Nymph Empire…
Lord Glaivus Residence…
While the Nazare Blade Empire was situated firmly in temperate regions of the northern continent, and the Scorpion Empire stood hard in its own corners also in the north, far to the south there existed a higher-order dominion known as the Nymph Empire. It was here, in a residence of dark wood and patient pillars, that a small and dangerous miracle took place.
A pair of eyes appeared out of thin air and drifted into Lord Glaivus's private chamber as if summoned by breath. Inside, a man with empty eye-sockets sat stiffly, fingers moving in a peculiar cadence — not reaching, but guiding something unseen. Seated before him were Prince Aloysius, Prince Typh, Princess Judith (full sister to the late Prince Jaden and Princess Jerusha), Princess Mahlah, former Empress Hodiah (mother to Jaden and Jerusha), former Empress Maachah, and former Empress Lois.
The floating eyes slid and settled into the hollow of Lord Glaivus's face. He grunted as sight returned; the socket closed as if a lock had been threaded together. The chamber fell into an awed hush.
Princess Mahlah, who could not keep still, burst out with reckless curiosity. "You mean there is a skill that can allow you to detach any part of your body for surveillance and other uses—"
Lord Glaivus cut her off with a hiss of disgust. "Alloysius, where did you get these country bumpkins from? This is a high-level empire; the levels here are not what a backwater realm can compare to. The Eyes of Eterna is one of the lesser arts I possess — and it cost close to two million Nymph Empire coins." He shrugged, more to boast and gloat than to express his displeasure.
Alloysius bowed his head, flattering. "My lord, we have only just come from a low-tier empire. We haven't seen the ways of higher level empires. So please forgive my half-sister.....ehrrr... My Lord From what your eyes show, does the empire suit your taste?"
A few months earlier, Aloysius had been searching for a way to take vengeance on Josh Aratat for his father's death, Late Emperor Groa Aratat. He had crossed many minor empires, most no more than dust and blade. Rumour and quiet gossip eventually led him down south of the southern continents, eventually to the Nymph Empire and finally to this house. There he found Lord Glaivus — a man who desired an empire to cultivate his power. Glaivus would enslave a people, use blood sacrifice to ascend until he reached the rank of Blood King — a cultivation peak that would place him among the elite of his order in the Nymph empire.
Using the Eyes of Eterna, Glaivus had scanned the Nazare Blade Empire in its entirety. The sight returned with cruel ease: markets, barracks, temples, and the lists of cultivators. "They're low in cultivation and high in decoration," he said softly. "Their elites know courtcraft and fine speech, but not the shape of sacrifice. They lack the power to be on equal footing with me and would serve as a good fertilizer to feed a blood rite."
Glavius let a dangerous light cross his face. "Their highest cultivation level is the tenth level of the Ocean Flooding realm," he said. "A single level-unit below my present strength."
Aloysius nodded in agreement. Glaivus nodded and continued speaking. "My present cultivation is Blood Savage — comparable to Beyond Mortal Realm level one. I can take them by surprise. Once we bend the court and feed the rites, we will shape a new order. You shall be placed as Emperor as par our agreement, Aloysius. The crown will be yours while I build the engine I want. All I ask is blood sacrifice; the rest is none of my business."
The gathered former empresses, princes and princesses exchanged glances—a volatile mix of calculation, revulsion, and simmering ambition. Former Empress Hodiah, her voice steady but edged with warning, finally spoke:
"You speak of crushing a people for power, Lord Glaivus. What of the old cultivators, the priests, the guilds? You cannot peel a kingdom without some striking back."
Glaivus's smile was patient, cold, unhurried. "Bribe some, break some, and make spectacle of the rest. Strip their rites, twist their texts, and soon worship bends toward what I offer. That is how blood-kings are made."
Aloysius did not hesitate. His words cut through the silence: "Whatsoever you desire, my Lord, I will do it. I will hold the throne. I will do whatever is required."
---
Nazare Blade Empire…
Far to the south, while Aloysius plotted ruin, the Nymph Empire stirred with anticipation. For the first time in one year and two months since his coronation, Emperor Josh Aratat chose to show his face.
Region Four was ablaze with fervor. Cities under this region swelled with excitement, travelers poured in from other provinces, and whispers turned into chants that shook the streets. The blessed emperor was coming.
Josh knew well that he no longer wielded the vast strength he once commanded. Yet hiding forever was impossible. Josh understood that well. Every whisper of his weakness was a dagger at the empire's heart. Left unchecked, such rumors would fester, rotting the foundation of all he had built. He had no choice. Even if danger awaited him in every shadow, even if unseen blades were already drawn against him, he would step into the light. Better to risk death than let his enemies believe the Black Dragon had gone cold.
He would remind them—those serpents lurking in silence—that he still breathed fire.
"Have you heard? The sweet emperor—may the gods bless his soul—is coming today!" cried an eager trader, his voice lifted with pride as he arranged fruits and spices across his stall. His words tumbled out like blessings, too heavy to keep within.
A cloaked figure paused before him. His face lay hidden beneath a wide hat, his posture unreadable, his presence oddly chilling.
The man's reply came sharp, laced with scorn: "Is he not afraid? If the rumors are true, is he not powerless? Is that not why he has hidden for over a year and two months?"
The trader froze, outrage swelling in his chest. He narrowed his eyes, searching for the man's face beneath the shade, but the shadows yielded nothing. "You're one of those rotten tongues, spreading poison," he spat, voice quivering between fury and righteousness. "I should have you arrested—"
But before his anger could harden into action, the cloaked man drifted backward, swallowed by the tide of bodies. He slipped away so seamlessly it was as if he had never been there at all—like smoke carried on the wind.
The trader stood trembling, fists balled tight, his heart pounding. Pride warred with bitterness in his veins. How could such vipers exist? How could anyone despise what was good? The emperor had given them peace, stability, hope—and yet some still longed to see him fall.
He shook his head, muttering under his breath, "There are always those who cannot stomach progress. Always those who spit at the sun for daring to shine."
But his doubts were drowned by the rising tide of voices. The streets were filling, overflowing, alive with fevered devotion. Men, women, children, travelers from distant towns—together they lifted one cry into the air, shaking the very stones beneath their feet:
"Black Dragon! Black Dragon!"
The chant thundered through Region Four, rolling like a storm. Tales of the emperor's past glories surged anew: how he had shattered armies, tamed beasts, and bent destiny to his will. With each retelling, his legend swelled, swelling until it no longer seemed bound to mortal flesh.
His statues towered across the empire—colossal, unyielding guardians of his name. And here, too, in Region Four, one loomed above the crowd. Beneath it, pilgrims knelt in droves. They pressed their foreheads to the stone, lips moving in reverence, tears spilling freely. To them, he was no mere ruler bound by crown or law.
He was something greater.
A living deity.
A god among men.