Just then, a thunderous BOOOOM ruptured from the eastern flank of the arena—so loud it swallowed every battle cry, every dying groan, every clash of weapon on flesh.
The cyclops froze mid-swing.
Spectators, soldiers, nobles, even the generals turned their heads as one. Dust rolled through the arena like a storm cloud, thick enough to choke on. And when the veil of dust thinned just enough for shapes to emerge, the truth of the carnage became clear.
Bodies—so many bodies—littered the ground.
Civilians crushed or torn apart. Students from the Martial Arts Academy, their uniforms ripped and soaked in blood. Young Oradonian mages sprawled over shattered spellbooks. Apprentices from the vocational school, warriors-in-training from the Kingly Academy—all cut down before they ever reached their prime.
Hundreds. Maybe thousands.
A silence—cold, suffocating—fell upon the arena.
Then a figure walked out of the dust.
Out of the dusty blur stepped a man embroidered in jewellery so heavy and excessive it seemed as though he had been forged from gold itself.
That was Lord Glaivus of the Nymph Empire. In his homeland he was merely a noble, yet the power he wielded there was equivalent to, or even greater than, the authority of an emperor in the Nazare Blade Empire. Because the Nymph Empire was not on the same level—it was a higher plane entirely. A Rank 3… no, bordering Rank 4 empire. While the Nazare Blade Empire, ruled by Josh Aratat, was merely Rank 1.
The difference was colossal. A single Rank 2 empire could swallow the entire Nazare Blade Empire and still have space left over. A Rank 3 empire could fit three of those—and the Nymph Empire, at its full breadth, could swallow almost four Nazare -sized empires whole.
In his own empire, he was merely a noble. Yet the power he wielded there far surpassed what an emperor controlled in the Nazare Blade Empire.
For the Nymph Empire was a Rank 3—some said Rank 4—superpower. Vast, ancient, and terrifying. A single region of that empire was large enough to swallow the entire Nazare Blade Empire whole.
Four Nazare Blade Empires could fit inside the Nymph Empire.
And this man… this man was one of their lesser lords.
As the crowd processed this horror, another figure stepped into view beside him.
Aloysius.
Smirking. Relaxed. Holding someone who struggled violently in his grip.
Someone familiar.
Someone beloved.
Lola.
The empress.
Josh's wife.
And heavily pregnant.
Her hair was wild, her face streaked with dust and tears as she fought to break free. Yet Aloysius held her as if restraining a child.
Behind him stood the others who like him had also shifted loyalties and betrayed the empire....
Prince Typh.
Princess Judith.
Princess Mahlah.
Former Empress Maachah.
Former Empress Hodiah.
Former Empress Lois.
Concubine Zerurah.
The deflecting wives and concubines of the late Emperor Groa Aratat—all smirking, walking triumphantly and basking in the euphoria of someone who was about to take over a kingdom without lifting a single finger.
Josh's breath caught.
Josh's eyes narrowed. He stared at the struggling woman—really looked at her. Her movements, her breath, the way her hand pressed against her swollen belly. Something about it prickled old instincts. Familiarity. Recognition.
And then it hit him.
"You decrepit bastard… can't you see she's pregnant?!"
His Majesty Emperor Josh roared, all regal decorum evaporating in the face of the threat to his wife.
His roar shattered all imperial decorum.
This was not Emperor Josh speaking. This was the husband, the man, the protector.
Aloysius only chuckled, raising a finger as though lecturing a child.
"Calma… calma… The games have just begun. What's the hurry?"
The arena trembled—not from magic, but from the collective dread of thousands realizing how dire this moment had become.
Naze shifted, hand drifting toward his blade—
But Aloysius's smile twisted into something venomous.
"If you move… she dies."
The threat echoed like a death sentence.
Lola gasped as a thin shimmering blade slid against her belly—just enough to let everyone know Aloysius wasn't bluffing.
Naze froze instantly, jaw clenched.
Everyone looked to Josh.
The emperor of a nation stood powerless.
Aloysius now turned his gaze to the surviving students—those who had somehow lived through the massacre that painted the arena floor red.
The youths stood scattered, bruised, trembling, but alive. And their presence was like a spark in a powder keg.
They were the future of the empire.
Aloysius smiled as if that future already belonged to him.
Before him stood the remnants of both the Martial Arts Academy and the Oradonian Order of Mages:
Albert Ziloman, Blaise Dean, Natasha Mills, Eva Crosswell, Emu Tim, Reece Cantoe, Gabriel Ealt, Grant Olse, Bamise Feran, Adebi Monta, Wilk Zoberman, Durst Atun, Camille Ajun, Khan Michaelson, Balt Joe, Gilda Ali, Siwa Loma, Ace Axer, and El'jab Ram.
Fresh blood. Raw potential.
And all of them horrified witnesses to treason.
"I witnessed most of your competition," Aloysius said, voice smooth as polished marble. "It was indeed… entertaining."
He released Lola from his grip and pushed her toward Prince Typh.
Typh—smirking like a man with no fear of consequence—immediately placed his hands on her in an inappropriate and degrading manner.
A low murmur of disgust rippled through the surviving students.
Even the generals flinched.
Aloysius chuckled.
"Typh… she is an empress. Be gentle." He said it mockingly, like a man who took pleasure in desecrating sacred things.
Then he turned back to the children.
"Now," he clasped his hands behind him, strutting slowly before them like a king choosing servants, "I will be taking over the empire. Soon enough, the Nazare Blade banners will be replaced with the sigil of the Nymph Empire, and resistance will only make your deaths… unnecessarily messy."
His eyes swept over them—measuring, calculating.
"So," he continued, "is any among you interested in training under me? I assure you, the instruction will be of the highest caliber. I will make you captains of armies… conquerors… icons."
His arrogance was thicker than the blood on the arena floor.
Not a single student moved.
Not Blaise, even though he could barely stand.
Not Adebi, whose fists were clenched so tightly her nails drew blood.
Not Camille Ajun or Khan Michaelson, both still shaking from their recent duel.
Silence. Cold, unmoving silence.
Except for Albert Ziloman.
Albert… stepped forward.
A collective gasp rippled through the group—shock twisting into pure, simmering hatred.
All eyes fixed on him.
Even the wounded students straightened as if betrayed.
Even the injured mages glared, their faces filling with fury.
Blaise stared at him with disbelief.
Gilda Ali's jaw went tight.
Siwa Loma snarled under her breath.
Aloysius raised a brow, amused.
"Well… well… looks like one of you has a brain."
Albert swallowed hard, but he didn't step back.
And the others?
They stood frozen—every muscle in their bodies screaming the same question:
Why?
Why would Albert Ziloman be the one to step forward?