An army of 40,000 marched west.
The sound of boots and iron wheels shook the earth, sending tremors through the villages they passed. Peasants shut their doors and hid their children. No songs. No cheers. Just the cold, steady rhythm of war on the move.
The banners of the Empire flew high.
This was the beginning—not of a campaign, but of conquest.
They arrived at Valte, the war-hardened frontier kingdom. Once a place full of people, it had become a forgotten fortress since the death of its last king.Only mercenaries roam here,making this their home.
Siege rams were deployed. With a single thunderous push, the gates of Valte's capital castle crumbled like paper.
But what awaited them was not resistance.
Nothing.
No soldiers.
No archers.
Not even a soul to raise an alarm.
A kingdom of ghosts.
Cautiously, Emperor Isla De Vermount and Duke Lucas of Kustoria led the knights deeper into the silent ruin. Through empty halls and windless corridors. Until they reached the grand dining hall in the castle.
There, alone at the center of a banquet table, sat a man.
Old. Disheveled. His hair unkempt, his face bloated with age and sorrow. He was calmly eating roasted meat, as if their arrival had no meaning.
But everyone knew him.
Teslon.
The Mercenary King.
The man who had once clashed blades with both princes and won.
Fifteen years ago.
Isla and Lucas said nothing as they approached. They pulled out chairs beside him and sat. No tension. No alarm. Only silence. Even the knights stood motionless, uncertain if this was reality or some strange play.
Teslon continued chewing, then finally spoke, voice raspy:
"Let me enjoy my last meal."
He pointed a greasy finger toward Isla, half-laughing with bitterness.
"So... you killed that bastard Roderick before I could, huh?"
Lucas blinked. That wasn't public knowledge.
But it didn't surprise him.
Isla never forgets humiliation.
Especially not from that war.
Teslon exhaled slowly.
"He played me. Used my daughter as bait. Told me she was alive."
His hand trembled slightly.
"But she was already dead. Killed long before."
A lifetime of regret burned behind those tired eyes.
"Tina… wait for daddy. I'll see you soon."
He rose from the table. Cleaned his hands. Drew his sword—old and chipped from time.
"I've evacuated the city. Disbanded my mercenaries. Cut every tie. No more debts. Just this last dance."
Before them stood not a king, but a grieving father.
A lion long past his prime.
Not a threat—just a man seeking closure.
He didn't stand a chance.
Even a dozen Teslons couldn't face either Isla or Lucas now.
But they didn't mock him.
Because he was the one who had once shown them how vast the world truly was—how far they had yet to climb. They owed him this moment.
The final duel.
Isla and Lucas both drew their swords, standing silently before the man who had once humiliated them.
Now, Teslon sat slouched—his armor rusted, his frame bloated with age, yet dignity clung to him like a dying flame.
Lucas glanced at Isla and gave a small nod. It was time.
There was no need for aura, no spectacle of power. Not for him.
He was no longer the Mercenary King. Just a grieving father, ready to meet his child.
Together, they stepped forward—two blades flashing like falling stars.
Steel sank into flesh.
Teslon didn't resist. His eyes welled with tears—not of pain, but peace.
"I'm sorry, Tina... Daddy's coming home now."
He collapsed forward, his blood soaking the feast table he'd prepared for his final moment.
The old lion was dead.
Killed by the Emperor and the Flame Emperor—men he once defeated, and now had surpassed him.
A final act of respect. A warrior's death.
As the knights poured into Valte's castle, raising banners of conquest, no cheers echoed.
Only silence.
Valte was claimed.
The Empire had its first conquest.
But the world would not stay quiet.
The flames of war had been lit.
Rumors spread like wildfire.
Kings and rulers gathered in secret, weighing their alliances and fears.
The age of empires had returned.
And the world was watching.
Somewhere south
Snow lashed against the stained-glass windows of the royal keep, wind howling like wolves at the walls. Inside the grand hall, beneath banners woven in silver and frost, rulers and envoys stood in grim assembly.
At the center sat Queen Ilvane of Drosmere, the White Sovereign, wrapped in furs stitched with runes. Her crown of crystal reflected the flickering torchlight. Her breath misted in the cold air.
A messenger from the northern front had just finished speaking. His parchment still trembled in his hands.
"Valte... has fallen," he said. "There was no resistance. The gates were breached. The capital occupied. The Mercenary King is confirmed dead."
Silence.
Then whispers.
One of the dukes, Lord Myrren, leaned forward, voice sharp with disbelief.
"Impossible. Teslon would never yield."
Another envoy answered coldly, "He didn't. He died. Fighting both the Emperor and the Flame Duke. A duel. No survivors on their side. It wasn't a conquest. It was an execution."
Queen Ilvane's eyes narrowed.
"So," she murmured, "it begins. Isla truly intends to unite the world under one banner."
A younger lord scoffed. "Let him come. Drosmere's walls are not Valte's crumbling stones. We have magic, we have frost steel—"
The queen raised a hand. The room fell still.
"You young blood," she said. "This is no ordinary war,this a war to reclaim rights.The right to even exist."
Another councilor, older and dressed in robes of midnight, spoke low:
"If we wait, we fall. The kingdoms must unite now—or we face them alone."
A silence heavier than steel followed.
The Queen stood.
"Send envoys to the other thrones. To Seravia in the south. To the Winter sovereign. Even to the ruined lands of Dracia. This is no longer about politics or pride."
She turned her gaze to the frozen window, looking north—toward the horizon where fire would soon rise.
"This is the start to the end of the world."