The palace courtyard was quiet.
Which was suspicious.
Because palace courtyards were never quiet.
Not in the Eternal Citadel.
Not in the capital of the Blood Empire.
Not in the beating heart of a throne so vast entire planetary systems functioned as hallway carpets.
Silence here didn't mean peace.
It meant someone had either died loudly… or was about to.
The King walked across the scorched blackstone path, robes dragging behind him.
He had slept in.
Or meditated.
Or existed in a passive state of sovereign disinterest.
Whatever it was, it had been rudely interrupted by a minor explosion and several panicked psionic pings from his aides.
Now, he was irritated.
And slightly hungry.
He yawned and took a slow glance upward at the twenty-meter gate that had been torn from its hinges and jammed sideways into a nearby marble dome like a misplaced dagger.
"Huh," he said. "They finally upgraded security."
Saet appeared beside him, stepping lightly over the twitching corpse of a shattered guardian automaton. "Unauthorized intrusion. Divine-class. Most of the Blood Saints responded. They subdued it temporarily, but it demanded an audience."
"With me?"
"Yes."
"Name?"
"It gave seventeen," Saet replied. "The least pretentious was 'Remnant of A'tural.'"
"Oh. One of those."
He stepped past a decorative koi pond that had been vaporized into steam and regrets, then slowed as he approached the temple annex.
The entire front of the structure had been turned into an aesthetically disappointing crater.
Divine marble lay in smoking ruins.
A golden statue of the King's third-favorite horse had been beheaded.
Worse, someone had knocked over the spice garden.
At the center of it all stood a creature made of collapse and ego.
Tall.
Too tall.
Limbs like stretched obsidian, wrapped in fractured starlight.
Its face was a pulsing core of nuclear arrogance, and its voice skated across the walls with a wet metallic scrape.
"I am the Remnant of A'tural," it declared, hands outstretched. "Born in the heart of the Howling Core. Survivor of the Tenfold Decay. You are the blood-crowned tyrant of this rotting empire?"
The King took a sip. "Currently, yes."
"You are a myth wrapped in flesh. I see the weight of dead empires hanging on your name. But I see no divinity. No fear. You are less than what they say."
The King sighed and looked to the side, where a once-beautiful column was now embedded halfway into a crystal basilisk exhibit.
He turned back.
"Okay, two things."
The Remnant tilted its head.
"One my basilisk curator is going to have a panic attack when she sees this. And two…"
He drained his goblet and tossed it over his shoulder.
It disintegrated mid-air into a hundred golden butterflies.
"…I'm in a very bad mood."
The Remnant surged forward in a blur of motion, a shrieking wave of starfire and killing intent.
A hundred reality shards burst outward from its arms.
The very air wept.
The King didn't move.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't raise a hand.
Didn't blink.
He just existed.
And in that moment, the Remnant faltered.
Time didn't stop.
The creature stumbled, shrieked, surged again and reality bent to avoid the King's path.
He stared at the attacker with flat disinterest.
"I've made it better."
The Remnant howled.
Spears of divine mass formed around it, screaming toward the King.
He raised a finger.
Not a weapon.
Not a spell.
Just a gesture.
A soft crack rang across the plaza.
Then silence.
The Remnant didn't die.
It didn't explode.
It simply ceased.
No blood.
No screams.
Not even dust.
It was as if the universe had rewritten the last six minutes and crossed out the creature's name in pencil.
The King exhaled and dusted something invisible off his sleeve.
Saet coughed quietly. "Shall I send a repair team?"
"Later."
"Body disposal?"
"There is no body."
"A monument?"
"Gods, no. It was a talkative lizard with a sun fetish."
She nodded.
Another figure stepped into view from the shadows, cloak billowing without wind.
Blood Saint Nyra the Whispering Blade bowed low.
Her face was half-hidden behind an obsidian veil.
"You allowed it to speak," she said quietly.
"Briefly," the King replied. "I considered turning it into a beetle."
"Why didn't you?"
