"Sire! They have breached the perimeter—we must retreat! There is nothing left for us here!" a soldier shouted, panic thick in his voice.
"Sire! The northern and eastern gates have fallen! They've taken several civilians hostage—we won't be able to hold them off much longer!" another soldier cried out, desperation etched across his face.
"Emperor, the soldiers are awaiting your command," the captain in charge reported hastily, urgency evident in his tone.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk… Demon. The situation isn't looking good. You've got a plan, right?" a voice cut through the noise.
The speaker wore a uniform distinct from the others, adorned with eight gleaming stars on his shoulder—marking him as one of the Chief Generals of the Allied Forces.
This war was no minor skirmish—it was a continent-shattering clash between the East and West, ignited by the discovery of a new resource powerful enough to alter the global balance. The Eastern Continent was unified under a single, iron-fisted regime, granting it overwhelming strength. The Western Continent, in contrast, was fractured—half of its nations had been conquered in recent years by the very man now called Emperor, while the remaining half had allied with him, banding together in a desperate stand against the Eastern onslaught.
"Of course. When has he ever acted without a plan?" another man interjected.
He, too, wore a distinct uniform. His shoulders bore seven stars—a symbol of his authority as the sovereign of an independent kingdom.
"Yeah… he always has something," added another voice, though it carried a subtle undertone of resentment, sharp and simmering beneath the surface.
This man, one of the Emperor's highest-ranking officers, had once ruled a nation of his own. That nation no longer existed—absorbed during the Emperor's unification campaign. Now, he served in the role of logistics commander, orchestrating the supply lines for this vast war effort.
"Rodread, dispatch reinforcements to the western and southern gates. Instruct the eastern and northern gates to hold their positions for as long as possible. Artemis, halt all logistical supply movements. Old man—tell the artillery unit to fire at full capacity and direct their aim toward the northern gate. I'm going to the eastern gate myself."
The Emperor spoke with unsettling calm, as if this battlefield were nothing more than a chessboard. His voice held neither panic nor urgency—only certainty. His gaze was still, his presence unwavering.
His face seemed carved from stone—unyielding and deliberate. A short, sharp nose perched above lips that rarely softened. But it was his eyes that bore the true weight of command: a piercing fusion of violet and pale amethyst, honed like a blade forged in the fires of hell. They weren't just eyes—they were judgment. Anyone who dared meet them felt stripped bare, as if every secret they'd ever held was laid open before his knowing stare.
Even the most seasoned officers and hardened soldiers felt their spines tighten under that gaze.
And then The Emperor raised his voice—rich, commanding, and powerful enough to thunder across the battlefield like divine law.
"Oh, my soldiers—my men! Do not yield before these barbarians! We will prosper! We will triumph! Show no weakness. Do not kneel. If death draws near, slit your own throats before granting them the satisfaction of your surrender! Hold your heads high—for I, the First of My Name, the Rightful Emperor, the King of Kings—Cairos Ashvell—am your Ruler!"
His words struck like a war drum in the hearts of his troops—and even in the hearts of the enemy. The allies stood taller, steadier. A fire lit in their chests. They felt strength surge where only fear had been moments ago.
The very presence of their Emperor was so colossal, so unearthly, that even the advancing forces hesitated. Many felt the urge to drop their weapons—not in fear, but in reverence. As if they now stood in the presence of something greater than man.
The weight of his presence was so immense, so unfathomable, that it felt as if a god walked among them. A primal voice whispered into the hearts of all who stood in his wake, friend and foe alike—urging them to abandon resistance, to kneel, to worship the being that now stood between them and annihilation.
Under the awestruck gazes of his soldiers, The Emperor surged toward the eastern gate. He issued swift commands, ordering his men to retreat and reinforce the northern defense. And as they fell back, he remained behind—his blade a blur, his movements methodical and unstoppable. He cleaved through the enemy like a living tempest, each swing claiming another life, each step carving a path of crimson ruin.
Only once his soldiers had safely withdrawn did he unleash his full might.
His aura erupted like a burst of divine wrath, and from it materialized a spectral entity—a towering winged serpent, its form crowned with a radiant halo, its eyes blazing with judgment. It loomed above the battlefield, a phantom god among mortals.
