The trembling began without warning.
At first, it was a faint vibration beneath the soles of those gathered around the quiet lake. But within seconds, the earth groaned—splitting apart with a force that sent birds fleeing into the sky. Soil and stone rose upward, twisting and folding until a small island emerged from the depths, drifting gracefully toward the lake's center as though guided by an unseen hand.
Then a shadow crossed the sun.
A man descended like a falling star, cape fluttering behind him as he landed upon the newborn island with a resounding thud. Before him stood another man—tall, broad-shouldered, with short black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a pitch-black suit, immaculate despite the chaos, and at his hip rested a sword in a white scabbard. His presence alone bent the air.
He smiled faintly.
"… I expected no less from you, Silva." His voice was calm, yet heavy with familiarity. "Your entrances always know how to shake the earth."
Ray smirked and drew his sword. With a soft hum, the blade burst into a golden glow. Light rippled outward, and in the blink of an eye twelve phantoms—perfect duplicates of him—materialized around the island.
He then raised an eyebrow
"Tell me, … what did I ever do to deserve the honor of the great King Silva visiting me personally?"
Silva laughed aloud, the sound echoing across the lake.
"It's been too long. What, am I not allowed to say I missed you? And don't pretend you haven't missed me too, Ray."
Silva Tarbek.
King of the Kaisers.
His long black hair fell freely behind him, brushing the collar of his half-buttoned white shirt. Beneath it, the sculpted shape of his chest could be seen—the form of a man forged in countless battlefields. At his waist hung a war hammer so massive it seemed impossible for any ordinary man to wield.
The crowd erupted in gasps as recognition dawned across every face.
These two men—standing quietly atop an island born moments ago—were legends whose names alone could silence nations.
And then the island shook once more.
Ray and his twelve clones surged forward, attacking in perfect unison. Silva's hammer met their blades with explosive force. Each impact sparked brilliant arcs of light that danced across the lake. Shockwaves rippled outward, knocking spectators off their feet. Even trained soldiers staggered, unable to withstand the sheer pressure radiating from the duel.
Military units poured into the area, shouting orders.
Cameras whirred.
News channels began broadcasting live around the world.
Yet nothing—no order, no law, no wall—could halt the arrival of thousands more spectators. The people stood as if entranced, unable to look away.
This duel felt like the unraveling of fate itself.
The fight continued for hours.
Then half a day.
Then a full day.
Silva's hammer crashed like thunder. Ray's blade gleamed like the rising sun. Neither yielded. Neither slowed.
And then—
Silva planted his feet firmly.
Ray's eyes widened.
A heartbeat later, the war hammer struck the ground.
The world split open.
A monstrous shockwave ripped through the city. The lake erupted, its waters rising like a tidal wave. Buildings cracked. Roads buckled. And for the first time since the duel began… Ray was thrown to the ground.
Silva approached slowly, extending his hand.
Ray slapped it aside, rising under his own strength.
Silva chuckled softly.
"Come now, Ray. Shake my hand. If I had died without fighting you one last time… I would never have rested peacefully."
Ray frowned. "What nonsense are you talking about? You look perfectly fine. We're nowhere near finished."
Silva paused.
This time, his smile was gentle… painfully so.
"Believe it or not… my days are numbered."
The coughing began abruptly—violent, unrestrained. Blood stained his lips.
Ray froze.
The world seemed to stop with him.
No one else heard their conversation. No camera captured Silva's moment of weakness. For the next few seconds, only Ray knew—only Ray saw—the truth.
But then Silva wiped the blood away with a single swipe and turned toward the cameras, grinning as though nothing were wrong.
He spoke loudly, proudly:
"I am Silva Tarbek, a man who has fought since childhood.
For glory… for ambition…" He laughed. "But in time, for something greater—to destroy that tyrannical organization and free the people it oppressed."
He took a slow breath.
"I don't know whether I succeeded in the end. But one thing is certain… I planted a flame that will never die."
And then he closed his eyes.
Standing tall.
Smile wide.
Hammer tucked beneath his arm like a loyal companion—
Silva Tarbek died.
A king's final moment.
The crowd didn't dare speak. No one moved. The world seemed to hold its breath.
The division leaders cautiously approached to confirm the death, but Ray's glare alone forced them to their knees. A crushing pressure filled the air, heavy enough to shatter the will of seasoned soldiers.
Clouds gathered overhead.
Winds twisted and roared.
Ray walked toward Silva as if in a trance.
Then he pulled Silva into his arms—holding him tight, whispering words that never reached another soul.
Tears fell.
The Sword of Dawn wept openly.
Five minutes passed like a lifetime.
Then Ray lifted Silva's body carefully, summoning a clone to carry the fallen king's war hammer. With a single bound he leapt toward the crowd, who parted instinctively. Even high-ranking officers trembled, unable to approach despite being ordered to over their radios.
Ray created ten more clones—each carrying Silva—and they scattered in every direction.
The footage of the duel spread across the world like wildfire.
Governments failed to contain it.
And so began the end of an era.
Silva's philosophies inspired uprisings, rebellions, and new movements. Some groups embraced his ideals openly; others worked from the shadows. Entire political parties would later trace their origins to the legacy he left behind.
Interpretations of his life differed wildly, but one truth remained universal:
Silva Tarbek reshaped the world—and earned the respect of even his greatest enemies.
Whether another like him would ever appear again…
Only time could answer