Chapter 8 — Shadows Behind the Throne
The Emperor of the kingdom stood frozen, his hands trembling as distant screams echoed through the marble halls. The muffled roar of battle seeped in through the palace walls. He turned sharply to one of his personal guards.
"Go! Find out what's happening outside!" he ordered.
"As you command, Your Majesty," the guard replied, bowing before hurrying toward the balcony.
When he looked down, the color drained from his face. The courtyard below was a sea of chaos—fire, smoke, and bodies. The chief guard, the Emperor's strongest warrior, lay defeated among the fallen. The guard stumbled back, panic rising in his chest, and ran to report.
"Your Majesty! Your Majesty!" he gasped, falling to one knee. "The palace gates have fallen—the chief guard is dead! The rebels are inside!"
The Emperor's eyes widened in horror. "What did you say…?" His voice cracked. He looked around the throne room, his fear boiling into rage. "Where are you now?!"
From behind a marble pillar, a shadow stirred. A tall figure stepped forward, cloaked in black, his face hidden beneath the hood. The air around him felt colder.
"You," the Emperor said, his voice trembling with both anger and desperation. "You promised to help me—to protect this kingdom!"
The cloaked man's voice was calm, almost amused. "Yes, we promised to help you… and that's why we gave you the chief guard. But…"
He stepped closer, his tone darkening. "We never said we'd help you protect the kingdom."
The Emperor's fists clenched. "Don't play games with me!" he shouted.
The man tilted his head slightly. "Careful, Your Majesty. If we can help you claim the throne… we can just as easily strip it away."
Before the Emperor could reply, a thunderous crash shook the throne room.
The doors burst open—Fenlor and his attack squad stormed in, their weapons drawn, faces grim.
A second horn echoed through the city. The signal.
Wounded soldiers began retreating while the defense teams rushed forward to replace them, tending to the injured and forming a new line of defense.
"Fall back!" someone shouted to Fenlor, but he didn't move. Instead, he raised his whistle and blew. The sharp sound cut through the chaos.
"Attack!" he roared. His men surged forward once again, charging deeper into the palace.
Moments later, the bartender and Henry arrived. They froze at the sight of Fenlor—bloodied but unyielding. The bartender ran up and smacked him across the head.
"You fool! Why didn't you fall back when they told you to?"
Fenlor turned to him, his face pale but his eyes burning with defiance. "I fought someone… someone who nearly defeated me. How can I fall back when my soldiers are fighting to the death? I brought these men here to fight by my side—to die if we must. So tell me—how can I retreat now?"
The bartender stared at him for a long moment, then smiled faintly. "Heh… now you finally sound like a leader."
He drew his weapon, turned toward the battlefield, and charged forward once more.
Fenlor tried to follow, but his body staggered—his wound was worsening, blood seeping through his armor with every movement. Still, he gripped his sword tighter, eyes fixed on the throne ahead.
The mystery man stood silently in the corner, watching the chaos unfold. The Emperor, desperate and pale, could do nothing but fight.
"Guards!" he shouted, voice trembling. "Protect me!"
The guards quickly formed a circle around him, swords raised, ready to defend their ruler with their lives.
At last, the moment came—the Emperor and the rebels stood face-to-face amid the burning wreckage of the throne room.
The Emperor raised his blade. "Even now," he said coldly, "I'll give you one final chance to surrender."
The rebels shouted in anger, and Fenlor stepped forward, his sword gleaming despite the blood that stained it.
"We didn't come this far to surrender," he said. "It's do or die now. Let's fight!"
He blew his whistle. The sharp sound cut through the air as the remaining attack squad charged toward the Emperor.
The Emperor drew his sword and pointed at them. "Attack!"
Steel clashed. Fenlor rushed at the Emperor with all his strength. Their swords met with a heavy clang. The Emperor held firm, his eyes shifting to Fenlor's wound.
"So," he said coldly, "you're the one who killed my chief guard?"
Fenlor glared back. "Do you have a problem with it?"
The Emperor's face twisted in fury. "How did someone this weak manage to kill him?" He swung his sword violently, breaking Fenlor's defense.
A loud clang echoed again—but this time, the blade didn't reach Fenlor. When he opened his eyes, he saw the bartender standing before him, blocking the Emperor's sword.
"That's why you should've fallen back, you idiot," the bartender said, pushing the Emperor away with a single strong motion.
Henry rushed forward and pulled Fenlor to safety. The bartender turned to face the Emperor again.
"Hey," he said with a smirk, "I think you owe me something."
The Emperor frowned. "What are you talking about?"
The bartender's smile faded. "I'm talking about my hand—the one your soldiers took!"
He lunged forward, his speed shocking even the Emperor. The royal barely managed to dodge, the blade grazing his cloak.
The bartender laughed. "What's wrong? Why dodge now?"
The Emperor growled and retaliated, slashing back with all his strength. The two men fought furiously, each blow heavier than the last. Sparks flew. The marble beneath their feet cracked from the force.
Meanwhile, Henry was tending to Fenlor's wound. Fenlor groaned in pain but kept his eyes on the fight.
"Tch… if only that old man fought like this from the start, I wouldn't be half-dead right now."
Henry shook his head in disbelief. "I didn't know he could even fight like that."
Fenlor gave a weak smile. "He's the one who trained me."
The battle raged on—both men giving everything they had. Finally, the fight came to its brutal end. The bartender's final strike pierced through the Emperor's guard and ended his life. The once proud ruler fell to the ground, motionless.
The hall went silent. Only the sound of crackling fire and distant screams remained.
The mystery man, who had been watching quietly all this time, turned to leave. But then—
"Hey," the bartender called out, voice hoarse. "Where do you think you're going?"
The cloaked figure stopped and slowly turned his head, a faint smirk under the shadow of his hood.
"Well, well," he said softly. "I didn't expect anyone to notice me. It seems you're quite sharp… but you're injured, exhausted. You wouldn't last a minute against me."
The bartender tightened his grip on his sword. "Let's find out."
Fenlor shouted, "Hey, old man! You're already exhausted—don't fight if you don't have to!"
But neither of them listened. The bartender and the mystery man charged toward each other at full speed, blades raised.
And then—everything stopped.
Their swords froze in midair. Everyone stared in confusion. It wasn't that they wouldn't move—they couldn't.
Both men turned their heads slowly.
From the far end of the throne room, heavy footsteps echoed.
Rudravaan entered, carrying bottles on his shoulder, taking a slow drink as he walked. His presence alone was enough to still the chaos. The room seemed to darken around him.
He looked at the scene before him—the corpses, the blood, the trembling warriors—and sighed.
"Seriously," he said, voice calm but cutting through the silence, "I go for one drink, and you all try to end the world without me."