And then, without hesitation, it descended upon the enemy.
The phantom entity tore through their ranks, obliterating everything in its path. Screams rose—and then were silenced. In mere moments, the tide turned. The invaders were reduced to ashes beneath its celestial fury.
That was how The Emperor—Cairos Ashvell—won the Battle of the Eastern Gate, alone.
But as with all victories, this one was fleeting.
Plans, no matter how perfect, seldom survive reality.
"Sire! The northern gate has fallen!" a scout cried, breathless and pale. "They've broken through into the outer city—they're slaughtering civilians! We sent reinforcements, but… they sent Albariar of Sukh. The fifth-ranked light swordsman. He was too fast. Our men were butchered—even the retreating units didn't make it out alive!"
The Emperor listened silently.
A frown began to crease his face—subtle, but heavy with implication. A grim possibility, one he had long feared, was beginning to unfold before him.
Without a word, he turned and raced toward the northern gate.
What greeted him was not a battlefield—it was a massacre.
The streets ran red, soaked in blood so thick it clung to the air like incense from some unholy rite. The metallic scent was suffocating. Dismembered bodies littered the roads. Men, women, children—none had been spared.
And yet… The Emperor's face did not change.
He followed the trail of destruction—and his heart skipped a beat.
For what stood ahead was not a war camp… it was his own castle.
The enemy had charged through hundreds of homes. Their goal was simple: reach the royal keep, take the Emperor's family hostage, and force his surrender. It was a splendid plan. It could have worked like a charm.
But why would the Emperor fall for such an empty tactic?
Despite his worst fears materializing, the Emperor remained composed. A man capable of waging war against an entire continent did not lose his reason so easily. He circled the castle first, checking for magical traps or explosive ambushes. Only after ensuring it was safe did he step inside.
What greeted him was a vision of majesty.
A grand golden chandelier encrusted with rubies hung from the domed ceiling, bathing the room in a regal glow. The walls shimmered with panels of glowing silver metal, adorned with elegant ornaments that accentuated the beauty of the Throne Room at its finest.
But none of it held his attention.
What did—was the scene in front of the throne.
A man stood, back turned, with two children kneeling beside him. A woman was clutched in his arms, a blade pressed so close to her throat that blood had already begun to trickle down.
The Emperor stopped in his tracks.
He was the first to speak, his voice calm despite the storm within. "Stop this madness, Albariar. You think a woman and two children can save you?"
He spoke casually—coldly—even though those three were his own blood.
Albariar grinned wide, slowly turning his head.
"You see, Emperor… we're not here for them. We're here for you. So why don't you do us all a favor and kneel? Let's end this the easy way."
As he spoke, his hand moved—and a shallow cut opened on the woman's neck.
"Don't, honey! Their threats are worthless. We're of no use to them dead. Don't fall for it!" the woman cried out, urgently—before Albariar shoved a gag in her mouth.
The children whimpered quietly, trembling as any child would in such a nightmare.
The Emperor stood firm, though hesitation glinted behind his eyes. He took a step forward and spoke in a low, controlled tone, laced with authority.
"Leave them. I'll talk. Tell me what you want—let's step back and negotiate."
Albariar scoffed.
"The time for negotiations is over. What you need to do now… is accept your new king in the West."
He grinned darkly, pausing for dramatic effect.
"Bow down. Kneel before His Highness. Your head shall be taken—but your family? Oh, your family will live on... as royal slaves."
He chuckled softly, then added with a smile so warm it was sickening, "Or perhaps we'll hang them in the capital, let their bodies rot and scare off crows. Wouldn't that be a beautiful sight?"
If one didn't hear his words, they might've mistaken his smile for kindness.
And then…
"Ahahahaha… Ahahahahahahahah…"
The Emperor burst into laughter.
A sound filled with madness.
"You think that's a threat?" he said, voice rising. "Go ahead—do it. Let me see you slit her throat. Let me see the blood pour from her neck… down her chest… pooling on the floor."
He took another step, laughing.
"Reason doesn't work with you, does it? Fine. Use that knife. But hear this—every drop of her blood will be repaid to your EAST in corpses."