"I was curious."
Nyra's head tilted slightly. "And?"
"It was loud and overconfident. I hoped it would say something original. It didn't."
She remained kneeling, but her voice grew more subdued. "It called us ghosts. Said we were lesser. That we follow a corpse pretending to be king."
The King raised a brow. "Do you agree?"
"No," she said. Too quickly.
"But?"
Nyra hesitated.
Her hands, usually still as statues, twitched once.
"But we haven't seen you draw breath in two hundred years. We haven't seen you bleed in five thousand. We kneel, yes. But sometimes…"
"Sometimes?"
"You feel less like a man," she whispered, "and more like a storm we worship out of habit."
The King was silent.
He stepped closer.
She didn't flinch.
"I gave you your name," he said. "Do you remember who you were before that?"
Nyra nodded. "A mute child hiding under a corpse cart."
"You begged for death."
"You gave me power."
"I gave you purpose."
"I still serve."
He stared at her.
For a moment, there was no sarcasm.
No jokes.
"You're not afraid of me," he said.
"I am," she replied.
"Why?"
"Because I've seen gods die screaming. I've watched tyrants melt in your presence. But you... you no longer speak like someone who could die."
The King exhaled.
"That's because I probably can't."
Nyra's lips pressed together.
He turned away from her and looked at the wreckage. "Do you doubt me?"
"Never."
"But you question."
"I wonder," she said, voice barely audible. "What happens when something greater than you arrives. Not to kill you. But to make you feel again."
He blinked slowly.
Then chuckled.
"I've already felt it. Once. It was awful. Never again."
She bowed deeper. "Then we remain ready. Even if we don't understand what we serve."
The King walked past her. "Understanding is for poets."
He reached for another drink, this time a chalice filled with glowing citrus flame and strolled back into the courtyard as if he hadn't just erased a demigod from memory.
Around him, a handful of Blood Saints arrived.
Not out of panic, just protocol.
Saint Gurral, the Wall That Bleeds, stomped forward.
Eight feet tall.
Made of bone and a living fortress.
He saluted with a fist that cracked the air.
"Enemy neutralized?"
"Deleted," the King said.
"Good. The outer walls want repainting anyway."
Saint Vora, the Flame Strategist, hovered nearby in a spiral of tactical holograms. "Should we upgrade the detection fields to include anti-Remnant sequences?"
"Yes. And tell R&D to stop naming their creations things like 'Harmless Mode.' Nothing that explodes on entry should have a polite setting."
Gurral grunted. "What was it?"
The King shrugged. "Some fragments of a failed pantheon. It thought declaring itself loudly would help."
Vora smiled faintly. "It didn't."
"No," the King said. "It really didn't."
They stood in silence for a moment.
Then Gurral said, "You haven't stretched your strength in decades."
"Are you suggesting I go on a murder-spree to limber up?"
"No," Gurral said. "I'm saying… we miss seeing you remind the world why it kneels."
The King narrowed his eyes. "Is that doubt I hear?"
"Never," the Blood Saints said in unison.
He took a sip, savoring the burn.
"Good," he muttered. "Because the moment I do feel doubt in this court… I'll start testing loyalty by alphabet."
Vora looked mildly delighted. "Start with Kuran. He still thinks you owe him a duel."
"I do. I also owe him a kick to the ribs."
Nyra stepped forward again, her voice softer. "Your Radiance. We're not afraid of rebellion. We just fear the day you stop finding this empire worth showing up for."
The King didn't answer immediately.
He stared at the smoking crater again.
He had made this empire with blood and breath.
And while the blood still flowed quiet, connected there was less breath now.
Less surprise.
Less… noise.
And still, nothing had come close to challenging him.
Not truly.
He set the chalice down on a hovering tray, licked citrus from his fingers, and walked toward the main hall.
Behind him, the Saints watched in silence.
And if any of them doubted his strength, none would ever say it.
Because deep down, they all knew.
Their King didn't rule by decree.
He ruled by letting the world live.