The bruised man, shaking and out of breath, leaned closer to Valieon, whispering through cracked lips, "There was no war... the Flame Tyrant—he killed them. All of them. Because they knew... dark secrets."
Valieon's fists clenched, the earth beneath him twitching ever so slightly. "What secrets?" he asked, but before the man could respond, jailers burst through the crowd. "There he is!" one shouted.
The man turned in fear, but before they could reach him, Valieon appeared before one of the jailers and—snap—the man's neck twisted in a single, cold motion. The others froze. Valieon didn't move. He didn't need to. One look into his eyes—burning with rage, grief, and godly power—and they dropped their weapons and fled like children in a nightmare.
Valieon knelt beside the man. "Who are you?"
"I was... Kael Draven's assistant," the man coughed, blood trickling from his mouth. "He told me about you. Said if anything happened, you would be the one... the only one strong enough to uncover the truth. To bring justice."
Valieon's heart skipped. "What did he tell you? What truth?"
Before the answer could come, a royal blade pierced through the man's back. His eyes widened in shock—and went still.
Valieon caught him as he fell. He looked up to see Ashar, standing with his blade still warm.
"What were you doing talking to a prisoner?" Ashar said casually, like nothing had happened.
Valieon stared at the blood dripping from the blade. "Where is Ignar?"
"You mean His Majesty," Ashar corrected smugly. "He's with the council—"
Valieon's eyes turned so cold, Ashar swallowed mid-sentence and trembled. He hesitantly pointed to the west tower.
Valieon vanished.
In the royal gardens, Ignar, the Flame Tyrant, stood tall in fine robes, holding a scroll, pretending to mourn. Veridian stood at his side, unaware of the chaos about to unfold.
Then—CRACK—Ignar flew across the sky, slammed into the very battlefield where his soldiers had bled. The nobles gasped.
Valieon appeared behind Veridian and whispered, "Sorry." A swift strike knocked Veridian unconscious.
The crowd screamed. Guards drew their weapons—but didn't dare step forward.
Ignar stood, blood trickling from his lip, enraged. "A mere mortal dares to attack me?!"
They clashed—fist to fist. Ignar was powerful, older, refined. But Valieon was angry, wild, pure.
Ignar summoned his divine weapon—Infernoscourge, a flaming trident said to be forged in the dying heart of a star.
Valieon unsheathed Alpha and Omega. The blades hummed, not with magic, but with purpose.
They fought like titans. Every clash of weapons split the sky. Every blow sent shockwaves through the dominion. The heavens themselves trembled.
Then Ignar roared and unleashed his godly move: Solar Cataclysm—a blast of sunfire so hot, it vaporized the clouds.
Valieon was hit. He flew into the earth, unconscious, buried under the debris. For a moment, it seemed the tyrant had won.
But a groan came from beneath the rubble.
Then—BOOM—Valieon rose. Half-burned, bloodied, shirtless, eyes glowing like galaxies collapsing.
"No kings... no gods..." he whispered.
He dashed. One blade in each hand.
A flurry of strikes followed—Heaven Splitter. Soul Rend. Starfall Combo—moves no mortal should even know.
Then—SHRAKKK—he stabbed Ignar with both Alpha and Omega, one through the chest, the other through the throat.
Ignar gasped. Then stilled.
Just as the gods arrived—too late.
A mortal had slain a god-king.
And the universe would never be the same.