His tone was chilling—his words a vow.
But beneath the madness, it was all a distraction.
He was buying time—hoping that his forces, having regrouped at the other gates, would return and sow chaos. Enough for him to make a move. Enough to rescue his family before they were lost.
But what he didn't know… was that he wasn't the only madman in the room.
"YOU CALLED FOR IT, CROWN BOY!"
With a manic shout, Albariar slit the woman's throat.
Blood spilled.
She collapsed.
And then Albariar seized the children, yanking them up roughly by the arms.
"Uh uh uh… not so fast, crown boy," he sneered. "We still got two more little pigs here… and damn, they're looking juicy. I'm hungry."
He licked his lips, tightening his grip on the children.
The Emperor fell to his knees, staring at the lifeless corpse of his wife. He was shocked, overwhelmed with fear—and above all, consumed by sorrow. A deep, unbearable sorrow.
In that moment, he forgot everything. His children. The war. His body. His duty. His very identity.
His once-pristine, black, silky hair now fell loosely over his shoulders, disheveled and untamed. His regal uniform was shredded, revealing powerful muscles straining beneath the fabric. A low, unsettling chuckle escaped his throat—not quite laughter, but something darker, more broken. Something that no longer resembled an emperor.
"I'll make the deal. Call your king. I've lost enough," The Emperor said, his voice hoarse and hollow.
"The king demands your head. Give it to us, and consider the deal done," Albariar replied with forced confidence, though inside, he was trembling.
Truth be told, when Albariar was assigned this mission—to act as the negotiator after the hostages were secured—he hadn't been confident at all. Not even remotely.
All he could think was:
This man is an emperor who came from god knows where and made half of the Western continent kneel through sheer might. He severed the heads of kings, butchered armies, survived assassination after assassination... and even now, after a full year of war with the East, he's still standing. And I'm supposed to convince him to kneel down and die? Yeah right. If I pull that off, I should rename myself a god.
But hearing the Emperor's words now? Albariar exhaled slowly, a cold breath leaving his lungs.
This is too easy.
His thoughts were interrupted by the Emperor's growl.
"You—a mere cog in this war—dare to present conditions to me? I am an Emperor," he snarled. "Call your king. I will speak to him directly, or I will kill you all, even if it costs my children's lives."
His voice was rough, more beast than man. Each word dripped with barely restrained rage. He was unraveling—becoming less emperor, more monster.
Albariar, already on edge, was suspicious of a trap. But orders were orders. He contacted HQ immediately, explained the situation, and received an almost instant reply: switch the radio channel to VIP and hand it over to the Emperor.
He obeyed.
A moment later, a mocking voice crackled through the device.
"How are you doing, 'Emperor'? Tell me—how's the Green West treating you? I imagine the sight must be unbearable now," the voice taunted. "My men gave you the terms. Accept or die. Honestly, I couldn't care less."
It was the King of the West.
His tone was smug, condescending—like a teacher scolding a foolish child.
"Gabriel... aren't these terms a bit too harsh?" the Emperor replied smoothly, all previous fury vanished. His voice was calm. Deceptively normal. "I don't want to die. I'm sure we can work something out. You're a king. Who's going to question you?"
The shift was jarring. It was clear now—the earlier breakdown had been a farce.
"If I let you live," Gabriel answered coolly, "my enemies will call me weak. My cabinet will plot behind my back. And most importantly... if you live, you'll still have a claim to the Western throne."
He paused for just a second—long enough for the Emperor to hear the subtle crack in his voice.
"So tell me, Cario... what 'deal' are you offering?"
There was something in Gabriel's tone—not hesitation, but regret. As if he didn't want Cario to die. As if losing him would be more tragic than losing a thousand soldiers.
"You know me too well, Gabriel," Cario said.
"Here's the deal. Let me go—with my lands, my army, and my people—and I promise I won't destroy the entire Eastern continent."
Gabriel blinked, stunned by the audacity of the statement. But the shock lasted only a heartbeat.
After all, this was Cario.
He let out a dry laugh and replied with a single sentence:
"If you're so sure you can do that... go ahead. Kill me from across a continent."
