The vast golden hall of the imperial palace was filled with the sound of armored boots striking marble. The throne court had gathered in tension and anticipation. Ministers, generals, and consorts stood in rows, waiting to hear the words of the weary messenger who had ridden for days without rest.
At last, the soldier knelt, dropping to one knee, his breath ragged as he held out the sealed scroll.
"Your Majesty," his voice trembled but rang through the hall, "the war… is over. The Demon King has fallen."
A collective gasp swept through the ministers and nobles. Some clutched their chests, others whispered prayers. For decades they had lived under the shadow of endless war with Umbraxis, and now—finally—it was finished.
King Stephen rose from his throne, his jeweled robes catching the first rays of dawn through the windows. His stern face softened into a grin.
"So, it is done… truly done." He let out a booming laugh that echoed across the chamber. "I knew it! That boy—Hero—he was chosen by fate itself. A mere youth, yet he achieved what no general, no legion, no king before him could. The Demon King lies dead at last!"
He turned toward his circle of ministers and the women of his harem, his eyes alight with ambition.
"With the demon kingdom destroyed, their cursed land is ours for the taking. At last, we can expand our borders and seize dominion over all neighboring nations. This is the dawn of a new empire!"
The court broke into applause, but the soldier still knelt in silence, his head bowed low. His fists were clenched, knuckles white.
The King's gaze fell upon him. "Why do you not rejoice, soldier? Speak! Where is the young Hero? Where is he? Bring him to me, and I shall grant him a gift beyond measure. Gold, titles, whatever he desires—he has bought it with blood and glory!"
But the man's face darkened further. He hesitated, lips pressed tight as if the words themselves were poison.
"Your Majesty…" his voice cracked. "…the Hero, Lord Kael… he…" The soldier's throat tightened. He looked around the chamber, seeing expectant faces turning toward him.
The King narrowed his eyes, stepping down from the dais, his laughter fading into a sharp silence.
"What is this hesitation? Do you think I will punish you for words? Speak plainly. This is a day of triumph!"
The messenger bit down on his lip until it bled. His voice came out hoarse.
"Lord Kael… he was grievously wounded. He fought until his body gave out, and though victory was won, his condition…" He faltered, his shoulders shaking. "…he lies at death's door."
The hall fell silent. Gasps of horror rippled through the nobles. Some ministers exchanged grim looks. The court, which just a moment ago rang with applause, now seemed to choke on despair.
King Stephen froze, his jubilant expression shattering. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then his voice cut like steel.
"What nonsense is this?"
But he knew. From the soldier's trembling tone, from the fear in his eyes, he knew the truth was no exaggeration. Kael, the Hero who carried the fate of the empire, might not live to see another dawn.
Stephen's dreams of parading the Hero as a living symbol—his shining jewel to strengthen the throne—began to crumble. Without Kael alive, what could he wield before the world?
He clenched his fists beneath his robes, forcing his expression into cold authority. "So. The Hero bleeds, and the empire trembles with him."
Then, a thought struck him like lightning. His eyes widened. He remembered.
His son.
The boy who had followed Kael into the heart of the demon lands.
"Where…" His voice grew harsher, his tone cracking with both anger and fear. "Where is that child? Where is Reinhardt?"
The ministers exchanged uneasy glances. The soldier still knelt, sweat dripping down his brow.
Stephen's booming voice filled the throne hall again, trembling with a father's desperation barely hidden beneath a king's authority:
"Tell me! Where is my son Reinhardt?!"
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The heavy silence of the war camp was broken by a sudden BANG! as Reinhardt slammed his fist against the wooden table. The surface cracked under the force, maps and scrolls scattering to the floor. His golden hair was disheveled, sweat clinging to his skin, and the bandages around his torso still seeped faintly from reopened wounds.
His own injuries screamed at him, yet he could not bring himself to care. The pain in his chest was nothing compared to the torment in his heart.
Iris and Robert stood a few steps away, both startled but not surprised. They had been watching his temper coil tighter with every passing day.
Reinhardt's voice broke, raw and frustrated.
"How—how can nothing in this world help him?! How is it that no spell, no miracle, no prayer can keep him from slipping away?!" His fists trembled, his teeth gritted so hard his jaw ached. He bit down on his lip until blood welled.
