Chapter 28: The Meeting
9:00 a.m.
Saturday
Black Dragon Main Hall
The sky above Brimhold was unusually clear that morning. As if the heavens themselves held their breath in anticipation of what was about to unfold. In the heart of the Black Dragon base stood a monument not just of stone and wood, but of vision—The Black Dragon Main Hall.
An idea born on a whim, but carried on the shoulders of destiny.
Josh Aratat, the enigmatic man behind the title Black Dragon, had once stood before Lola, Conrad Stan, and ten of his finest generals—excluding Ralia Amia, who had yet to swear allegiance at the time—and simply said, "Build me a hall worthy of nobles and legends."
They didn't ask questions. They didn't need to. When the Black Dragon speaks, you listen—and you build. With the help of freed slaves who volunteered out of gratitude, reverence, or both, they erected a colossus. A structure that rivaled the grandeur of ancient cathedrals and imperial palaces.
It could hold 11,000 souls. Almost ten percent of Brimhold City's population—standing room only.
The great doors, hewn from Luna Wood—a silver-veined timber that hummed faintly with nature's breath—exhaled a fragrance so ethereal that many believed it to be enchanted. The scent lingered in the minds of those who entered, as if whispering, "You are part of something eternal."
Inside, the hall was designed like a throne room of old empires. The high table stretched like a serpent across the front, with tiered seats cascading backwards. Josh's seat, carved from obsidian blackwood and veined with molten gold, sat highest—alone, exalted. To either side were the thrones of Lola and Conrad Stan. Below them, the seats for lesser generals. Behind, an ocean of seats—already prepared for soldiers yet unborn.
And today, those seats were full. Packed to the brim. No seat was left unclaimed. People crowded at the entrances. The windows were crammed with faces. Outside, thousands more stood, straining to glimpse history in the making. Men. Women. Children. All drawn by the legend.
The attendees weren't just soldiers or loyalists. They were leaders—the Regional Governor of Region 32 himself. Heads of every district's farming union—720 to 1,200 in total, each representing hundreds more. From across twelve cities they came. Influential traders. Guild lords. Powerful merchants—numbering over 6,000. Celebrities, scholars, former nobles in exile. And the nameless masses.
Today, everyone who mattered in Region 32 had come to listen.
And the man at the centre of it all—Josh Aratat—was still wrapping his mind around it.
He had only meant to discuss food.
He had sensed the silent threat on the horizon: a food crisis, creeping like a shadow into the Empire's future. He had called this meeting not to rule, but to prepare, to act. But now, looking at the sheer number of people… the unity, the hope… he realised something deeper.
This wasn't just a meeting. It was a moment.
The tipping point between survival and sovereignty. If guided right, Region 32—once mocked as a wasteland—could become the beating heart of the entire Nazare Blade Empire. A region so advanced, so prosperous, that the capital itself would pale in comparison.
As his thoughts brewed, Lola approached quietly and leaned close to his ear.
"Master, the table is set. All await your word."
Josh blinked and nodded slowly, rising from his obsidian throne. The room didn't fall silent—it froze. As though time itself acknowledged his movement.
He walked to the podium. Measured. Silent. The long dark coat he wore rippled like wings. His black dragon mask—faceless, expressionless, fearsome—glistened under the glow of amber chandeliers.
No one had ever seen his face. Not the public. Not the army. Only Lola and Conrad knew the man beneath the mask.
Some whispered that to see the face of the Black Dragon was to see your ancestors. Others claimed that the moment he removed the mask, he would ascend the imperial throne. Truth or myth, it didn't matter. The belief made the man immortal.
Josh stood still for a moment, his breath steady.
And then, he spoke.
"Hello… everyone."
A silence swept the hall like a divine command. Not a cough. Not a whisper. Only silence—and the echo of his voice splitting the vastness in two.
Outside the hall, a wide-eyed boy grabbed his sister's arm, trembling. "That's him… That's the Black Dragon. Even his voice can cut the air in half."
His sister hissed, pulling him down. "Idiot, keep your mouth shut before you lose your head."
But it was too late. The fire had already caught.
Within the chamber, within the region—within history itself—the legend of the Black Dragon was no longer a tale whispered in corners.
It had begun.
Josh Aratat cleared his throat. The entire Black Dragon Main Hall—filled to bursting with farmers, merchants, nobles, generals, and even a few nosy children hiding under chairs—fell into anticipatory silence.
"I called this meeting to discuss two very important matters..." his voice rang with calm authority, slicing through the air like the first note of a battle horn. Every ear perked up, every eye locked forward. Even the children under the chairs paused their peanut fights.
Originally, Josh had only meant to talk about food—a crucial issue—but when he looked around at the sea of expectant, dignified faces (some of whom probably hadn't stood in a field in decades), he decided to broaden the scope.
"Since the war began," he said, "there's been a steady decline in the transportation of food, and other means of livelihood have started to rot under bureaucracy, blockade, and outright chaos."
"Aye, that's true!" a woman district leader whispered to her neighbour, her brows furrowing like the fields during drought.
"Region Six refuses to send Surghom anymore!" a bold farmer stood up and shouted. "And our last seed shipment had more stones than seeds! I planted disappointment last month and guess what? I harvested depression!"
A few chuckles rippled through the crowd.
Then, like a chain reaction, more voices rose—grumbles, questions, anxious pleas. For a moment, it felt like the beginning of a riot. The hall quaked not from anger, but from sheer, panicked energy.
But Josh merely raised one hand.
Silence returned like a whipped dog. Even the babies in the back stopped crying.
His voice lowered a pitch, becoming more serious. "Things are going to get worse from here on out."
Gasps, worried glances, and audible gulping swept through the crowd like a wave.
"But…" he continued, letting the silence stretch before slicing it with hope, "...we can change that."
The tension loosened. Eyes lit up.
"We start by growing our own food—independent of unreliable regions and weak trade alliances. And if we can enlist a mage or an enchantress…"—he paused for effect, letting the word enchantress hang like a tempting fruit—"...we may accelerate crop growth. Triple harvests in half the time."
An old merchant nudged his friend. "I know a sorceress, but she cursed my beard off once. I'm not going near her again unless we're planting magical beans."
Josh smiled beneath his black mask.
"More than that," he continued, "we must share ideas—farmer to farmer, district to district. I want your opinions, your methods, your creativity. No one here is too small to matter. Even a goat herder might have wisdom worth a king's ear."
Someone at the back shouted, "Goats are smarter than kings anyway!"
The crowd erupted in laughter, and for a moment, the grim fog lifted.
Josh raised his hand again—and the laughter faded like a tide. "We're not just fixing the present—we're building the future. Region 32 may be the smallest, most overlooked part of the empire right now, but with unity, we can become the beating heart of all 68 regions. The capital will look at us and envy."
A slow clap started. Then a few more joined.
And then, thunder.
Thousands—yes, thousands—rose to their feet, clapping like a tide of war drums. Cheering. Whistling. Some were crying, some were chanting his name. Somewhere near the wall, a man fainted from excitement. A child outside squealed, "That's the emperor!"
Josh Aratat stood still, allowing the roar to wash over him. He hadn't prepared for applause. He'd merely come to share a plan. But the people—his people—had just crowned him in their hearts.
And though no crown rested on his head, no throne beneath his feet, the black mask gleamed under the light of a hundred torches.
A new emperor, born not of bloodlines or royal decree, but of hope.
And maybe, just maybe, that was the kind of emperor the world needed.