The news that Corvus and his warriors were approaching the border spread quickly, like a whisper carried by the dry wind. Even the guards, accustomed to the region’s harsh climate, hurried to learn the identity of this approaching, battle-weary group. Before long, a squad of ten riders clad in heavy armor emerged from a cloud of dust. The echoes of their horses’ hooves filled the air, clashing against the rocky ground with the harshness of metal.
The leader of the group removed his gleaming steel helmet with a slow, deliberate motion and dismounted his horse with practiced ease. His dark chestnut hair fluttered slightly in the wind, and his sharp, battle-scarred features bore the wisdom and hardness forged by years of war. When his eyes locked onto Corvus, both men seemed to hear the silent echoes of the bloody memories they shared. Months ago, they had fought shoulder to shoulder, defending the city of Rax against the Demon hordes. Every moment spent in the shadow of death had forged a bond between them that went beyond words.
Without breaking his stance, the legionnaire nodded slightly with a warrior’s pride and spoke in an official tone:
“I am Lucius Varro, commander of the Second Legion. I have been assigned to escort you to Adler. I am at your command, sir.”
Seated comfortably on his horse, Corvus narrowed his eyes slightly, a sly smile forming on his lips. He was well aware of the strict discipline of the legionnaires, but he saw no need for such formality between those who had fought side by side on the battlefield.
“There should be no such formality between men who have bled together! What do you say, Lucius?”
Though Lucius maintained his serious demeanor, he did not try to hide the faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Corvus’ words were a sign of genuine camaraderie, and deep down, he appreciated the sincerity.
“I am merely showing you the respect you deserve, sir,” he replied, nodding slightly. After a brief pause, he looked at Corvus and continued, “Shall we depart immediately, or would you prefer to rest first?”
Before Corvus could answer, the elderly Aspayages, who had been standing silently beside him, stepped forward. The wise old man carried the weight of many years on his shoulders, and in his eyes, both the inevitability of farewell and his deep trust in Corvus were evident.
“It seems our paths diverge here, young Corvus,” he said, his voice soft but resolute.
Corvus turned his gaze to the old sage and slowly nodded. They had learned much from each other and formed a silent but strong bond throughout their journey.
“Yes, it seems so old man. May your path be clear,” he replied. Then, adding a touch of warmth to his voice, he continued, “And as long as I live, the gates of Rhazgord will always be open to you. You may borroe our fire whenever you wish.”
Aspayages responded with a sincere smile. He knew that this young warrior was not just a leader but also a man loyal to his friends. Tavaz was preparing to return the horse he had borrowed when Corvus raised his hand slightly.
“No, keep the horse,” he said firmly.
“You will need a good steed to accompany Aspayages.”
Aspayages did not refuse this kindness. With one final nod of farewell, he and Tavaz turned and began to ride away. Silence lingered for a moment. Corvus watched the old man disappear into the distance before turning back to Lucius, who was still waiting patiently.
“No need to rest, Lucius!” he declared, his voice ringing with clarity and command.
“I want to reach Rax as soon as possible.”
Lucius nodded in acknowledgment. Then, in a firm, commanding voice, he gave the order, and the riders quickly formed their ranks. group of the sixty-strong man advanced toward Rax, their horses’ hooves striking against the rocky road. The journey was long and relentless; despite the chilling evening air descending upon them, none of them slowed their pace. Under the moonlight, their gleaming armor and billowing cloaks cast shadows that seemed to whisper of warriors long past, evoking both silent fear and respect in their wake.
After hours of travel, the ancient walls of Rax finally emerged on the horizon. These colossal barriers, built by the mighty hands of ancient ages, still stood tall despite the merciless grasp of time and war. Once the capital of a vast empire, these stone walls now encircled a small kingdom, yet the grandeur of the past had not faded. Towers stretching toward the azure sky were adorned with banners embroidered in gold, and the massive gates held countless whispered stories from centuries long gone.
In certain places along the walls, the scars of the battle from months ago were still visible. Some stones bore the deep wounds left by the Demons’ claws. Yet, human resilience had triumphed over the destruction of war and nature. The ruined buildings had been rebuilt, the bloodstained streets cleansed. The soul of the city seemed to have regained its former brilliance.