Iris stepped forward, her face pale, her hands clasped tightly in front of her chest. Her own body still bore faint traces of exhaustion, her magic depleted. Yet it wasn't her own weakness that tormented her—it was the helplessness of watching Kael waste away.
"We… we can still try something else," she said softly, forcing strength into her tone. "If magic and blessings fail, then doctors can tend to his injuries. We cannot stop searching. We must not give up."
But her words rang hollow, even to her own ears.
Reinhardt shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his throat. His emerald eyes were bloodshot, filled with sleepless nights and unspoken dread.
"It has been five days, Iris. Five days since that cursed battle ended. And still—still his condition worsens. He coughs blood, his body rejects even a trace of mana, and no physician has given me a single word of hope." He slammed his palm against the broken table again, his voice cracking. "Every hour, he sinks closer to death!"
In the next room, Kael lay on a narrow bed, his body frail and trembling with fever. His once-strong frame was marred with wounds that refused to close. His breathing was shallow, his lips stained crimson from each violent cough. Despite the endless physicians who came and went, despite the care of the greatest healers, death lingered over him like a shadow that refused to be banished.
Reinhardt's head swayed. His vision blurred. A sudden trickle of blood ran down from his nose.
"Brother!" Robert darted forward in alarm, catching his elder sibling just as Reinhardt nearly collapsed against the table. His younger hands grasped his shoulders firmly, eyes wide with fear.
"Please… you need to rest! If you push yourself like this, you'll fall before he does!"
Reinhardt wiped the blood away with the back of his hand, ignoring Robert's plea. His entire body shook with exhaustion, but his eyes burned with a desperate light. He had not closed his eyes for more than a few moments since the Demon King fell. Every night he sat awake, waiting, praying, bargaining for Kael's life.
Robert's words barely reached him. His mind was elsewhere—filled with fear, anger, and the weight of betrayal.
"What of His Majesty?" Reinhardt rasped, his voice hoarse from days of shouting at the void. His gaze turned sharply toward Robert. "Didn't he receive the messenger's report already? What has he done? What word has he given?"
Robert's lips pressed tight. He lowered his eyes to the floor. His silence spoke louder than words.
"Answer me, Robert!" Reinhardt's tone cracked, both furious and desperate.
Finally, Robert whispered, "He said nothing… Brother. He did not rage, nor mourn, nor command aid. He only… looked disappointed. As you predicted."
Reinhardt's face twisted with rage. His fist slammed into the wall, rattling the wooden frame. His teeth clenched as he forced the words through his throat.
"Disappointed?! That's what he feels?!" His voice roared in the confined space. "We marched into the demon lands. We lost comrades, brothers-in-arms, sons of his empire—all for his glory! And when victory is bought with our blood, when the one who gave everything lies dying, he dares to feel disappointed?!"
Robert flinched but did not move away. He knew these words were not anger at him—they were the bitterness of a son betrayed by a father who cared only for power.
Reinhardt's chest heaved. He pressed his hand against the wall, then turned toward the closed door of the adjoining chamber. The door behind which Kael lay motionless.
His gaze softened, though his voice fell into a whisper that only Robert could hear.
"You promised me, Kael… You promised to make me a king." His throat tightened, his eyes stung with tears he refused to shed. "But I swear this to you—whether or not you open your eyes again—I will protect you. Even if the world, even if my father himself, calls you nothing but a pawn."
Robert looked at him silently, watching his brother's back as Reinhardt stared at the door. In that moment, Robert realized it was not a king his brother desired to be—it was Kael's shield.
The silence of the night stretched, heavy and unbroken, save for the faint, ragged breaths of the boy who had once slain a Demon King, now fighting a battle against death itself.
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The sixth night after the Demon King's fall was colder than the last, but inside the medical tent, the air burned with fever.
Kael's body shivered violently against the blood-soaked sheets. His pale skin was flushed with unnatural heat, his breaths ragged, his chest rising and falling in erratic patterns. The fever had returned—worse than before. The physicians rushed to his side, their calm composure broken at last.