Gabriel was right. Even if he was Cario—a talented and powerful fighter—how could he kill a man halfway across the continent, unless he was a god? No one in the current world could do such a thing.
But Gabriel didn't know that the Emperor had already gone mad. And that there were ways.
Cario, though fully rational when striking a deal, spoke with eerie calm. "Alright. I see you've made up your mind. I'll give you a show—one that'll make you question everything. But don't worry—it'll be far too late by then."
Then, the Emperor began to chant. The language was ancient and indecipherable. It wasn't magic—if it were, the soldiers would have recognized traces of it. No, this was darker. Cursed. Just hearing it made their ears ache and their hearts tremble. Some felt as if death itself had crept up their spine.
Beep. Beeep. Beeeeeeeeeep.
Everyone's heads turned at the sound. It seemed like a normal radio alert, yet something about it felt wrong—as if it didn't belong in this world.
Albariar checked the device. Expecting a call from HQ, he froze in shock. It was from the VIP line.
Who else could it be but the King of the West—Gabriel?
Albariar answered, ready to pay his respects, but before he could speak—
"YOU FOOL! OPEN FIRE! KILL HIM BEFORE HE FINISHES OR WE'RE ALL DEAD! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU WAITING FOR, YOU IDIOTS?! SHOOT THAT GODDAMN BASTARD!"
Gabriel's voice screamed through the radio, shrill and panicked.
Everyone stood dumbfounded, thinking the same thing: You're a king... have some decorum.
And yet, the fear in his voice was real. Why was the king so terrified?
In the seconds of hesitation that followed, the Emperor completed his chant.
From the radio came a long, pained sigh. Then—
"You idiots… You've done it now. Curse you, CARIOOOOOOOO!"
Gabriel's voice shattered into static before the line went dead.
The soldiers stared at one another.
What just happened?
What had they allowed to unfold?
Should they run? Fight? Kneel?
Panic spread among them, their courage unraveling.
Then, something materialized before them.
An old, hunched man. Hair white as snow flowed to his knees. Eyes like sapphire slits—serpentine, ethereal. He radiated beauty and majesty, and yet, dread clung to him like a second skin. All who saw him were frozen in awe.
"What do you want? And what can you give, oh... King of the Mortal World?"
Even his voice was honeyed—until that mocking 'oh,' which dripped with condescension.
"I, Cario Ashvell, make my pact with the devil Archaam," the Emperor declared. "Take the bodies of my dead brethren. Of the fallen. Of my wife. Of me. You can have them all."
"And what do you want in return?" the devil asked.
"For death to envelop the Eastern Continent. Kill every man. Let none survive."
"I will take their souls, then. Such a task demands much more," Archaam said.
"NO. NOT THE SOULS. No souls—enemy or ally. That is too much."
Cario's voice trembled but held.
"Instead, curse the Eastern Lands. Let every king who rises there suffer a horrific death. Let them forever be divided."
The nearby soldiers finally understood the weight of what was happening—and what kind of forbidden power had been unleashed.
In both continents, summoning demons and devils was a forbidden art.
And here stood the Emperor—the one who had written those very laws—casually breaking them.
They thought, Come on… you made those laws. Don't just toss them aside like that. You're the Emperor. An EMPEROR. For god's sake, have some decorum...
During their thoughts, a sweet, honeyed voice rang out, "Alright, deal. But I will make you suffer. Your body will be devoured by me—slowly but surely—and your soul might chip off as well. After all, removing the soul from the body without harm is a troublesome affair," the devil said cunningly, his words dripping with double meaning. What he truly meant was: "I'll try my best, but if I take the soul too, it's not my fault—it's just hard. Hehehe..."
"Be careful," said the Emperor, his voice tense, fully aware of the devil's hunger for his soul.
Who wouldn't crave the soul of a mortal emperor like Cario? Demons would salivate at such a divine, powerful feast.
As the contract was sealed, the bodies of the dead began to float in a slow, solemn dance. It was a chilling sight witnessed all over the city. Archaam continued his chant in that mysterious, forbidden language. The very air recoiled at the words.
