Chapter 0: The Last Throne
The skies wept fire,
To the far onto the horizon, heaven itself bled—crimson bolts crackled through swirling storm clouds, illuminating the broken citadel of Arkhaval. The once-majestic imperial capital now stood in ruin, its marble spires shattered, its golden banners drenched in blood and ash. The oceans had begun to rise, clawing at the edges of the land like vengeful beasts.
And at the heart of it all, amidst shattered columns and bodies of the divine and damned alike, stood a man.
Drazeth Raegar Arkhaval.
The Last Emperor of the Arkhaval Empire.
He stood tall—nearly two meters of fury made flesh, his battered royal armor clinging to him like a dying oath. Its once-immaculate obsidian plates, trimmed in gold and veined with enchanted runes, were now cracked and scorched. Arrows the size of ballista bolts jutted from his back. Celestial spears had pierced his sides. Blood, thick and dark as molten iron, pooled at his feet.
Yet he did not kneel.
Golden eyes—burning brighter than any sun—locked onto the divine horde that surrounded him. Gods. Dozens of them.
War gods, judgment gods, gods of light and fire and fate.
But none dared move closer.
"You dared climb too high, Arkhaval," hissed a goddess whose form flickered between flame and crystal. "A mortal, building an empire to mock eternity."
Drazeth's lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl.
"I built a throne where gods tremble."
Another god—a titan cloaked in thunder—stepped forward, gripping a hammer of worlds. "You were mortal. You were meant to die long ago."
"And yet here I stand," Drazeth replied, his voice like steel dragged across stone. Each word was a defiance. A monument.
The gods flinched.
Even with blood running freely from his mouth, even with divine weapons buried in his flesh, Drazeth's presence was absolute. His golden eyes held the weight of an empire, its uncountable victories and of a will that never broke.
Around him lay the fallen. His elite guard—those who followed him to the very end. Slain gods—bodies unrecognizable, blood staining the cracked earth.
One of the serpentine gods spat with contempt. "You've already lost. Look—your empire sinks beneath the sea. Your name will fade into myth."
Far in the distance, the land itself groaned. Great cities were pulled into the depths, temples swallowed whole, and screaming winds carried the cries of millions. The continent-sized empire of Arkhaval was dying.
And still Drazeth slowly stood, unyielding.
His right arm—broken and hanging limp—rose slowly. Ancient Magic, ignited along the length of his fingers. The very air rippled as time stuttered and space bent.
The gods recoiled.
"!?"
"He is—NOOO!!"
"You will not—!" one shouted.
They tried to stop him, but they couldn't move forward. His gaze held them still. His very power defied their divinity.
Drazeth dragged the tip of a bloodied sword across the ground. The blade itself groaned in pain, a cursed relic they say, forged in the fires of the first sun. He drove it into the earth.
A pulse of light erupted.
From that point, it spread like wildfire—threads of golden light racing outward, engulfing the ruins, the capital, the rivers, the forests, the mountains, the entirety of the Arkhaval Empire. The runes on the ground blazed to life, etched into the bones of the world by the First Emperor, now awakened by the last.
The gods stood in stunned silence. The light spiraled up into the heavens and down into the sea, forming a barrier, a tomb—and a cradle.
"He's sealing it!!!" a god whispered in horror. "The whole land—"
"He's locking it away from us!!"
"Just Power..."
The world trembled.
Drazeth's final act was underway. With what remained of his soul, his magic, and his hatred—he encased his empire in an impenetrable veil, one that no god could touch.
As the divine beings stared in disbelief, he spoke again—low, thunderous, final.
"You came to kill me. You succeeded. But in doing so, you sealed your fate and gave my Empire the very thing it wished for...Eternity"
The light surged.
His voice grew louder, resonating through storm and sea.
"Your thrones will rot. Your worship will falter. I see the cracks in your dominions, that flimsy faith people have in you cannot save you.... You hunted me for my ambition—but it is that very ambition that will birth your doom."
The gods stood frozen. Uncertain and shaken.
Then he turned his gaze skyward.
"When the Crown calls once more..." he whispered,
"...one shall rise who does not kneel."
A wave of light burst from his body. The gods flinched, shielding their eyes as the empire itself vanishing beneath a shimmering curtain of golden mist.
The sea swallowed the land or the empty void that was forming—but it could not touch the heart of Arkhaval now.
Silence fell.
Smoke curled into the heavens. The winds died. The world, for a moment, stood still.
Drazeth Raegar Arkhaval stood alone amidst ruin, the last mortal god born out of Empire, the last emperor.
He staggered.
His sword crumbled into dust.
He fell to his knees—not in defeat, but in final release.
As the gods looked on, too stunned to speak, he lowered his gaze to the ground... and smiled.
"To you, who bears my will," he whispered.
His golden eyes dimmed.
"Wear the crown not to rule, but to remember."
With that final breath, the greatest emperor the world had ever known fell. His unyielding frame turning into golden dust.
And the world would never be the same again.
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The office was quiet, save for the gentle hum of air conditioning and the faint tick of a wall clock.
Ethan Cross sat slouched in a leather chair behind a desk littered with reports and glowing digital panels. The skyline of the sleeping city stretched beyond the tall window, neon lights flickering like tired stars.
A slow breath escaped him.
Then, a twitch.
His eyelids fluttered open. A single tear rolled down his cheek, trailing across his stubbled jaw before falling onto the cold steel armrest.
He stared blankly ahead for a moment, heart pounding for reasons he couldn't explain. His mind was a whirlwind — images of soaring cities made of gold, a king cloaked in light, an army of gods… and then fire. Collapse and a last stand.
It was there. Right there.
And just as quickly — it was gone. Completely vanishing from his memory. Agai
He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.
This dream again.
He had been haunted by it since childhood. Since that day — the day lightning struck their car out of a clear blue sky. The day his parents died beside him, crushed beneath steel and silence.
The incident had never made sense. A freak accident, reports said. One-in-a-million. But even now, all these years later, he remembered the light. The impossible light.
And the burning gold eyes that had stared back at him through the flames.
He rose slowly, bones aching despite his age, and walked toward the massive balcony. Cool night air met him as he stepped out, blazer flapping in the wind.
Above, the sky stretched endlessly — quiet, infinite, uncaring.
He gazed up at the stars.
Somewhere, deep inside him, something stirred. A whisper lost in time. A feeling he couldn't name.
And far, far away, in a realm forgotten by gods and men… a golden crown pulsed once.
Waiting.
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Note from the Author:
This story starts with a slower pace, focusing on the world setup and survival aspects. If you're here for system growth, fantasy, a cold but strategic MC, good romance and the real grind of rising from nothing — it kicks in strong after Chapter 10.
By Chapter 20, things start shifting. And from there, it gets intense.
Do give this story a shot and leave a review!
– NoendHorizon