Within the grand palace, rows of elegant chairs curved into a perfect circle, each seat customized for the leader of a different nation. They descended in broad tiers, all facing the grand stage at the front—the natural focal point of the chamber. Anyone who stepped inside couldn't help but be drawn toward it.
Standing atop that stage was Emperor Graviil Ivanovich, Headmaster of the royal Ivanovich family—famously known as the Grand Monarch of Radiant Illumination, and one of the Four Pillars of Humanity. His presence alone pulled the room into silence. When he spoke, it was with calm authority.
With a lectern before him, he began, "Ladies and gentlemen, emperors and queens— it is truly an honor to have you all present today."
"We are all well aware of the recent crises unfolding across the globe. The discovery of a long‑running inhuman project—one that experimented on children under the influence of powerful politicians… all orchestrated by the now‑infamous smartest man alive, Percival Ashford."
The room remained still, heavy.
"It is currently unknown where he is," Graviil continued, "but it brings me hope to see so many of you uniting to hunt down that monster and his allies, and to bring them to justice for their cruel acts against humanity."
He paused. His face tensed—anxiety flickering through the calm, like a crack running through glass.
"With that aside, I know you must be wondering why I invoked the Emergency Reunion Rule—one designed solely for moments when all of humanity faces a threat of the highest magnitude."
His voice lowered. "And that day… has unfortunately come upon us."
Before he could continue, a voice cut through the tension—sharp, irritated.
"Where are you going with this, Emperor Graviil? Get to your point. No need to drag it out."
The speaker was King Marius Everhart of the Northern Empire, the closest ally of the United States. His tone made it clear he felt dragged out of his nation for theatrics.
Emperor Graviil offered a thin, sympathetic smile. "Forgive me. What I'm about to say may sound… ridiculous. Unreal. Even I struggled to accept it. But I must speak it."
He drew in a breath, steadying himself. "The great calamity I speak of… is none other than He Who Shall Not Be Named."
"The King in Black."
"He has returned."
For a split second, the entire room froze. Even breath seemed to halt.
Then the eruption came.
"THERE'S NO WAY THAT'S TRUE!" someone shouted, panic cracking their voice. Others followed—shouting, denying, cursing, grasping at anything to refute what they had just heard.
Impossible. It should have been impossible.
Wasn't the King in Black slain by the Seven Great Heroes? Hadn't history declared that chapter closed forever?
And yet—here they were.
Chaos swelled exponentially. Graviil attempted to calm them, but his voice drowned beneath the storm. He exhaled, shoulders lowering in resignation. As expected… yet still exhausting.
But one person—one alone—remained calm.
The Grand Monarch of Fated Tomorrows. She wore an almost serene smile, as if she had already foreseen this moment. Her stillness felt out of place in the rising panic, yet eerily fitting.
Regaining focus, Graviil cast a glance toward his head butler, Viktor Mirovich. A single nod was enough.
Viktor moved swiftly to a concealed door, one hidden seamlessly within the room's lavish architecture. Moments later, he reemerged—followed by servants and armored knights. The servants carried something.
A large glass cube.
Inside it… rested a grotesque limb. Black, corrupted flesh twisted like rotting tar. It looked dead—yet not dead enough. Something about it pulsed subtly, wrong in ways the mind struggled to name.
The creature's dreadful aura immediately seized the attention of everyone present. A suffocating heaviness settled over the chamber, cutting through what remained of the chaos. Emperor Graviil took advantage of that sudden silence.
"As you can see," he said, gesturing toward the grotesque object, "this limb I've brought before you today… is the arm of a varmint I fought in London not long ago."
A wave of disbelief rippled across the room.
A limb? A varmint's limb? How?
"Whether you believe me or not is up to you," Graviil continued. He gave a curt nod to the knights beside the glass cube.
The knights unsealed it.
Without hesitation, Graviil reached in and seized the living, grotesque hand.
Gasps erupted as the blackened flesh reacted instantly—inky veins spread across Graviil's left hand, infesting his skin like spreading poison.