Recognizing the gravity of the situation, the soldiers panicked and opened fire on the devil with all the holy spells they could muster. Even the healers joined the offensive, casting whatever they could.
But a devil of Archaam's stature could not be harmed by such feeble acts. The attacks phased through him, as if he existed outside of time, beyond reality. It was as if space itself bent around him—no magic, no light, no matter could touch him. He seemed like a mirage born from the desperate hopes and fears of doomed men.
Thick, black mist rose from beneath the devil, swallowing the bodies whole. Wherever it spread, it corroded everything—walls, floors, even the air itself. The city was drowning in what felt like a holy apocalypse.
"Stop it now, Cario! Or these brats will die! Do you understand? Cancel the contract!" Albarair shouted. His voice cut through the chaos, calming the frenzied soldiers. In that moment, they found a sliver of hope. "Don't panic, you dumb twats—we still have his kids. We can bargain."
"Devil, now—do it," Cario barked, eyes locked onto the demon.
"As you wish, contractor," the devil replied with a wicked laugh that crawled under the skin.
Cario turned to his children, his voice gentle for the last time. "Sarah. Jane. Look at me. Whatever happens, don't get separated. Remember, your mother always loved you, and I love you too. Don't seek revenge—'an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.' Never blame yourselves for what happened. Always look after each other. Father is going now. Bye. I love you both."
"Father, noooooooo!" the girls screamed, but their cries were cut short by a sudden flash.
A dark-green ray of light erupted from Archaam's hand, encasing the children before vanishing into nothingness—as though they had never existed.
The spell was teleportation. Cario had secured their safety during the summoning—he didn't say it aloud to avoid alerting the others. But it still crushed his heart to watch his daughters disappear into the unknown. The contract only promised a "relatively safe place"—and that wording left too much to chance.
The black mist finally reached Cario.
As the last living man touched by it, he felt pain—agony so severe it eclipsed imagination. He wanted to tear his own flesh off, rip out his eyes, anything to make it stop. But he endured. He had to stay conscious. If he passed out, Archaam could steal his soul, condemning him to eternal torment.
So he endured. And endured. And endured... until finally, he screamed.
"You bastard! Archaam, just do it already! What's the point of all this torture? I will never sell my soul to you. With it, I might still have a second chance!"
"I told you," Archaam said calmly, almost reassuringly. "Separating the soul from the body is troublesome. It hurts like a bitch. It's like carving a sculpture inside a man's body while he's still alive. This is demonic art, boy. It will hurt... a lot."
After a pause, he added with mock sympathy, "And by the way... reincarnation is just a hoax. When you die, you die. Don't get your hopes up, boy."
Time stretched endlessly for Cario. Pain consumed him. And then, finally—not peacefully, but inevitably—he died.
Now in control of his soul, a remnant that had been separated and left behind, Cario asked the devil Archaam, "Archaam, I am a soul now. What do I do? I can't just wander."
BOOM.
A black, misty projectile slammed into his spectral form. In disbelief, Cario turned and screamed, "Archaam! Why did you attack me?! We made a deal! How are you able to bypass the restrictions?!"
"The deal was made with your body—which I have now. I possess the authority of your contract, your body. Your soul is all I need for complete control. So be a sweetheart and come to Daddy," the devil said with a grin so radiant it would have seemed angelic to an outsider.
Panic surged through Cario. His body was stolen, and now, trapped in spectral form, he had no escape. More black-misty balls erupted from Archaam's hands, closing in with unrelenting pressure.
Cornered, a desperate idea flickered in Cario's mind. It was reckless—madness—but he had no choice.
He self-destructed.
Yes. He destroyed his own soul.
It was lunacy, unthinkable. Who would willingly annihilate their soul? But trapped with no options and knowing what would await him if captured, he made his choice.
In the aftermath, Cario saw—or rather, felt—nothing. Only black. Not darkness, but a void so pure it swallowed light and crushed existence. A place where no soul should linger. A lesser man would have suffocated in despair.
But Cario remained. He drifted, searching for even a flicker of light. It felt like eons passed.
Then, he saw it.
A glimmer.
A tiny, shining flicker in the void. He surged toward it. And when he touched it...
He vanished.