That day, the world trembled with fear once again. The revival of the "Storm Dragon Veldora" had been confirmed. The Western Holy Church wasted no time spreading the word, and kings across the continent scrambled for countermeasures. Panic spread like wildfire, yet amidst the storm of dread, one kingdom faced a far more immediate terror.
~
In the kingdom of Falmus, the dawn began with horror.
Inside the audience chamber, resting upon the throne itself, was something no mortal should ever behold. A grotesque lump of flesh, dripping with foul juices, with a distorted human face buried deep in its mass. The face was alive—conscious—but its hollow eyes betrayed a soul teetering on the brink of madness.
A high-ranking guard on patrol heard its groans first. The moment he laid eyes on it, he screamed, unable to contain his terror. His cry echoed through the halls, summoning ministers and attendants. They rushed in, only to recoil in disbelief.
Their king—once regal, proud, and untouchable—had been reduced to this abomination.
The grotesque mass shuddered, its voice gurgling:
"T-there should… a vial below us… please… let us drink that…"
The attendants froze, their faces pale, their limbs trembling. Still, they obeyed. They lifted the king's deformed body. Strings of flesh tore, oozing fluids onto the floor, filling the chamber with a stench that made even hardened men vomit. Others stood rooted in place, paralyzed by primal fear.
The mages were summoned in haste. With their trembling hands, they verified the impossible—the lump of meat was indeed their king. Whatever nightmare he had endured, he remained alive.
They found the vial beneath the throne as he claimed. But could they risk letting him drink it? The mages tested the contents, and their faces drained of color.
"A full potion…" one whispered.
It was a relic of legend—second only to the mythical elixir. Said to restore even lost organs and limbs, this miracle had not been produced in centuries. Its formula was long lost, beyond even the genius of the dwarves.
There was no choice.
They held the vial to the king's lips. He swallowed—and the transformation was instant. The lump of flesh melted away, bones cracked into alignment, muscles reformed, skin stretched over his frame. In mere moments, the king of Falmus stood once more in his full, healthy form.
Breathless, the attendants draped him in clothes. His face pale, his eyes empty, the king muttered:
"Prepare… an emergency session. At once."
The attendants scurried, terrified. The ministers gathered, their voices hushed, their faces etched with disbelief. The king looked upon them, lifeless but resolute.
"Let us move to a secured chamber," he said. "I will tell you what happened… but first, I want to hear your thoughts."
The silence broke into chaos.
"O-king… is it true? Were all of them… truly killed?"
"They weren't wiped out, surely—some must have deserted?"
"The supply troops—they were stationed in the rear! They must have survived!"
The king shook his head. His silence was heavier than a thousand words.
The truth crushed them. Every soldier. Every mage. Every knight. All fifteen thousand dead.
One minister collapsed to his knees, sobbing. His son had been among the supply troops, sent there to avoid the front lines. Even that desperate act had been in vain. The promise of an overwhelming victory had lured them all into the jaws of annihilation.
The king's expression didn't change. He simply stared, the weight of the truth hollowing his soul.
Another minister, his voice barely steady, asked:
"Was it… was it true? That all of this was done by a single… monster?"
The king nodded slowly.
"It is true. Atem—the new Demon Lord. We were destroyed by him alone. And I… I am the sole survivor."
The words were a death sentence. The room fell into despair. Ministers whispered, screamed, or sat in numb silence. They demanded details—the monsters under Atem's banner, the impossible sorcery, the overwhelming force that shattered their armies.
The truth was undeniable. A new Demon Lord had risen. And Atem, unlike others, carried himself with the unshakable authority of a sovereign who judged mortals like insects beneath his feet. His power wasn't chaos—it was order enforced through sheer dominance. His kingdom, *Eterna*, had already taken shape.
The king lowered his head. "Our kingdom is finished. Atem gave me three choices… and before we summon the nobles three days from now, we must decide our path."
The chamber grew colder than ice. Every man present understood—the fate of Falmus would be sealed not by their armies, nor their faith, nor their politics.
It would be sealed by the will of Atem.
The king swallowed, voice thin as dry paper. "He gave me three choices," he said, and the chamber went quiet as a graveyard.
Atem's message had been delivered without flourish — the kind of delivery only a sovereign possessed of absolute power could make. When the diplomats had described him, they had said Atem spoke like a law being issued: calm, cold, and final. Now the king repeated the words to his ministers, and every sentence landed like a verdict.
"The first," the king read, "is abdication. Step down from the throne and accept responsibility for the war. In addition, you will surrender a portion of Falmus' lands and pay one thousand five hundred Stellar gold coins in reparations."
A roar of disbelief broke out. "Stellar gold?" a minister barked. "Those are worth a hundred regular gold each. That's a hundred and fifty thousand gold! Monsters can't— We can't possibly pay that!"
