Josh Aratat stood perfectly still, his flamboyant otherworldly cloak, fluttering in the faint wind, his eyes fixed on the endless horizon as though he could see beyond it — beyond time, beyond space. His expression was unreadable, carved in stone, but his voice carried like thunder rolling across an empty plain.
"If you care about your child," Josh said softly, yet the words seemed to ripple through the palace like a bell tolling, "stop his interference now, and I will stay away from the beasts of Havoc. But if he continues to defy me..."
He paused deliberately, and the silence that followed was so absolute that even the flutter of a curtain sounded like a scream.
"You will lose a son. I promise you, and it won't end there..."
The air itself seemed to still. The courtiers, guards, and imperial servants glanced at one another, their faces pale. None of them understood who Josh was speaking to, but the weight in his tone was enough to freeze their blood.
Groa Aratat, sat back comfortably on his throne-like seat like a man clinging to his last shred of dignity, he leaned forward and let out a derisive laugh.
"Trying to scare me with invisible allies now, Josh?" Groa sneered, his lips curling. "You can't talk your way out of this one. You're already—"
And then it happened.
A voice came. Not from the palace, not from the earth, but from everywhere at once.
"MORAT..."
The sound shook the foundations of the palace. It was not a shout — it was a decree, vibrating through bone and blood, through the pillars and walls, through the hearts of every man and woman present. Many dropped to their knees instinctively. Others pressed their hands to their ears, though it did nothing to block the sound.
"LEAVE THE WARS OF MEN... AND COME HOME."
The final word boomed like a drum of judgment. The marble tiles quivered. Dust fell from the rafters. And then, silence.
All eyes turned to the man with the beastly aura — Morat, the tiger-marked beast of Havoc, the warrior whose very presence had felt like a storm trapped in a man's body. He stood there, shoulders rising and falling, his fierce eyes burning as he turned his head to face Emperor Groa.
The confidence, the arrogance Groa had worn like a crown just moments ago cracked and fell away. He could perceive the sudden strings of unexpected developments and they felt very uncomfortable to imagine.
Morat's expression was one of quiet disappointment, almost pity. His lips moved soundlessly, but everyone could read it — I wanted to repay my debt... but I cannot refuse the call of my father.
Before Groa could speak, Morat's body shone with a sudden, brilliant light. He shot upward, breaking through the palace roof once more like an arrow loosed from the heavens. The resulting shockwave knocked several guards off their feet.
And then — he was gone.
The silence that followed was deafening. Groa Aratat's sneer had vanished completely, leaving only a man who had realized too late that he had summoned his own doom. He sat frozen on the throne, hands trembling, sweat beading on his brow as his mind raced.
He had mocked Josh. He had mocked the man who just called out to a god — and got an answer.
Groa's confidence, his false bravado, all crumbled to dust in that moment. He could almost feel death circling the palace like a hungry predator, waiting for Josh to give the final command.
And Josh... Josh had not moved an inch. His calm was terrifying. His gaze returned to Groa at last, cold and final, like the shadow of a noose.
The end of Groa Aratat's life had begun — and he knew it.
"Nobody can save you. But I will do you better—I will restrict my strength to your level," Josh said, each word falling like a heavy stone into the silence that gripped the hall. His voice wasn't loud, yet it echoed, almost vibrating against the marble pillars of the throne room. "With that, you should be able to last a couple of moves..."
He took a step forward. The sound of his footstep was like a war drum to those present.
Lola, the other twelve generals, and the two thousand soldiers stationed at the palace did not so much as blink. Not even the air seemed willing to move. Every eye was fixed on Josh—his calm, unwavering steps, his almost casual expression, and the suffocating aura that seemed to weigh down on everyone like the shadow of a giant hand.
This fight wasn't just another duel. It was destiny crystallised in flesh and blood. The outcome would decide the ruler of the Nazare Blade Empire. Prince Balek, the first prince, was dead—his bones barely cold. Prince Jaden, the cunning second prince, was also gone, struck down for his defiance. The throne sat empty, the imperial seal unused, the empire teetering on the edge of either rebirth or annihilation.
No one knew what Josh would do when this was over—would he sit on the throne himself, or appoint one of his terrifyingly loyal commanders? Would he destroy the Aratat bloodline entirely, ending centuries of rule, or would he rebuild from its ashes? The uncertainty was maddening. To try to predict Josh Aratat's thoughts was like staring at the sun—painful, blinding, and ultimately futile.
Groa Aratat stood there, gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly that the veins in his hand bulged. His pride was being flayed alive in front of everyone. The 8th-born son, the one the empire had once whispered about with contempt, now stood as judge, jury, and executioner. And he, the emperor, the first of his bloodline, had been reduced to a man merely hoping to survive a fight.
Josh's words hit him like a hammer—restricting his strength to match him? It was the ultimate insult. He wasn't just being challenged; he was being pitied.
Groa's breath became heavy, his chest rising and falling with ragged fury. Shame burned in his veins, but then—slowly—something shifted. His expression hardened. His fear was still there, coiled in his gut, but it was drowned by something older and far more primal: defiance.
"Even if I have to die," he muttered under his breath, his voice rough but gaining strength with every word, "I won't die a useless coward. I am Groa Aratat, the first of the Aratat bloodline. I will not let it end here. I will succeed!"
It was a bold declaration, but to those who heard him, it sounded strangely hollow, almost tragic. Like the desperate chirp of a squirrel tied to a stake, moments before the fire was lit.
Josh stopped walking and looked at him—just looked. No words. No expression. Just that gaze that made the air feel heavier, and every soldier present realised that whatever happened next would be remembered for centuries.