When they reached the main gate, they were met with a long queue stretching across the entrance. Trade caravans, merchants, and travelers all waited impatiently, hoping to gain entry into Rax. However, under Lucius’ command, Corvus and his warriors bypassed the line, entering the city without hindrance. The guards did not attempt to stop the Second Legion’s commander or his entourage.
The moment they set foot in Rax, the presence of the Rhazgord warriors drew all attention. In this city of Adler architecture, adorned with grand stone roads, towering columns, and magnificent statues, the barbarian warriors presented an alien and fearsome sight. Most of those following Corvus bore the genetic legacy of Rhazgord: massive, muscular physiques and imposing stances that made them stand out starkly against the city’s orderly streets. Their armor-clad arms and crude yet highly durable leather garments gave them a wild but indomitable air.
As they advanced along the marble-paved roads toward the palace, the gathered folk watched them with a mix of fear and curiosity. To many nations, the Rhazgordians were still seen as a primitive and barbaric people. Though the city had been saved by their might just months ago, Adler and its allied kingdoms had never fully accepted them. The people of this metropolis, the pinnacle of civilization, regarded the arriving foreign warriors with both admiration and apprehension.
Leaving behind the roads and majestic squares, the group arrived at the palace—an imposing structure as formidable as the city’s walls. The colossal bronze doors gleamed with golden embellishments, while the wide archways leading to the inner courtyard showcased the splendor of Adler architecture. The palace’s white marble columns stood as a testament to the undying grandeur of the empire.
At the entrance, Crown Prince Belisarius awaited them. His tunic and gold-embroidered armor reflected the noble bearing of the royal family. Yet, the warmth in his eyes suggested a bond beyond mere protocol. Corvus and Belisarius greeted each other not as cold representatives of two nations, but as old friends.
“Commander Lucius, please escort Corvus’ warriors to their quarters,” Belisarius ordered.
The echo of his firm and authoritative command carried across the palace’s towering stone walls. Without hesitation, Lucius bowed respectfully, his heavy armor creaking slightly. Corvus signaled his warriors to follow Lucius with a simple, decisive hand gesture. The metallic clatter of armor gradually faded down the corridors, leaving only seven figures behind: Corvus, Belisarius, Baldrek, Zarqa, and three warriors.
As they traversed the palace’s corridors, the elegant yet cold grandeur of the palace seemed to enclose them.
“My father wants to see you,” said Belisarius, his voice both formal and carrying a faint trace of tension.
Corvus’ expression did not change. He had expected this. Paying respects to the ruler of the kingdom he had arrived in was both a necessity and a gesture of courtesy. He gave a slight nod and continued forward. As the massive doors of the throne room swung open, his once friendly and relaxed demeanor shifted into something colder and more formal, mirroring the gravity of Rhazgord. However, the sight before him caused his brows to furrow slightly.
Justinianus’ throne was there—standing in its rightful place, magnificent and as grand as ever. But the person sitting on it was not him.
A young man, seemingly in his twenties, lounged across the throne. In one hand, he held a bunch of grapes, leisurely tossing them into his mouth as if entirely unaware of the eyes watching him. His body language exuded an arrogant nonchalance, as if the legitimacy of the throne was of no concern to him. Right beside him stood a middle-aged man with sharp, stern features. The deep lines on his face spoke of years of experience and authority. His eyes scanned the surroundings with the precision of a hunter lurking in the shadows.
Corvus, masking his surprise, turned to Belisarius. But his friend’s face already held the answer to his curiosity—Belisarius’ expression was darkened with shame.
Realizing the situation, Belisarius quickly stepped forward and dropped to one knee, his voice trembling slightly as if struggling to contain his fury:
“Your loyal servant, Belisarius, greets Ibarum, Second Prince of the Sizat Empire.”
Corvus observed his friend’s prostration carefully. His movements betrayed the turmoil within him. Was this submission, or was it a surrender born out of necessity? His gaze then shifted to Prince Ibarum. Yet the young prince offered no response. He continued eating his grapes with the same idle ease. The atmosphere in the room thickened with tension as Belisarius, receiving no reply, hesitated for a few seconds. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he stood up hastily and gestured toward Corvus.
“This is Rhazgord’s repres—”
But his words were cut off by Corvus’ firm and clear voice.
“I am Corvus Tiamat. I greet the true ruler of these lands.”