Yet his expression didn't waver.
"What stands before you," he said, lifting the twitching limb for all to see, "is undeniable proof of my claim."
He then turned toward Emperor Reginald Flameborn of the Empire of the United States. "King Reginald. You can confirm this, can you not? You've seen the remains of a similar creature before."
Reginald stayed silent for a moment, shoulders sinking as the truth settled heavily onto him. His face turned grim.
At last—"Yes. I have. Years ago, a creature with the same aura appeared within my nation. I saw one of its captured comrades with my own eyes, before I had it killed."
Terror swept the room like a cold wind.
Graviil raised his voice. "You all heard him. Did you not?"
Silence followed—this time brittle, fearful.
"Then explain this to me," he pressed. "How could a varmint appear in the Empire of the United States two years ago, when they were sealed away by the Great Heroes thousands of years past? They should not exist. Not anymore."
His voice hardened. "If a monster sealed by Excalibur itself could return… why wouldn't their king as well?"
Whispers rose—fearful, doubtful, desperate.
"We tried to cover their appearance as if it wasn't something to be concerned with, for the public's sake, back then, even disguising it behind a reward ceremony at an academy. But denial is a sin humanity cannot afford. Not now. Not ever."
His eyes darkened with memory. "If a varmint resurfaced in Britain… what stops more from appearing? Or something worse? I witnessed their horror with my own eyes."
Just then, Graviil swayed.
A thin stream of blood slid down from his nose.
The curse of the Black Death.
Even as a Monarch, he could not escape it.
He lifted his left palm, and a brilliant divine light erupted—disintegrating the varmint limb in an instant.
His vision blurred. He clutched his head, struggling to stay upright.
"Grandpa!" Violet's voice cracked with panic as she shot up from her seat.
But Aleksander quickly caught her arm, keeping her down. His tone calm, but tight. "Violet—control yourself. He won't die from the Black Death. I'm worried too, but… he must do this. What happens in this room decides humanity's fate."
Violet trembled but sank back into her seat, hands clasped in silent prayer.
Down below, Viktor Mirovich rushed to Graviil's side, supporting him. The Emperor's entire left arm was now marred with crawling black veins, radiating a dreadful aura.
Graviil immediately invoked Divine Lionheart. White-gold light surged, slowly purging the corruption.
He steadied himself and continued.
"I understand your confusion. Your disbelief. But this is where we draw the line. The first appearance of a varmint in America should have been the final warning. We cannot ignore the reality before us any longer."
A voice broke through—measured, rational.
It belonged to Emperor Bonaparte De Montrevant, Sovereign of the French Empire.
"I acknowledge your evidence, Emperor Graviil," he said, leaning forward. "Your testimony is solid. But I cannot grasp the notion that the Great Calamity—Emperor Julius—could still be alive. It defies the very laws of this world. Even Herrschers cannot escape death."
The room murmured in agreement.
Graviil stood still.
Silent.
Considering.
Because Bonaparte was correct.
No one—no being, no creation, no divine offspring—had ever escaped death itself.
No power known to history had ever undone that law.
Before Emperor Graviil could respond, another voice cut sharply through the tension—calm, steady, yet carrying enough authority to draw every gaze in the chamber.
"Sorcery."
The faint word came from Emperor Thorfine, ruler of the Great Nation of Norway. Even whispered, it felt like a stone dropped into still water.
He repeated it—this time loud, clear, undeniably.
"Sorcery. It is the only logical way for Graviil's claim to be possible. Though at this point… I doubt it's merely a theory."
A wave of whispers spread through the courtroom, uncertain and shaken.
Sorcery?Isn't that just folklore?A myth?
Thorfine continued, folding his hands as if presenting a lecture he had been preparing for decades.
"I assume many of you know little of it—and I understand. Nearly every written record of Sorcery has been erased from history books. All that remains are scraps… fragments… stories dismissed as superstition. But long ago, in my youth, I devoted years to studying its origin and disappearance."
