The battlefield was silent.
The silence wasn't natural.
It was the silence of disbelief, the kind that choked the throat and froze the heart. Tens of thousands of eyes, bloodshot and weary, stared at the impossible scene before them.
The Duke of the Falcon Empire, Transcendent, Conqueror, and Warlord, was on his knees.
Blood gushed from his mouth, dribbling down his chin, staining the once-proud crest upon his silver-crimson breastplate.
His body twitched, spasmed, and shuddered violently, each breath weaker than the last. His thunderous aura, the power that had made armies tremble for decades, was gone.
Snuffed out.
What remained was just a man choking on his mortality.
And in front of him stood Klaus.
Every step Klaus took carried across the plains.
Thud
Thud
Thud
Soldiers closest to the scene flinched as though the sound were hammering their skulls. Even those stationed far at the rear swore they could hear it.
