Prince Balek returned to his residence, the soles of his boots stained with blood and ash. His expression was a mask of dull fury, a lethal calm after a massacre that saw the regional leader, his soldiers, his guards—and any soul foolish or unlucky enough to be nearby—slaughtered without mercy. The air seemed to cling to him, heavy with the metallic scent of death.
The grand arched doorway yawned open before him like the mouth of some ancient beast. Inside, standing stiffly against the wall like a rat cornered by a hunting cat, was Amiel Racta. His face was pale, his hands trembling slightly despite his efforts to hide it.
Amiel Racta's humiliation after his disastrous encounter with Josh Aratat had become legend. The unknown figure who had once been seen as nothing more than a minor threat was now hailed as the Black Dragon—a title that thundered across the empire like a drum of war. His fame was ravenous, spreading like wildfire through every tavern, every city square, every noble court.
In contrast, Amiel's name was dragged through the mud. Mockery trailed him like a swarm of locusts. Inns told jokes about his cowardice; minstrels sang ballads of his shame. Amiel couldn't even show his face in public without drawing jeers and laughter.
Prince Balek, incensed by the stain on his reputation, had once struck Amiel in a fit of rage, sending him flying across the marble floor, crashing into pillars and furniture. On that day, Balek had promised a punishment so perfect, it would dance on the knife-edge between life and death—exquisite agony without fatality. Yet, he had not yet found a punishment cruel enough to satisfy him.
As Balek stalked into the residence, his cape flowing like the wings of a raven, he shot Amiel a look colder than ice. Amiel bowed his head, eyes fixed on the ground, his whole body rigid with fear. Balek ignored him completely—a silent, contemptuous declaration: You are not even worth my wrath today.
He made his way to an enormous cushioned chair carved from blackwood and trimmed with crimson velvet. As he sank into its embrace, a sudden commotion interrupted the grim silence. A servant boy burst into the hall, panting, holding a sealed letter as if it burned his fingers.
"My Prince!" the boy gasped, bowing low and extending the letter.
Before Balek could move, Amiel Racta intercepted the servant, snatching the letter to inspect it for any treachery. Finding none, he handed it to Balek with trembling hands. Balek tore it from him with the speed of a viper striking prey and glared at him with undisguised loathing before breaking the imperial seal.
The letter was written in an elegant, commanding script:
"To Prince Balek,
You are cordially invited by Emperor Groa Aratat to the Gathering and Exchange of the Heirs, scheduled to commence on the fifteenth day of next month.
The victor of this exchange shall be rewarded with a low-ranked Earth-grade weapon and ascend a crucial step closer to the imperial crown.
We await your esteemed presence at the Imperial Capital.
Yours sincerely,
Written by Xerxes, on behalf of His Majesty the Emperor."
Balek's frown deepened. Xerxes himself—his father's shadow and the most dangerous scribe in the empire—had penned this? That alone made the hairs on the back of Balek's neck stand. Something was wrong.
Normally, the Gathering was little more than a glorified inspection—a chance for the Emperor to gaze upon his progeny, weigh them silently, and sow seeds of doubt among them. But now… introducing combat? Bloodshed between heirs?
What are you planning, old man? Balek thought darkly, his mind whirling like a storm.
The servant boy, seeing Balek deep in thought, dared to speak:
"My Lord, as you will have seen in the letter, the Gathering has changed. Not only will the victor receive an Earth-rank weapon, but also gain immense favour on the path to becoming Crown Prince. Regional lords not yet conquered by any prince are also invited... as are the princesses, should they choose to accept."
The boy's voice trembled slightly under Balek's simmering gaze.
Balek's eyes flared open, golden irises shimmering like molten metal. His voice rumbled low and lethal:
"This stupid old man... he means to pit us all against each other... to see us slaughter ourselves for his amusement."
He waved his hand sharply. The boy bowed and fled from the room like a mouse escaping a hawk.
Amiel Racta, emboldened slightly by Balek's preoccupation, dared to ask, "My Prince… what about the Black Dragon? Shall we not strike now?"
Balek leaned back, an arrogant smirk curling his lips as if he had seen a future written only for him.
"If I crush him now, it would be too simple. No, when the time comes... when he stands at the peak, when all hope is within his grasp… I will strike. Then he will understand: I am the god who holds this empire's fate in my palm."
Satisfied, Balek rose and moved to his bedchamber, the heavy doors slamming shut behind him. He threw himself onto his grand bed, his mind replaying images of conquest, blood, and coronation.
As Balek drifted into a battle-filled dream, Amiel Racta lingered by the doorway, muttering through clenched teeth, "Just wait. I'll kill you... and all your precious siblings... save for my Jerusha. She alone shall live, and together, we will rule."
He slipped into the night like a viper, consumed by his own feverish ambitions.
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Across the vast Empire of Aratat, riders on black stallions raced through deserts, mountains, and rivers, delivering identical letters sealed with the Emperor's crimson sigil.
From cold, snow-choked fortresses to searing jungle strongholds, the heirs, regional lords, and even prominent war heroes received the summons.
Princes sharpened their swords. Princesses donned their armor. Lords readied their armies. Assassins dusted off their poisoned blades. And one was scheduled and riding towards forgotten corner of the empire, to the Black Dragon himself—Josh Aratat.
In Region 32 was Josh Aratat, the Black Dragon himself—unaware that destiny was now rushing toward him like a roaring tidal wave.
If the Emperor had known that the legendary Black Dragon he both feared and despised was none other than his "disgraced" last son, he would have died from rage on the spot.
As news of the Gathering spread, the empire exploded into a frenzy of gossip, plotting, and anticipation.
A storm was coming.
And the blood of royals would stain the land.
And so, with the turning of the moon, the drums of war continued to beat across the empire once more.
The Gathering of Heirs would be no celebration.
It would be an epoch of blood, betrayal, and destiny.