While the Church of the Evil Sage conducted its quiet devotions in the depths of the Whispering Woods, far to the east, in the heart of the White Dragon Kingdom's capital, chaos continued to spread.
The plague had grown worse.
What had started as isolated incidents—twenty cases that first terrible night—had exploded into hundreds. Then thousands. The infection moved through the population like wildfire, jumping from district to district with terrifying speed. Victims would go to sleep seemingly healthy and wake screaming with black eyes, their minds touched by something dark and incomprehensible.
The hospitals were overwhelmed. The royal mages were baffled. The city guard struggled to maintain order as panic spread through the streets.
People were fleeing the capital in droves, loading wagons and carts with whatever belongings they could carry, desperate to escape before the plague claimed them too. But the roads were clogged with refugees, creating bottlenecks at every city gate. Families were separated. Children got lost in the crowds. Elderly citizens collapsed from exhaustion and were trampled underfoot.
It was complete chaos. Complete destruction of the social order that had kept the kingdom stable for generations.
And in this chaos, an opportunity arose.
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**Six hundred miles to the east, at the border of the Dark Reaper Kingdom**
A convoy of trade vehicles moved slowly along the old road—massive wagons pulled by teams of horses, loaded with goods destined for the eastern kingdoms. Silk from the White Dragon Kingdom's famous weavers. Magical artifacts from their master craftsmen. Agricultural products from their fertile valleys. All of it valuable. All of it now vulnerable.
The White Dragon Kingdom had maintained these trade routes for centuries, protected by treaties and mutual economic interests. But treaties meant nothing when one party was on the verge of collapse.
The attack came at dawn, just as the convoy was crossing through a narrow valley.
Armed riders emerged from the rocky outcroppings on both sides—not bandits or random raiders, but trained soldiers wearing the distinctive dark leather armor of the Reaper forces. They moved with military precision, cutting off escape routes before launching their assault.
The merchants' guards tried to fight back, but they were outnumbered and outmatched. Within minutes, the battle was over. The guards lay dead or dying. The merchants were bound and left alive—witnesses who could report back what had happened and to whom.
The raiders loaded the captured goods onto their own wagons and rode off toward the east, leaving destruction in their wake.
It was a calculated provocation. An act of war disguised as opportunistic raiding.
And it was exactly according to plan.
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**The Dark Reaper Kingdom - Capital City of Noctholm**
A sleek black car moved through the streets of Noctholm, its engine purring with quiet power. The vehicle was a rarity in this world where most transportation still relied on horses and magic—imported technology from distant lands, a symbol of modernity and progress that the Dark Reaper Kingdom cultivated as part of its image.
Inside the car, a man sat in the back seat, his eyes fixed on a viewing crystal mounted on the seat back in front of him. The crystal displayed the news from the White Dragon Kingdom—images of chaos, of plague victims being carried to overwhelmed hospitals, of refugees fleeing the capital, of the kingdom's infrastructure crumbling under the weight of the crisis.
The man smiled.
He was in his forties, tall and well-built, with sharp features and eyes that gleamed with intelligence and cruelty in equal measure. His hair was dark and slicked back. He wore a suit of expensive black fabric with subtle red accents—not traditional robes or armor, but modern clothing that suggested sophistication and power.
"Well, this is perfect," he said, his voice smooth and cultured. "The White Dragon Kingdom will fall. Their precious order crumbling. Their people dying. Their economy collapsing." He leaned closer to the crystal, studying the images with obvious satisfaction. "This plague still seems dangerous though. We should avoid getting too close to their territory while continuing to cause destruction from a distance."
He smiled again—a cold expression that never reached his eyes.
The car pulled through the gates of the royal palace, and the man stepped out into the courtyard. Immediately, news reporters swarmed toward him, cameras flashing, voices calling out questions.
"Your Majesty! Your Majesty! What is your response to the White Dragon Kingdom's plague crisis?"
"Will the Dark Reaper Kingdom be offering humanitarian aid?"
"Are the reports of attacks on trade convoys true?"
"Your Majesty, please, a statement!"
The man—Klinet Laurent, though he insisted on being addressed as "God Klinet" by his subjects—ignored them all. He walked with measured steps toward the palace entrance, his expression neutral, his bearing radiating absolute confidence and authority.
He was the ruler of the Dark Reaper Kingdom, a nation that had earned its name through centuries of suffering and warfare. During the Dark Ages—that terrible period of global conflict that had nearly destroyed civilization—the lands that would become the Dark Reaper Kingdom had suffered the most. The battles had been fiercest there. The death toll highest. The trauma deepest.
When the White Dragon Kingdom and its allies had finally ended the Dark Ages through divine intervention and magical superiority, bringing peace and order to the world, the Dark Reaper lands had been left devastated. While other nations rebuilt and prospered under the new world order, the Reaper people had been left to scrape by on ruined land with depleted resources.
That resentment had festered for generations.
Now, under Klinet's rule, the Dark Reaper Kingdom had embraced a different philosophy entirely. They rejected the "divine order" that the White Dragon Kingdom represented. They made alliances with dark spirits and practiced forbidden magic. They built their power through means that the "civilized" kingdoms found distasteful.
And they waited for an opportunity to upset the balance of power.
That opportunity had finally arrived.
Klinet reached the palace entrance where two guards stood at attention. They wore silver armor decorated with dark patterns—swirling designs that seemed to move slightly when viewed from the corner of the eye, enchanted with subtle dark magic that enhanced the wearer's strength and speed. The guards saluted sharply as their ruler passed, their fists over their hearts in the traditional gesture of loyalty.
The palace interior was as impressive as its exterior was imposing. High ceilings supported by columns carved from black stone. Chandeliers made from what looked like crystallized shadows, casting an odd purplish light. And everywhere—hanging from the rafters, clustering in corners, swooping through open spaces—were bats.
Thousands of them.
Not ordinary bats, but creatures that had been touched by dark magic. Their eyes glowed faintly red. They moved with an intelligence that natural animals shouldn't possess. They served as the palace's surveillance system, its guards, its messengers. Nothing happened in Noctholm without the bats knowing about it.
Klinet made his way through the palace corridors with easy familiarity, eventually reaching the throne room. It was a vast space, dominated by a throne that sat on a raised dais at the far end. The throne itself was carved from a single massive block of obsidian, its surface polished to a mirror shine. Red cushions provided the only color in the otherwise monochromatic space.
Klinet settled onto the throne, adopting his characteristic pose—right elbow on the armrest, hand supporting his jaw, legs crossed casually. It was a position that managed to look both relaxed and completely in control.
"So," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the large chamber. "Why exactly do you all think this plague exists?"
Shadows moved in response to his question.