Josh barely had the time to blink, much less think, before Coma PELLA launched forward. With a guttural snarl, the changeling god released a beam of translucent energy, brighter than lightning, and yet cold as moonlight.
The blast struck Josh square in the chest.
The sound was deafening, like the skies themselves had split open. The sheer force lifted him from the ground and hurled him across the palace hall like a fragile leaf caught in a storm. For an instant, all eyes widened—this wasn't the sight they had come to expect. Josh, the indomitable warrior, the 8th prince, the black dragon, who always stood fearlessly, unbroken, was flung helplessly through the air.
His body hit the earth with a thud so heavy that the ground cracked beneath him. A ripple of silence fell over the crowd, broken only by the faint echo of bones crunching. The sound alone was enough to make hearts clench. One didn't need the gift of foresight to see the truth—Josh was gravely injured.
Then, the heavens stirred.
In a blinding instant, the real A'Nui descended. No words announced his arrival—his very presence tore through the atmosphere. The air thickened, trembling under the weight of a higher god's wrath. The once-tense palace hall was now suffocated with divine fury.
Coma PELLA turned, his grotesque form still twisted in triumph, but he didn't even manage a scream. A wave of formless energy, unseen yet undeniable, tore through his being. The soundless strike unraveled him molecule by molecule until the changeling's existence itself turned to dust, scattered in the winds of eternity. A god had been slain in an instant.
But victory carried no joy.
A'Nui, the god of retribution, was burning with anger, yet when his gaze turned toward the broken figure of Josh, that anger twisted into sorrow. His divine sight pierced deeper than flesh. He could see what others could not—the kingly system within Josh had been shattered beyond repair. Even if his mortal shell somehow endured, he would never be able to cultivate again. For one who stood at the pinnacle, to be reduced to a powerless commoner… it was a fate worse than death.
Lola's cry broke the silence. She had rushed to Josh's side, falling to her knees beside him. His body was trembling violently, blood seeping from his ears, his nose, his mouth, even his eyes. Each breath he took was a ragged battle between life and death, and he was losing.
"No, no, no, stay with me…" Her hands shook as she tried to steady him, though her tears blurred her vision. She raised her head, looking straight at the god towering above them. Her voice cracked but carried a desperate courage that silenced the onlookers.
"Please—save him!"
Her plea tore through the oppressive stillness, raw and unashamed. She didn't care if her words angered a god. She didn't care if she was crushed for daring to demand. All that mattered was the broken figure lying before her—the one who had borne the weight of empires on his shoulders, now fragile as glass.
For the first time, even the god of retribution hesitated. A'Nui's eyes softened, sorrow flickering within their golden depths. He would have loved to help, but the divine laws were absolute. gods were forbidden to interfere in mortal destiny—it was the one unyielding command of the cosmos. Some had dared in the past, moved by compassion or greed, but none survived the retribution that followed.
His hand twitched slightly, as if wanting to reach for Josh, but in the end, A'Nui only shook his head. The mighty god's voice never came. With a shimmer of dissolving light, he vanished into nothingness.
"No!" Lola's scream tore through the palace halls. Her cry was not just sorrow—it was rage at the unfairness of heaven itself. She pressed Josh's bloodied body against her, her trembling frame drenched in tears. "Don't leave me with this burden… don't leave him like this!"
But there was no answer. Only the shallow, agonizing gasps of the broken man she held.
Desperation drove her forward. She and the surviving generals scoured the shattered palace halls until they found what remained of the imperial apothecary. From cracked vials and scattered leaves, they pieced together healing draughts. They fed him crushed roots mixed with bitter water, burned incense of calming herbs, and poured sacred powders into his wounds. Still, Josh lay silent, unmoving, his body trembling on the razor's edge between life and death.
---
Two days later…
The imperial palace no longer held silence. The courtyards were flooded with people—nobles in glittering robes, peasants in tattered cloth, merchants who abandoned their stalls, soldiers who left their posts. A tide of humanity surged toward the gates, all asking the same question: Where is Josh Aratat?
Even Amber Nois, the Great Archmage of the Oradonian Order, had arrived. Her presence was no small matter. Cloaked in violet robes, her staff humming faintly with restrained energy, she descended with her handpicked circle of trainees. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes… her eyes betrayed unease.
She had seen visions—glimpses of Josh standing victorious, crowned emperor, the empire reborn under his hand. But what lay before her now contradicted all foresight. The meddling of Coma PELLA had twisted the strands of destiny itself. Amber Nois' visions, once clear, were blurred with fog and broken fragments. Even she, the one who walked at the edge of time, was left uncertain.
And yet the empire knew none of this.
Rumors had already taken root, spreading like wildfire through all sixty-eight regions. The truth of Josh's predicament was kept secret, and so the people spoke only of his triumphs.
"He crushed armies as if they were ants!" a merchant cried, recounting the story for the tenth time to a circle of awestruck listeners.
"The Black Dragon revealed himself! It was Josh Aratat all along—the 8th prince we thought was dead!" shouted another, his voice ringing with zeal.
"I swear to you," said an old veteran, slamming his fist on the table of a tavern, "I saw it with my own eyes! He faced a god! And that rotten trickster god was nothing but a mouse before him."
Tales of glory replaced whispers of fear. In markets and temples, in the poorest huts and the grandest estates, the name Josh Aratat echoed. Songs began to form, drunken ballads turning into hymns of worship.
In the imperial region, Conrad Stan—Josh's trusted general—took charge. With Josh's loyal officers, he rallied the opposition army that had once resisted. Now, they bent knee to the prince's banner. Under Conrad's command, soldiers marched not to war, but to rebuild. Entire battalions laid bricks, carried timber, and restored what had been destroyed in the battle.
And then, a new project began: the construction of a colossal statue of Josh Aratat in the heart of the imperial capital. Blocks of marble were hauled from distant quarries, artisans summoned from every region. The statue would stand higher than the palace itself, a symbol of hope carved into eternity.
For days, the empire could not let go of the thrill. Hope, like a blazing wildfire, swept through every corner.
"Our Black Dragon will be emperor," voices chanted in the streets.
"The empire is saved!"
But within the palace walls, where whispers of destiny bent and broke, a different truth lay hidden: Josh, the Black Dragon, hovered still between life and death.