Every room Reinhardt entered became a storm of shouting, crying, and blood. The air was thick with the stench of iron and fear. No locked door, no hidden crawlspace, no secret passage saved them. Guided by Iris's spell, Reinhardt could feel each pulse of royal blood like a beacon. He found them all. He gave no warning, no mercy.
One of his half-brothers stumbled backward across the marble floor, his severed arm clutched to his chest, blood pouring in a steady stream. His eyes were wide with terror.
"R-Reinhardt… please," he choked. "Don't kill me… We're brothers! Even if we don't share the same mother, we're still family…"
Reinhardt's expression never changed. His armor was already drenched in crimson, his eyes cold and distant.
"Family?" His voice was a low snarl. "When Kael begged for help, where was our 'family'? When I crawled to the council for mercy, where were you then?"
The brother sobbed, crawling backward, leaving a smear of blood behind. "I—I couldn't—"
The spear rose. In one swift motion, it came down. The man's scream cut off abruptly. Reinhardt withdrew the blade without even a glance at the corpse.
Outside, the clash of magic and steel continued. Iris floated above the courtyard like a grim sentinel, spells bursting from her wand as soldiers swarmed. She incinerated them, froze them, and hurled them aside, keeping the exits sealed. The palace was a trap, and no one with royal blood would escape.
Reinhardt's boots echoed on the bloodstained stone as he moved on. His pace was deliberate, his eyes fixed. He was searching for his father—King Stephen. He already knew where the king was hiding, but he didn't rush. He wanted the king to feel the weight of every life being extinguished in his name. There was no running from Iris's barrier, no hole to crawl into.
Every step, every death, was a message: This is what you've made me.
At last, Reinhardt reached the harem palace. The heavy golden doors were locked, but one stroke of his spear split the bar clean through. The hinges screamed as the doors swung open.
He heard the sound of frantic running, panicked shouting, the rustle of silk as women scattered through the hallways.
King Stephen's wives and mistresses.
They did not carry his blood, but they had been part of his power, his lineage, his bed. They had whispered poison in his ears, helped build the house of lies. Reinhardt's eyes darkened.
The first woman to reach him fell to her knees, trembling. "Please, my lord, I'm innocent! I have no claim to the throne—"
The spear moved. She crumpled before she finished her plea. One by one they fell as they tried to run, to hide behind screens, to beg for mercy. Their screams echoed off the gilded walls, mingling with the scent of perfume and blood.
For the first time that night, Reinhardt hesitated.
A ripple ran through the sense Iris's spell had left in his mind. A heartbeat. Not one. Several. Small, faint, yet unmistakable. Life within life. Royal blood, hidden in the womb.
He stopped in the center of the room. His grip on the spear trembled.
The women clutched their stomachs, realizing what his pause meant. "Please!" one cried out, her hands covering her belly. "They're innocent! They've done nothing! They're not even born yet!"
Reinhardt closed his eyes for a long moment. His jaw clenched.
"I can't…" His voice cracked, barely audible. Then he forced it steady again. "No… I won't let even a seed of that bloodline live."
He stepped forward.
The women screamed, backing away until their backs hit the wall. Reinhardt raised the spear with both hands. His knuckles whitened. For the first time that night, his breath hitched.
Then the blade descended.
Crimson spread across the marble floor, staining the embroidered carpets, the jeweled slippers, the silken gowns. The cries turned to sobs, then to silence.
When it was done, Reinhardt stood among the bodies, the spear dripping. His chest rose and fell heavily, his eyes distant, his face pale beneath the splattered blood.
From the corridor outside, Iris's voice drifted faintly through the smoke and screams. "Reinhardt… it's done here. Where next?"
He swallowed hard, the taste of iron in his mouth. "Everywhere," he murmured. "Until nothing remains."
He turned away from the carnage, stepping out of the harem without looking back. The palace trembled under the weight of his wrath, and the night carried on like a nightmare that had no dawn.
The underground passage beneath the palace reeked of damp stone and panic. King Stephen stumbled forward, his cloak dragging across the floor, sweat glistening on his forehead. Behind him, a handful of ministers clutched scrolls and jewels while the elite knights formed a shaky wall of steel.
Above them, muffled explosions shook dust from the ceiling. The smell of smoke seeped through the cracks.
"Faster! To the door!" Stephen barked, his voice trembling.
The knights found the hidden exit—a massive iron door carved into the rock. One of them jammed the key into the lock, twisting hard. Nothing happened.
"Your Majesty!" the guard gasped. "It won't open. It's sealed by magic!"
Stephen's eyes went wide. "Magic? That damned mage who came with the traitor!" He grabbed the key from the guard and tried it himself, shaking it violently. The lock glowed faintly blue and stayed shut.
"Open, damn you!" He slammed his palm against the door, but it held fast. The ministers began to murmur, terror creeping into their voices.
Then, footsteps echoed from the tunnel behind them. Slow. Heavy. Unhurried.
Everyone turned.
Reinhardt emerged from the shadows like a wraith, blood dripping from his armor, his spear dark with gore. His expression was a mask—cold, steady, unreadable.
"Where are you planning to go?" His tone was calm, almost casual, but the sound made their knees tremble.
The knights hurriedly raised their weapons, forming a shield wall in front of Stephen and the ministers. They all knew who this was—the Emperor's youngest son, the demon-slayer, Kael's comrade.
Reinhardt stopped a few paces away, the torchlight flickering against his pale face. He leveled his spear.
"This is your last chance. Drop your weapons, step aside, and I will let you live. It's useless to protect that king of yours."
The knights hesitated, hands shaking. One lowered his sword. Another shifted back.
