In the palace corridors, the sound of the explosion roared like an earthquake. The hall windows burst open to screams, and tongues of flame rose behind the eastern wall.
He did not wait a moment. Azar shouted as he drew his sword:
"Seal the hall! No one leaves!"
The guards rushed from the corners, but the silver-haired man did not seem disturbed; he merely said calmly:
"You are too late…"
Before he could finish, the hall's gate suddenly trembled, and from it burst radiant blue waves that blinded the eyes for seconds.
From the smoke, they appeared…
Unknown fighters, masked with metallic visors engraved with the symbol of the six-petaled flower. They pounced on the guards like ghosts, without a single cry. Their strikes were precise… nerves, joints, necks. They were trained to kill without spilling an extra drop of blood.
In the palace's southern wing, where Azamir was sleeping, he heard the blast, and his heart shuddered.
He woke in panic, dressed quickly, and went out to check the situation.TIR sat in the mosque's minaret and said in a low voice:
"They have begun."
He rose swiftly, pulling from under his prayer rug a slender, long sword, its black blade engraved with a four-pointed star.
He left through one of the mosque's rear doors and closed it behind him.
In the palace, Qays fought valiantly, deflecting the attackers' blows with rare skill, but he knew they were not mere soldiers.
They were not Draughtborn."These… are not humans but abominations…" he told one of his men as he cut through an attacker's mask, revealing beneath it scarred, burned flesh, and a blue-tinged eye glowing with chemical light.
Upstairs, Prince Azar stood before the silver-haired man, his sword pointed at his chest.
"If you inherited anything from Halethar… it is their insolence."
The man answered with a poisonous smile:
"And you have inherited from the past a deadly ignorance… Wouldn't it have been wiser to accept the contract?"
Azar shouted:
"We will not be sold… and we will not be bought."
And he brought down his sword…
Azar's blade fell with force, but what met it was neither flesh nor steel…It was a watery shield that sprang forth suddenly like a magical bubble, stopping the sword in midair as if time itself had frozen.
The silver-haired man smiled coldly, tilting his head slightly as though greeting a lesser foe:
"I forgot to introduce myself…""I am the imperial marquis, bearer of the Cloud Core, Arkanis Jhon."
Azar was stunned for a moment.
Azar (steadily):"The emperor sent you himself?! Has the empire grown so calm that it spares Arkanis to seize my island?"
Jhon laughed softly, as if mocking a child playing with stones.
Jhon:"Petty barbarians who have no grasp of the empire's scale."
Azar stepped back, his eyes burning with rage.
Azar:"We were born free. We will never be slaves to the empire. It is you who create tragedies in the name of power."
Jhon did not answer, but raised his hand, and the air around him began to quiver. Droplets of water condensed in the air, gathering into transparent daggers—dozens of them…
At that moment, Qays lunged from behind, his sword slicing through the air.But Jhon spun in a blink and opened his palm.A reversed wave of water exploded, flinging Qays like a doll; he slammed into the wall and fell motionless.
Azar shouted:
"QAYS!"
But before he could approach, a loud sound came from the back of the hall.The rear door burst open violently…
Breathing heavily, his clothes stained with smoke and blood, his ancient sword in hand:
Larem:"Are you the leader of those masked bastards?!"
Jhon replied with a skeptical tone:"How did you get here?"
Larem smirked, raising his ancient sword coated in a black layer of blood and ash, speaking with confidence:
Larem:"You asked the wrong question… You should have asked why I'm here."
Jhon's face paled—if only for a fleeting moment.
Jhon (in a low voice):"You… you're a Draughtborn Slayer…"
Azar asked haltingly as he tried to lift the wounded Qays:
"What happened at the port?"
Larem replied:"Everything will be under control. Luckily, I brought the full elite squad."
In the city streets, amid battles between fifty Draughtborn Slayers and five Draughtborn,
a small boy and his friend ran toward the palace—it was Azamir and Nuh, whose curiosity had led them into grave trouble.On their way, they saw a Draughtborn clutch a Draughtborn Slayer's head and crush it before ramming an arrow into his eye with animal instinct.He charged toward them, sword raised to kill, and the boys froze in terror.
But in that brief moment, with his slender sword, TIR deflected the Draughtborn's strike, and with an agile leap for his age, drove his blade into the Draughtborn's neck, felling him.
TIR shouted:"What are you doing here?!" His look a mix of shock and fear.Then he yelled:"Follow me—amid this chaos, the destroyed port is the only safe place."
Upon reaching the port, TIR noticed strange shadows on the horizon, and a chill ran down his spine.He climbed the ruined wall, leaving the boys below, and approached a cannon that had survived the blast. Fortunately, it was loaded.He lit the fuse and fired toward the horizon.
The sound of destruction lit up the sky with the glow of torches, and the echo of a great horn resounded across the city.
In the palace, Jhon whispered:
"They have arrived."