Despite Josh's last warning, Prince Jaden and the other three heirs — Prince Rezbah, Princess Jerusha, and Princess Karen — refused to back down.
The courtyard had fallen into complete silence, as though the entire palace was holding its breath. Dust and smoke from the earlier clash still lingered in the air, giving the place an eerie glow under the morning sun.
Prince Jaden stood with his chest out, his hands tightening around the hilt of his sword, his posture defiant. He truly believed that Josh wouldn't dare hurt them — not the royal heirs. Yes, he could terrify guards and shatter imperial battalions, but surely, surely, he wouldn't dare spill royal blood. Jaden was convinced that Josh was bluffing, that this was just one more intimidation tactic meant to make them bend the knee.
But Josh did not speak. He smiled — not the warm smile of a man who had forgiven, but the cold, razor-thin smile of someone who had already passed judgment. His black cloak rippled in the faint wind as he began to walk forward, slow, measured steps that rang louder than any war drum.
This time, his actions would speak.
And then, it happened.
Before anyone could even gasp, before a single guard could move or a priestess could utter a prayer, the four heirs were gone. Smashed into smithereens, their bodies obliterated as if a giant, invisible hand had seized them and crushed them into dust. It was not death — it was erasure. Like a car being destroyed inside a garbage compactor, they were ground to nothingness before they could even register shock or fear.
Their defiance died with them, leaving only silence in its wake.
Prince Michael, the sixth prince, felt his knees weaken. His mouth went dry as he realized he had been a breath away from joining them. His heart thundered inside his chest, not from grief, but from sheer gratitude that he had chosen not to follow Prince Jaden's foolish courage.
Then, as their remains fell like ash upon the ground, the heavens answered.
The sky split apart with a roar of thunder. Brilliant light flared across the clouds, the same strange phenomenon that had occurred when Prince Balek, the first prince, was slain. The clouds churned violently, as if the very sky was mourning the heirs, or perhaps raging against their needless deaths.
Of the eight princes and ten princesses of the royal house, three princes and two princesses were now dead.
And this could have been avoided.
Pride. Pride had dragged them to their graves — that stubborn refusal to bow, that delusion that royal blood would shield them. Pride had brought about their fall, and the empire had paid for it.
Princess Zemira stood apart from the others, her face expressionless. She did not cry. She did not scream. She simply shook her head as she looked at the remains of her siblings. In her heart, she had mourned them the moment they stood in defiance. Now, all she felt was a hollow ache.
Her eyes followed Josh as he strode past the rubble that had been her family. His presence was like a shadow swallowing the courtyard, and not one soldier dared move in his path.
She couldn't blame him.
How Josh was even still alive was a mystery that haunted her. Long ago, when he had sacrificed himself for Conrad Stan on the bloodstained grounds of Region 32 — taking Conrad's place on the death toll — everyone, including the priestesses, had believed him dead. His name had been written in the annals of the fallen.
But later the vision of Sarzi Uno, the chief priestess had caught something different. This vision had spread among the nobles and many disregarded it, but Zemira truly believed Josh would return.
In the late chief priestess Sarzi Uno's visions, she had glimpsed this moment — Josh returning, Josh seizing power, Josh standing in the ruins of the royal line. And now, the prophecy was no longer a distant dream. It was here, breathing down their necks.
Princess Zemira knew just how hard Josh's life had been. She knew the pain, the betrayal, the endless lack of love and harsh existence he had endured from childhood till this very day. She did not fault him for his fury — no, she understood it better than most.
But as she watched him march into the palace, her heart whispered a single prayer:
Let the innocent survive this war between dragons.
For too much blood had already been spilled.
Emperor Groa Aratat sat on a throne-like chair carved from dark crimson wood, its surface polished to a glassy sheen and adorned with gold inlays depicting the rise of the Aratat dynasty. Around him, the hall was an exhibition of imperial wealth — silk curtains swayed lazily from the windows, the floor was laid with marble so smooth it reflected torchlight like water, and on a low stool before him sat a crystal decanter of rare wine.
This was no ordinary wine. Its deep, glistening red was said to hold vitality itself, infused with herbs that only grew on the eastern cliffs of the Spine mountains. So rare was this drink that only a handful of nobles in the entire empire had ever tasted it, and most of those men were long dead. The wine was a symbol — not just of indulgence, but of power.
The Emperor lifted the glass lazily, as though this were just another day and not the arrival of the man who had come to seek retribution and to fulfill the age long prophecy, and in process he had single handledly gripped the reins of power from the scorpion empire that came to fight the Nazare Blade Empire, toppled his legions and scattered his ashes. His fingers, however, gripped the stem just a little too tightly.
He raised his head when he heard the measured footfalls.
Josh entered the hall, the sound of his boots echoing like a war drum on the marble floor. Behind him came his entourage, their faces grim, their eyes locked on every shadow, every guard in the room. Josh held his kingly staff in his right hand, the faint hum of its power making the very air shimmer.
There was no rush in his steps, no anxiety in his eyes. His demeanor was a lake at dawn — perfectly calm, yet hiding unimaginable depths.
When the Emperor's gaze met Josh's, the air itself seemed to tighten. Sparks — not literal ones, but the kind that leap invisibly between two predators who recognize one another — crackled in the silence.
Emperor Groa's sword lay at his right side, sheathed in an exquisite scabbard of black leather and gold filigree, its surface etched with lions and eagles locked in eternal battle. It rested on the arm of the throne like a sleeping serpent, but its presence was unmistakable. The Emperor's fingers brushed the hilt lightly, an unconscious habit, though his face betrayed no fear.
The hall went still.
Even the air seemed to hold its breath, as though the very palace was bracing for what might happen next. No servant moved. No guard shifted his weight. The distant wind outside seemed to hush, as if the world itself had chosen to witness this confrontation without interference.
Josh stopped several paces from the throne, his staff planted firmly on the ground, the sound reverberating like a final bell. His eyes never left Groa's.
The clash was no longer physical — not yet. It was the meeting of two wills, the test of two men who both carried the weight of empires.
And the silence… was deafening.