and Britannia shall rise upon the ashes of the defeated…"
Audience:
"ALL HAIL BRITANNIA!"
The screen faded. Claus's tone darkened.
"Not a word of mourning for Clovis. Not a moment spared for the prince whose carelessness brought ruin to the Shinjuku Ghetto."
Without warning, Claus backhanded the chair, sending Bartley crashing to the floor.
"That man speaks of evolution as though it were conquest. He does not understand balance. Or justice. Or consequence."
He stepped closer, voice low and venomous.
"We call our enemies numbers. Strip them of identity. Culture. Meaning. And so we forget what we fight. That ignorance gave rise to Zero."
Returning to his throne, Claus sat with the calmness of one prepared to outlive empires.
"Now, Bartley. Tell me—what was Clovis doing in the Ghetto?"
Bartley stammered, fear rising.
"He—he was experimenting. A test subject escaped. He—he ordered it covered up—"
"He called it poison gas," Claus finished with disdain. "Do you have proof?"
Still on the floor, Bartley shakily pulled photos from inside his coat. Claus took them. He studied the images silently.
"Where is the woman?" he asked.
"I—I don't know, my lord. She vanished in the chaos. But given time—"
A flash of steel.
Bartley didn't scream. His eyes widened as he clutched his throat. Blood poured across the marble floor. Claus stood over him, blade already clean.
"Time is a luxury your kind has squandered."
He turned to the nearest assassin.
"Dispose of this failure."
Later — The Inner Sanctum
Claus entered the command chamber of the League. His followers stood and bowed.
"The Demon walks," they whispered in unison.
He approached the central display—a vast screen replaying the carnage of Shinjuku. He said nothing for a long time, watching the horror unfold in slow silence.
"Who rules Japan now?" he asked without turning.
"Princess Euphemia, my lord. Her elder sister, Cornelia, is en route to assist."
Claus exhaled.
"Contact them both. I wish to speak."
The screen shifted. After a moment, the two princesses appeared.
"Claus!" Euphemia smiled, radiating warmth. "It's good to see you. I hope—"
"Do not mistake this call for affection," Claus interrupted. "I speak of duty, not sentiment."
Cornelia narrowed her eyes but said nothing.
"I intend to oversee Japan myself," Claus said. "Your methods are too... delicate. The League sees with eyes beyond your reach."
Cornelia spoke, sharp and scolding.
"You're still Britannian. You answer to the throne."
"A throne built on vanity and lies," Claus replied coldly. "I answer to history. I answer to order. I answer to the balance you have all forgotten."
Euphemia stepped forward gently.
"Please, brother… can we not find a way to work together? Let me share this burden with you."
Claus was silent. Then, finally:
"Very well. But understand this—while we share governance, you will not question my methods."
His tone sharpened.
"This is now a League operation. If either of you interfere…"
A pause like a drawn blade.
"I will erase you. Just as I have erased others."
Cornelia clenched her jaw. Euphemia's heart visibly broke. She said nothing.
"This conversation is over. May the shadows grant you wisdom."
The screen went dark.
Epilogue
In her quarters, Euphemia sat before an old painting of the Britannian royal family—Claus among them, a quiet boy with eyes too ancient for his age.
She touched his image, eyes glistening.
"Why do you hate us, Claus? Why do you carry the world's grief alone?"