"Cowards!" Stephen snarled, spittle flying from his lips. "Ungrateful sons of bitches! I am your king! Obey me, not this traitor!"
The knights flinched at the fury in his voice. Slowly, with shame in their eyes, they raised their weapons again.
Reinhardt's face did not change. "So be it."
The first guard lunged. Reinhardt moved like a blade of wind—one sweep of his spear cut through steel and bone alike. Blood burst against the stone wall. A second knight screamed and charged; Reinhardt spun and impaled him clean through, flinging the body aside like a rag doll.
In less than a heartbeat, the passage was painted red. The smell of iron filled the air.
The remaining ministers shrank back, clutching at each other, eyes wide with terror. Reinhardt stepped forward, his boots leaving dark prints on the stone.
He pointed the spear at the huddled group.
"Give him to me," he said softly. "Hand me the king, and I'll let you live."
The ministers glanced at one another. The last two knights shifted uneasily. Then, without a word, they pushed King Stephen forward. The old man stumbled, falling to his knees before Reinhardt.
"Traitors!" Stephen shrieked. "You treacherous worms!"
Reinhardt looked down at him, still silent. The king's crown had slipped from his head and rolled across the floor, clinking against the stones.
"You… you dare," Stephen hissed, trying to straighten his back. "You traitor. I am your father. You cannot do this to your father!"
Reinhardt crouched, binding Stephen's wrists with a strip of bloodstained cloth. His voice was low, almost a whisper.
"You lost the right to call yourself that a long time ago."
He stood, yanking Stephen to his feet like a sack of grain. The ministers and remaining guards pressed themselves against the walls, too terrified to breathe.
Without another word, Reinhardt turned and began to drag the king back through the tunnel, his spear still in his other hand, the iron tip trailing a line of red across the floor.
The echoes of their steps and Stephen's curses faded into the darkness, leaving the ministers staring at the crown rolling in a puddle of blood.
Reinhardt dragged King Stephen through the dim corridors of the palace. The old king stumbled and cursed, his wrists bound, his crown gone, his dignity in tatters.
"Let me go!" Stephen roared, his voice echoing off the walls. "You ungrateful son! Who do you think gave you life?! I regret ever having a son like you!"
Reinhardt didn't even glance at him. His boots splashed through crimson puddles as he moved forward, the king's tirade rolling off him like rain on stone.
Stephen's voice faltered when his eyes caught the scene around him—blood streaked across the marble walls, bodies strewn across the floors like discarded dolls. The corpses of his children, their spouses, even the youngest ones… and the women of his harem. The air stank of copper and smoke.
"You… you killed them all," Stephen whispered hoarsely. Then his rage surged back, trembling with disbelief. "You killed your own brothers and sisters! Do you even have a heart?! Monster!"
Reinhardt didn't answer. His steps never slowed. He reached the end of the corridor and threw the courtroom doors wide.
Stephen's stomach turned. Inside lay more carnage: ministers sprawled across the marble, guards cut down mid-charge, blood running in rivulets between the tiles.
And at the far end of the hall, Stanford stood free. The magical chains Iris had placed on him were shattered, lying like brittle glass on the floor. He had found a sword among the corpses and now held it, pointing toward Reinhardt, his face twisted into a triumphant sneer.
"You think I'm a fool?" Stanford spat. "You think I don't know how to break a mage's spell? You chose the wrong man as your hostage!"
Reinhardt shoved King Stephen onto the floor, the old man landing hard on his knees. Still, Reinhardt's expression didn't change. He tilted his head slightly, almost curious.
"I suppose," he said softly, "this is the first time we've actually fought with swords, isn't it… Stanford?"
He let his spear dissolve into motes of light and reached for one of the bloodied swords lying nearby. He lifted it easily, testing its weight, and raised his eyes to meet Stanford's. His face remained blank, unreadable.
King Stephen scrambled to his son's side, crouching behind him as if Stanford's blade could protect him.
"You arrogant bastard!" Stanford roared, charging.
Stanford's blade whistled through the air in a vicious arc, aimed for Reinhardt's neck. Reinhardt moved like water—sidestepping the strike so smoothly it seemed the sword had passed through a ghost.
Stanford spun, slashing again and again. Sparks flew as Reinhardt's blade caught each strike at the last second, their swords ringing in the blood-soaked chamber.
"You're slower than I expected," Reinhardt murmured, parrying another blow and pushing Stanford back a step.
"I'll kill you!" Stanford shouted, sweat flying from his brow. "I'll show everyone who the true heir is!"
He lunged forward, thrusting for Reinhardt's chest. Reinhardt shifted his weight and deflected the blade, using his free hand to slam Stanford's arm aside. Stanford staggered, but recovered, swinging wildly.
Reinhardt ducked beneath a horizontal slash, his eyes cold. "You've always relied on others to do your killing for you," he said. "Now you're trembling because it's just you and me."
Stanford growled and charged again, desperation creeping into his movements. Their blades met with a sharp crack, locked together. For a moment they stood chest to chest, each straining against the other.
Reinhardt's voice dropped to a whisper. "You're not my equal."
With a twist of his wrist, he disarmed Stanford—the sword flying from his hand and clattering across the marble. Reinhardt stepped forward, kicking Stanford's knee out from under him. Stanford fell hard, gasping.
King Stephen scrambled backward, his hands clawing at the blood-slick floor.
Reinhardt lowered his sword point to Stanford's throat. "Get up," he said. "Show me you've learned something. Or stay down and admit what you've always been—a coward behind a crown."
Stanford's face flushed red, equal parts fury and humiliation. He reached for the fallen sword with shaking fingers. "I'm not done yet!"
Reinhardt didn't move, waiting as Stanford struggled to rise, his chest heaving.