A young child huddled beneath a bed, wrapped in a thin blanket, trembling uncontrollably. His small body shivered, though even he could not tell if it was due to the cold or sheer terror.
Every breath he exhaled condensed into a fine mist as it left his lips—the temperature around him was unnaturally frigid. Yet this was midsummer, and the frost creeping across the ground outside the bed was inexplicable.
It wasn't the cold that struck fear into his heart, though. What terrified him was the oppressive aura of death that permeated the air and the sudden, eerie silence that had enveloped everything around him.
Not long ago, the house had been filled with lively sounds: laughter, arguments, the clinking of dishes. But now, all of that was gone. The house was as still as the grave.
The cause of this nightmare lay in the black fog that had crept in from all directions, swallowing the surroundings in its suffocating grip. The child vividly remembered the sheer panic etched on the faces of his uncles and cousins when they saw the fog approaching.
"Spare me! Please, I beg you, have mercy!"
The child flinched as a voice, trembling with fear, echoed from outside the room. It was a voice he recognized.
"That's Uncle's voice," the child thought, immediately recalling the imposing image of his uncle, a stern and dignified middle-aged man who commanded respect wherever he went.
Yet the desperation and terror in that voice were completely at odds with the image the boy held in his mind.
"Those who make mistakes must pay the price. Even children know that," said another voice, dry and rasping, like nails scraping against wood. The sound was enough to make anyone's skin crawl.
"Haha, so it's because I opposed the king's reforms that I've been sentenced to death? But if I'm the only one who opposed him, why drag my family into this? It's unjust!" The boy's uncle, his voice tinged with madness, laughed bitterly.
"Are you so frightened that you've lost your wits? Your family wasn't the only one to oppose my master," replied the rasping voice with cold indifference.
"Master? Ah, I see. You're nothing but the blade wielded by that ten-year-old tyrant," the uncle's voice grew calm, steady once more, regaining some of its former authority.
"Trying to pry information out of me, are you? Clever, but futile. Knowing the truth won't save you—it will only give you the luxury of dying with clarity," the rasping voice replied dismissively.
A choking sound followed, as though someone were gasping for breath. The noise grew weaker and weaker until it stopped altogether. A heavy thud, like a body hitting the ground, was the next thing the boy heard.
Then came the sound of something being dragged across the floor. Whatever it was, it was moving away from the house.
Fear gripped the boy tighter than ever. He lay curled beneath the bed, shivering violently, unable to even muster the courage to peek outside. Time crawled by, each second feeling like an eternity.
At some point, though he didn't know when, the boy's eyelids grew heavy. He drifted off to sleep, his exhaustion overpowering his fear.
When he awoke, sunlight was streaming through the cracks in the window. The oppressive, deathly aura was gone.
"Is it over?" The boy whispered to himself, blinking at the golden patches of light on the floor. His heart filled with hope as he crawled out from beneath the bed and hurried to open the door.
But the sight outside froze him in place.
The once lively and bustling courtyard was now silent as the grave. There were no servants rushing about, no voices to be heard—just an eerie, oppressive stillness.
Looking down, the boy saw a dark red stain on the ground. A trail of dried blood stretched from the courtyard toward the street beyond.
He thought again of the voice he had heard last night—the voice of his uncle, pleading desperately for his life.
"Is anyone here?" The boy's voice trembled as he wandered through the empty estate, calling out for anyone who might answer.
But no matter how much he shouted, there was only silence. The boy finally made his way to the street, where the bustling crowd of the outside world offered him a stark contrast to the nightmare he had just emerged from.
Collapsing onto the ground, he began to cry, the sound of his wails echoing across the busy street.
…
"Gai has stood for over a thousand years, and some noble families have managed to persist since the founding of the kingdom. But many of these nobles have grown complacent, living off the achievements of their ancestors. They've become parasites, contributing nothing to the kingdom while draining its lifeblood. It's time to remove these parasites."
Muria sat on the throne, his youthful voice ringing out with calm authority. His crimson eyes scanned the assembly of nobles and ministers before him.
Many of them kept their heads bowed low, their fear evident. The ranks of nobles present had thinned noticeably since Muria's ascension.
"I've decided to abolish hereditary noble titles. Does anyone have objections? Anyone wish to oppose this?"
Silence.
Not a single voice rose to challenge him.
All of them had seen what happened to those who dared to stand against this young king. Their fates were grim: publicly executed on charges of treason, their families exterminated, or worse—disappearing entirely without a trace.
Under this king's rule, there was one unshakable truth: oppose his will, and you would die.
Satisfied with the lack of dissent, Muria nodded. "Good. It seems all of you are forward-thinking individuals."
He began to elaborate on the flaws of hereditary titles, painting a vivid picture of their detrimental effects on the kingdom. The nobles and ministers, still too fearful to voice their thoughts, listened in silence.
"To prevent future generations of nobles from falling into decadence, anyone seeking to inherit a title must now earn it on the battlefield. Only those who achieve significant military merit will be granted the privilege of noble status."
Muria detailed his new policy, believing it to be a fair compromise. But to the nobles below, it was nothing less than heresy—a complete upheaval of their way of life.
Their faces remained stoic, but resentment festered in their hearts. Fear kept them silent, but they seethed inwardly at the king's audacity.
"My family has served the Gai monarchy for nearly a thousand years. But now, this kingdom has no place for us. It's time for us to leave," a prominent noble muttered as he left the royal court.
"Careful what you say. The tyrant has ears everywhere," warned a nearby minister, his voice hushed.
"A tyrant? Is that what you call someone who drives us out of our own home? Fine. If he doesn't want us here, we'll take our talents elsewhere. There are plenty of kingdoms eager to welcome noble houses like ours," the noble retorted coldly.
…
"Arnold, do you see what your reforms have wrought?"
In the shadowed halls of the palace, where death's chill lingered, Fernand—his undead form towering and monstrous—spoke to his son. "Some nobles, realizing they can't stop your reforms, are planning to leave the kingdom. How do you intend to handle this?"
"Let them go," Muria replied calmly, his glowing red eyes piercing the darkness. "Their departure will make room for new blood to rise."
"That doesn't sound very tyrannical," Fernand said, a faint smirk tugging at his grotesque features.
"Father, do you really have to call me that? Do I truly count as a tyrant?"
"For someone who exterminates entire families for dissent? Yes, you qualify as a tyrant."
"I don't kill indiscriminately," Muria sighed. "I only eliminate those who not only oppose me in words but take action to obstruct my reforms. The rest, I let be."
Fernand chuckled, the sound dry and echoing ominously. "Selective killing doesn't make you any less of a tyrant, my son."
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