He paused, eyes distant.
"I was fascinated by the tales of the Dark Sorcerer—the one said to have created the Dark Rune Spells, what later generations called the Dark Arts. Through those dark arts, curses were born. And through those curses… the infamous power known as Sorcery took shape."
Silence settled with weight.
"Their mastery over the Runes of Eldora was beyond comprehension. Unmatched by any mortal. The only being superior to them was Eldora himself—the creator of the rune system. And the Dark Sorcerer's command of ethereal energy…" He exhaled softly. "It was said he could draw out the full potential of his ethereal core. A feat utterly impossible by modern understanding."
A few Emperors shifted, unsettled.
"Among their grand spells was one forbidden even in ancient times—The Dreadful Fare. A ritual that could call upon the souls of the damned from Hades itself."
He let the horror hang.
"The only conceivable way for Emperor Julius to be alive… is if someone today used Sorcery and cast The Dreadful Fare to retrieve his soul. Though that assumes this hypothetical individual even understands Sorcery—something believed impossible. One would require knowledge and intelligence surpassing all of mankind."
The room listened in pained stillness.
"How Sorcery truly functions is utterly unknown," Thorfine continued, voice somber. "Because our ancestors—united across all nations—chose to take its secrets to their graves. They sealed it away, erased its traces, and ensured no one would ever replicate it. They feared another being like the Dark Sorcerer might arise—a being who was capable of rivaling the War Titan Julius at his peak. And frankly… I do not blame them."
Murmurs shivered through the assembly.
"So yes," Thorfine concluded, eyes narrowing toward Graviil, "for Julius to live again, someone must possess impossible knowledge and unfathomable power—enough to wield Sorcery and break the universal law of death." His gaze sharpened. "This power was wiped out millennia ago. Its memory reduced to mere folklore. And yet… someone has used it."
Then, with a piercing focus that cut through the room, Thorfine asked:
"Now tell me, Saint Graviil… who is the individual capable of resurrecting the End of All? Who wields Sorcery? Or… do you truly not know?"
Every eye turned to the Tsar.
Graviil remained silent for a breath—two breaths—bearing the weight of countless expectations. Then he spoke.
"You need not worry about whether I know." His voice was tired but unwavering. "Because I do. And the man responsible is none other than Percival Ashford."
Shock exploded across the chamber.
"Percival?!" "The mad scientist?!" "The monster who experimented on infants?!"
Then another voice rose—cold, commanding.
"Percival, you say?" It was Yamato Mei, Lady of the Storms. Her piercing gaze locked onto Graviil. "I've heard he was once your kin—the brother of your deceased son‑in‑law. Am I mistaken?"
"No," Graviil answered quietly. "You are correct. But make no mistake—we are no longer family. I would never call the devil my own blood."
Mei leaned back, assessing him. "Then it surprises me that you accuse him of something beyond mortal capability. His genius is unmatched, yes—but Sorcery? The resurrection of the dead? That is far beyond even him. Technology cannot trespass into realms governed by fundamental laws of existence. Not even Herrschers have broken the law of death—so why would a Monarch‑core mortal succeed?"
More voices joined her, echoing doubts.
Graviil did not flinch.
"You are right, Lady Mei. All of you are right. A mortal cannot defy the law of death—not even Herrschers could." He inhaled deeply. "But Percival Ashford… is no ordinary mortal. No human in history—none alive or dead—rivals his intellect. His mind is a weapon sharper than any blade forged by the gods."
He closed his eyes briefly, recalling something that made his expression tighten.
"I have seen—personally—the fracture of what his genius can create. And I will tell you this plainly: even I… fear him."
Gasps erupted.
The Saint of Russia. A Monarch. One of the Four Great Pillars.
Afraid? Of a man far beneath him in power?
The leaders sat frozen—speechless, breathless—struggling to comprehend a terror they had not yet seen.
And the room fell into a dreadful, suffocating silence.