"We will never accept such terms," another cried. "To hand over land—can you imagine a monster's territory touching our earldom? The nobles will never allow it."
The king held up a trembling hand. Atem's words were written with a simplicity that made them cruel: numbers, conditions, consequences. No theatrics. No mercy. Nothing to bargain with, only terms to obey or refuse.
"The second option," the king continued in a low voice, "is immediate surrender. Declare Falmus a vassal of Eterna. Your crown remains, but your kingdom answers to Eterna. We will discuss how your nobles and people are treated after the surrender. This is close to unconditional, but your lives and property will be guaranteed."
"That's… That's slavery by another name," a noble growled. "We'll be subject to monster whim. How can we trust them to keep their word?"
"You say 'guarantee,' but who signs that?" another demanded. "A demon lord's promise? Our laws and our oaths mean nothing against such power."
Atem's presence hung over the room even though he stood nowhere here. He was not frivolous; he was a judge. Where others used threats and parley, Atem set terms like an immovable rock. His offers were not a trap to be escaped with clever rhetoric — they were forks in the road meant to be chosen.
"The last option," the king said finally, voice cracking, "is to refuse. Rally your nobles, raise the banners, and fight on. If you choose this, your lives will end. The war will grind on and your people will starve. Your pride will be all that remains."
A heavy, ragged silence followed. Pride. That word hung bitter and small between men who had just watched their soldiers be carved apart.
One minister slammed his fist on the table. "We will not kneel to monsters. We will not sell our honor for survival!"
"And what of your honor when your fields are empty and your children are dead?" the king shot back, the question sharp and exhausted. "What honor is left in a country without people?"
A younger advisor, hands still shaking from the shock, piped up. "If we surrender… if we become a vassal… Atem promises to protect our people. That could mean peace. It could mean we live."
"Live under what terms?" the old marshal countered. "Will our banners mean anything? Will our laws hold? Will our sons be allowed to serve under our flag? We cannot simply hand our fate to a sovereign we do not understand."
The room erupted into a thousand fractured arguments. Voices rose, fell, and rose again. Fingers pointed. Faces reddened. Some demanded immediate resistance; others whispered about emissaries and secret pacts; a few spoke of fleeing nobles who would raise rebellions in the countryside.
The king watched every one of them with hollow eyes. He had already seen the consequences of refusal: the throne of flesh, the fifteen thousand dead, the vial that had saved him but left him hollow. That memory alone carried the weight of inevitability.
"Listen," he said, voice steadier now, stripped of courtly cadence. "You speak of honor like we have it to spare. These men did not die because they were weak. They died because one entity — Atem — unmade them. If any of you still think of glory, go. Take your banners and march. You will die as they did."
A cold murmur moved through the chamber. A few men flinched; some hard eyes softened.
"We have raised warriors and marched them into certain death already," the king continued. "We have no more to trade in sacrifice. I will not let our entire nation be ground to dust by pride. I will not let our children inherit a kingdom of bones."
"Abdicate then," one noble spat. "Let someone weaker bear the shame. Let someone else make the choice."
The king's jaw tightened. "No. Abdication is an admission of failure, yes. But if it prevents the slaughter of our people, I will accept it — if that is what must be done. If I step down and pay what he demands, will it save our people? Will our fields still feed our children? Will our houses remain?"
"We do not know," a mage answered softly. "Atem's terms guarantee lives and property. But his power… it binds more than treaties. We can be kept safe, but under watch. Freedom will be traded for survival."
"And to surrender?" the marshal pressed. "To become Eterna's vassal? Will our nobles acquiesce? Will the priests accept this?"
The room was a storm of fear and fury. Some ministers wept for dead sons; others spoke cold economics — taxes, lands, trade. The youngest councillor, voice barely a whisper, said, "If this saves our people, that is the only proper course."
"Is it?" a noble demanded. "Would you give up your name so your children can have bread?"
The king sat back, exhausted. He had seen a monster undo a nation in a single night. He had sat on the throne and been turned into meat. He had drunk a potion that should not exist and been restored. He had been given the options and watched his country unravel.
"At the end of the week," he said slowly, each syllable deliberate, "we must answer. An envoy will return. Think carefully. If we refuse, we burn. If we surrender, we endure. If I abdicate, perhaps new leadership can navigate what I cannot."
The council fell into sullen, haunted silence. Outside, the dawn had burned away, and the court of Falmus sat poised between ruin and a bargain with a demon lord. Pride had lost its currency. Fear had become the nation's new language.
The choice was ugly and absolute — decide who they wanted to be: rulers of a graveyard, vassals with life, or a country sacrificed to stubbornness.