"His temperature has spiked again—bring more water! Quickly!" one shouted, fumbling for fresh bandages.
Another physician pulled at the wrappings across Kael's torso, only to gasp in horror. The stitches that had sealed his wounds earlier had burst open, crimson soaking through fresh linen with terrifying speed.
Reinhardt sat at his bedside, his hand clasped tightly around Kael's trembling fingers. His emerald eyes darkened, his jaw set in anguish as Kael coughed violently, fresh blood trickling from the corner of his lips. The sound tore through Reinhardt's chest like a blade.
"Why…" his voice broke, almost a whisper, "why can't that damn king understand your suffering?" His grip tightened as another shudder racked Kael's frame. Reinhardt's teeth ground together, rage and grief burning hot in his veins. "You gave your life for this world, Kael. You sacrificed everything—and yet he dares to look away from you now?!"
He lifted his gaze to Kael's face.
The boy who had once stood unyielding on the battlefield, who had carried nations upon his shoulders, now lay broken. His white hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat and blood. His lips were pale, his body weak, trembling as if each breath was a war he could not win.
Reinhardt's chest constricted. His heart screamed with every second Kael drifted further away.
Then a voice came from outside the tent, calling his name.
"Prince Reinhardt!"
Reluctantly, Reinhardt forced himself to release Kael's hand. He looked at the physicians with hard eyes.
"Don't leave him. Not for a single moment. If he coughs, if he stirs, if his breath falters—you will be there."
"Yes, Your Highness!" they answered, though their hands still shook with fear of failure.
Reinhardt strode out of the tent, his golden hair clinging to his damp brow. The night air was cold, but it did nothing to calm the storm in his chest. The messenger who awaited him wore a grim expression, eyes downcast.
Reinhardt already knew before the man spoke.
"P-Prince Reinhardt," the messenger stammered, bowing low, "His Majesty… commands your presence in the royal court."
Reinhardt's eyes narrowed sharply. "And Kael?" His voice was cold, dangerous. "Did His Majesty say nothing of him?"
The messenger faltered. His lips parted, but no words came. Silence was his only answer. Instead, he handed Reinhardt a sealed letter, his hands trembling.
Reinhardt snatched it, broke the seal, and scanned the words.
'The war has ended. We must begin discussions on the expansion of borders before rival kingdoms seize the opportunity. Attend court as commanded.'
His fingers curled, the parchment crumpling in his grip until it tore. He cast the shredded letter onto the dirt with disgust. His voice thundered into the night.
"Damn him! All he thinks of is war!" His roar startled nearby soldiers, but Reinhardt did not care. His fury could not be contained. "A kingdom drowning in blood and corpses, and still he reaches for more!"
Robert hurried over, alarmed by the shouting. His eyes darted between the stunned messenger and his elder brother.
"W-What's going on? Brother, what did Father say?"
For a moment, Reinhardt was silent. His chest heaved, his shoulders rigid. Then, unexpectedly, a sound escaped his throat—soft at first, then louder, until it grew into a laugh.
A broken laugh.
Both Robert and the messenger froze, unsettled by the sudden shift.
Reinhardt raised a hand, covering his face as laughter spilled from him, bitter and hollow. His shoulders shook, not with mirth, but with the twisted realization that had taken root inside him.
"I see… so that's what you want, Father…" His voice was low, venomous.
Slowly, he lowered his hand. His smile was crooked, sharp, and nothing like the proud prince the world knew. His emerald eyes burned with dangerous resolve.
He turned to Robert, whose face paled at the sight of him.
"I understand now." His voice was calm, but beneath it simmered the madness of grief and fury entwined. "This kingdom you built, this empire you claim… It is nothing but a coffin for men like Kael. You will not destroy him, Father. I won't let you."
Robert swallowed, stepping closer with hesitation. "…Brother…?"
Reinhardt's twisted smile widened, his voice steady, almost serene.
"I'm going to destroy this kingdom."
The words hung heavy in the air, colder than the night wind, more terrifying than any demon.
The messenger stumbled back in horror. Robert stared at his brother, realizing in that moment that the prince before him was no longer just his elder brother, nor a loyal son of the empire.
He was something far more dangerous.