Once again, history had repeated itself — to a haunting degree. Kaiser Baraka the Second was killed by his own father, a dagger buried in his heart, just as Frederic had fallen long ago by the hand of his son Florian. Only this time, the roles were reversed.
The crew of the Tartarusios stood frozen, witnessing history unfold before their eyes. None among them had known of the elder Kaiser's decision to take his son's life. Some, in the years to come, would call it poetic justice. Others, an act of savagery. Yet none of those who would judge this moment were there to feel its weight — the suffocating silence, the trembling air, the sorrow of a father who had just slain his blood.
After Kaiser the Second fell, the remaining guards came forward to retrieve their emperor's body. A great flag bearing the crest of Baraka was draped over him, its golden emblem shimmering faintly in the dim light of the throne room. Veyra followed close behind, her steps unsteady, her hands stained with his blood. Together with the guards, she carried him away, the silence broken only by the echo of their footsteps.
Old Kaiser remained standing where he was — motionless, staring down at his hands, the same hands that had taken the life of his only son. The blood on his palms had already begun to dry, but its weight would never wash away.
Then, from the throne where she had been seated, Zoma rose. Her luminous projection flickered as she descended the steps toward him.
"You will forever be remembered," she said, her voice smooth and hollow, "as the Emperor who brought judgment to his kin and opened the doors of advancement to this mighty empire. So rise, Kaiser of Baraka — and do what must be done."
He looked at her, this artificial being with no pulse, no soul, speaking of glory and destiny as if she understood the price of blood. Her words felt like knives. But he did rise — not for her, not for the empire, but because there was still one last thing left to do.
The old emperor turned and made his way through the silent corridors of the palace toward the Treasury of the Consul — the true heart of Baraka's power and legacy.
It lay deep beneath the palace, carved into the ancient obsidian bedrock, sealed by layers of protection that only the ruling emperor could command. Few ever saw it, fewer still left it. It was said that if the throne room was the soul of the empire, then the treasury was its beating heart.
A long corridor led the way, illuminated by thin golden beams that pulsed like veins of light through the black stone. Each step echoed with a low hum — the sound of dormant machinery still alive after centuries, maintaining the vault's ageless defenses.
At the end stood the great doors — forged from Baraken steel and embedded with runes of the First Dynasty. They shimmered faintly when he approached, reacting to the trace of royal blood in his veins. No codes, no keys. The empire had always trusted only one seal — blood and legacy.
When the gates parted, the air that escaped was heavy and still, untouched for decades. The chamber stretched vast and circular, its walls lined with relics of ages past: blades of ancient emperors, the crowns of conquered worlds, scrolls bound in crystal and light. Every artifact was preserved within a beam of soft illumination, floating in perfect suspension, as if time itself bowed before the empire's grandeur.
At the room's center rose the Pillar of Ascendancy, a monolith of translucent alloy that reached the domed ceiling. Within it, suspended in energy, glowed the Royal Seal of Baraka — the sigil that bound every dynasty to its throne.
Kaiser approached it in silence. His reflection shone faintly in the seal's light. He had thought long and hard before entering this place — about the future, the people, and the legacy that had already consumed too many lives. The empire needed something different. Someone different.
He reached into the column, the ancient mechanism parting as it recognized his touch. The Royal Seal floated down into his palm, glowing faintly as if alive. For a long moment, he simply stared at it — the weight of centuries pressing into his hand.
Then he turned back toward the exit.
When he returned to the throne hall, the crew of the Tartarusios awaited him — Veyra among them, her eyes still red with grief. Mahin stood near the center, his posture straight, his face carved in disbelief at all he had seen. Beside him was Tarko, silent as ever.
Kaiser the First looked over them all, his voice hoarse but steady.
"I have made my decision," he said, lifting the seal for all to see. "The empire cannot walk the same path any longer."
His gaze settled on Mahin. He had known of the man long before his exile — the commoner who rose from the mines to the ranks of heroism. A man of heart and iron. A soldier who fought not for power, but for honor.
He stepped forward, the seal glowing in his hand.
"Mahin Krana," he said, his tone deep and solemn, "Hero of Dazar. Before the eyes of all who stand here, I place the Royal Seal of Baraka under your care. May you guide our people toward glory — and peace."
Mahin froze. His breath caught in his chest. He came from the dust — from the western districts where the sky was gray and the air stung of metal. His parents had died before seeing him rise; his youth had been forged in hardship. Every scar on his hands was a memory of the empire's indifference — and now the empire itself was being placed in those very hands.
He tried to speak, but words failed him. He looked at the seal, then at the emperor, his throat tight with disbelief.
Kaiser smiled faintly and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Mahin," he said softly, "you have a pure heart, and an iron will. Nothing you say can change what has already been decided. From this day forth, I name you Emperor of the Baraken Empire."
The room fell utterly silent. Even Zoma's projection dimmed for a moment, her sensors flickering.
Veyra covered her mouth in shock. Tarko bowed his head. The guards stood motionless, not from discipline, but from awe.
And Mahin — the miner's son, the soldier of Dazar, the man who had fought through endless fire — sank to one knee before the old Kaiser.
"I… I will not fail them," he said, voice trembling.
"I know you won't," the Kaiser replied.
And with that, on May 8th, 4832, the once-captain Mahin Krana was crowned Emperor Mahin Baraka the First.
That day — the Day of Judgment — was forever etched into Baraken history. Not only as the day a son fell by his father's hand, but as the day the old empire died, and a new one was born from the blood and mercy of its last true emperor.
The day when one man made two choices that would forever shape the fate of Baraka.