The air in the royal chambers of Durmount was thick with the scent of expensive incense and delusions of grandeur.
King Durmount stood before a floor-to-ceiling mirror, adjusting his chestpiece. He looked like a god carved from the sun itself—or at least, that's what he told himself. He drew the ancestral sword of his lineage, a blade that had seen centuries of history. Clink.
The hilt snapped. The legendary steel hit the floor with a pathetic thud, the ancient grip rolling under a dresser.
The King froze, his face flushing. He heard a knock at the door and, in a panic, shoved the broken, hiltless blade back into its scabbard.
"Enter!" he barked, straightening his golden cape.
Princess Selrose stepped in, her black mourning veil casting a shadow over her sharp features. Behind her followed her personal shadow, the knight Harribel, and her strategic advisor, Marielle Sullivana. Both were dressed in the deepest ebony, looking more like funeral directors than royal attendants.
"Sister," the King started, his voice wavering slightly. "Are you absolutely certain about this golden armor? It's... a bit conspicuous, isn't it? I'll be a beacon on the battlefield."
Selrose leaned in, her smile as sweet as poisoned honey. "Brother, this armor is the physical manifestation of the Durmount sun. Would you have your men look upon their sovereign and see a pauper? A king who cannot afford gold is a king who cannot afford victory. It radiates power."
'It radiates a target,' Selrose thought, her eyes cold behind the veil. 'You'll be the brightest thing for the archers to aim at.'
The King looked at her black dress, confused. "Then why the mourning clothes? It's a bit... grim for a departure ceremony, isn't it?"
Marielle Sullivana stepped forward, bowing low. "Your Majesty, we aren't mourning for our side. We are mourning for the thousands of Lurtra men who are about to meet their end at your hand. We simply wished to be prepared for the funeral of your enemies."
The King's chest swelled. "I see! Truly, your foresight is commendable!"
He turned and marched out toward the arena, his golden boots clanking loudly. The moment the heavy oak doors shut, the atmosphere in the room plummeted to sub-zero.
"Harribel," Selrose whispered. "The weapon?"
"The tang of the blade was pre-stressed and the hilt pins removed, My Lady," Harribel replied, her voice as flat as a tombstone. "The first time he swings it with force, it will fly apart. He will be standing in the center of a war zone with nothing but a golden stick."
"Perfect," Selrose murmured, a dark glint in her eyes. "That fool needs to be... terminated."
The King stepped onto the balcony overlooking the arena. Below him stood the remnants of his army—men with bandages still seeping blood, armor dented, and spirits broken from their last humiliating defeat.
'I am the chosen one,' the King thought, basking in the silence. 'Mother and Father always said I was perfect. This kingdom exists because I allow it to.'
"Subjects!" he bellowed, throwing his arms wide. "Look at my hands! They glow with the destiny of a thousand suns! Or... wait, that might be the leftover gravy from the royal luncheon. No matter!"
The soldiers exchanged worried glances.
"Today, we invade Lurtra! Their clouds have mocked me for too long with their sheep-like shapes, and frankly, the humidity is bad for my hair! My strategy is a stroke of genius: We shall march backward toward their border. They will think we are retreating! Then—Bam!—we spin around very fast! Victory is ours! We strike at dawn!"
Silence. A single cricket chirped in the courtyard.
High above on the castle rooftop, Zhyelena watched the display with glowing crimson eyes. "A circus run by a clown," she whispered to the wind. In a flicker of shadow, she vanished.
In a secluded clearing, Kyle moved like a blur, his blade singing through the air as he practiced. He felt a presence and spun, mid-air, launching three kunai with lethal precision.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
A shimmering holy barrier flickered into existence, dropping the daggers to the grass. An old priest stood there, his robes pristine.
"My, my," the priest chuckled. "You truly are a... mediocre child, aren't you?"
Kyle landed in a crouch, his eyes narrowed. "Watch your tongue, old man. I've sent men twice your size to the afterlife for less."
"Peace, child. I am not here to trade blows," the priest said, extending a hand. "I've been watching you. We share a common enemy. A cancer on this world. The White Plague."
Kyle froze. "You mean... Leornars?"
"The very same. He is a far greater problem for my order than he is for your ambitions. Let us combine our efforts."
Kyle looked at the offered hand, the tension in the air thick enough to cut.
Meanwhile, in the Lurtra throne room (now annexed and under new management), Leornars sat with a terrifyingly calm posture. Across from him, a Durmount delegate was vibrating with enough nervous energy to power a city.
"Does this clown realize Lurtra doesn't even exist as a separate entity anymore?" Althelia's voice echoed in Leornars's mind.
"Apparently not," Leornars replied telepathically. "Our 'Quiet Annexation' worked too well. He thinks he's luring me into a trap in Durmount while he attacks a kingdom that's already mine."
The delegate wiped sweat from his brow. "S-so, King Leornars... our King invites you for... diplomatic trade talks?"
"I'll take the bait," Leornars said aloud, his voice sending a shiver down the delegate's spine. "I want to see the exact moment his hope turns to ash."
Just then, Zaryter entered, his heavy armor clanking. "Lord Leornars. We caught a slave trader sneaking across the Lurtra border. Your orders?"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees. Leornars's eyes turned a predatory, glowing red.
"Cremate him," Leornars said. "Alive."
The delegate turned pale green. Before he could speak, Stacian walked in, sitting beside Leornars with a sharp, predatory grace.
"I will handle the paperwork and negotiations," she said, smiling at the delegate. "My Lord has... other business."
In a blink, Leornars was gone. The delegate looked at Stacian and realized, with a sinking heart, that he was now alone with the person who handled the "dirty work."
Leornars reappeared in the Seraphim Kingdom. The scene was a massacre. Succubus corpses lay scattered across the grass.
He knelt by two survivors, his hands glowing with healing magic. His voice was a low, vibrating growl of pure rage. "Who. Did. This?"
"Heroes..." one demi-human sobbed. "People from another world. They said we were 'monsters'... but we can't even fight back..."
The air around Leornars began to crackle. A deep crimson aura erupted, shattering the stone pavement beneath his feet.
"Althelia. Scan. Now."
"Abnormal mana signatures detected. Four miles South. Seventeen targets," Althelia reported instantly.
Leornars summoned Zhyier. "Erect a barrier. Now. I don't want the shockwaves to kill the survivors."
"As you wish, My Lord," Zhyier bowed.
Leornars didn't walk. He didn't run. He became a [Dark Blur].
The ground behind him disintegrated from the sheer force of his takeoff. Trees bent and snapped as he tore through the forest.
"FASTER!" he roared, his voice a thunderclap.
He reached the "Heroes" in seconds. Without slowing down, he ripped a massive ancient oak tree from the earth with one hand. Using it like a club, he swung with the force of a falling meteor.
BOOM!
The "Hero" at the center of the impact didn't even have time to scream. His body didn't just break—it underwent molecular failure, turning into a cloud of red mist and ash as a tectonic shockwave leveled the clearing.
Leornars stood in the crater, the remnants of the tree smoldering in his hand. He turned his glowing red eyes to the remaining sixteen.
"Next," he whispered.