His words instantly drew all attention to him. However, Corvus did not direct his gaze at the lounging Prince Ibarum but instead locked eyes with the man standing right beside the throne—King Justinianus.
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Justinianus’ expression made it clear that he had not expected to receive the direct greeting. He blinked in surprise for a brief moment but quickly regained his composure. Though a faint tension was visible in his posture, his words were polite and diplomatic.
“What an honor it is to have you here Corvus! We remain grateful for your aid.”
Corvus stepped forward with unwavering determination and extended his hand. But Justinianus’ attention was still on Ibarum, sprawled across the throne. The young prince seemed indifferent to the unfolding situation, yet his mere presence cast a silent pressure over the room.
Before shaking Corvus’ hand, Justinianus cast a quick, fleeting glance at Ibarum. Only after a brief hesitation did he finally take Corvus’ offered hand.
“I bring you my father Sanguinar’s regards. We hope you are in good health.”
Corvus’ voice cut through the heavy air in the chamber like a sharp blade. He spoke without ever averting his gaze from Justinianus, completely disregarding Prince Ibarum’s careless posture on the throne. However, this deliberate indifference only intensified the tension in the room. And then, the moment that sent the tension soaring arrived.
A single grape tumbled through the air, landing against Corvus’ heavy battle boots. Its soft skin burst upon impact, staining the leather with dark purple streaks. Instantly, the atmosphere became thick enough to cut with a knife.
“Hey, barbarian! You should be greeting me! Not that fucking slave.”
Ibarum’s voice was laced with disdain and authority. His eyes gleamed with poisonous arrogance. But Corvus’ own gaze met his—not with arrogance, but with a searing fury.
Corvus’ crimson eyes gleamed, burning like embers in the dim light of the chamber. A single glance from him carried the unmistakable presence of a warrior who had left countless corpses on the battlefield.
At that very moment, Zarqa, Baldrek, and three other warriors unsheathed their weapons without the slightest hesitation. The metallic hiss of steel rang through the throne room, echoing off its cold stone walls.
Prince Ibarum’s guards reacted just as swiftly. Their armor, embedded with Lightstone, shimmered faintly as swords and spears were raised. They moved with disciplined precision, their stance revealing rigorous training and readiness for battle.
And then, a force invisible yet undeniably present filled the room. The raw, destructive power of Lightstone weighed down the very air. A battle was moments away, and both sides were ready to spill blood.
But Corvus’ expression did not change. His red eyes remained fixed upon the throne, meeting Prince Ibarum’s condescending gaze. Then, his lips curled ever so slightly. His voice rang out, deep and full of challenge:
“Go ahead. Throw another one.”
With those words, the Lightstone energy in the room reached its breaking point. The air trembled, pressing down on everyone present. Those who were not warriors felt their knees buckle involuntarily, some collapsing onto the floor, struggling to breathe. Even Ibarum’s guards, clad in their heavy armor, visibly shuddered.
Corvus’ gaze remained unchanged. There was no fear, no hesitation. His eyes locked onto Ibarum with the patience of a predator stalking its prey. He was not looking at a man—he was assessing a target.
Ibarum, however, maintained his feigned indifference. He reached for another grape, rolling it between his fingers as his eyes met Corvus’. They still held that amusement, that careless mockery.
Then, he suddenly raised his hand. But just as he was about to throw the grape, the middle-aged man standing beside him moved.
His hand shot out like lightning, gripping the prince’s wrist. His motion was firm but controlled, carrying an unspoken warning. Despite the overwhelming pressure in the room, his expression remained unchanged—cold, calculated.
Stepping forward, he exuded an air of both loyalty and strategy—like a predator making deliberate, measured movements before striking. Folding his hands before him, he bowed his head slightly, displaying the utmost respect. His voice was smooth, almost silk-like, yet unmistakably manipulative.
“Forgive me, sir. I am the prince’s advisor and loyal servant, Sardiun.”
His voice echoed against the cold stone walls of the throne room. A faint smile graced his lips, but it was clear that there was something hidden beneath it.
“My prince has just returned from a long journey and is likely fatigued. Perhaps the grape… just slipped from his hand.”
His voice trailed off slightly at the end, as if trying to convince himself that his excuse was believable.
Corvus studied Sardiun’s face carefully. There was something unnerving in the man’s eyes—cold, calculating, and menacing. When Corvus looked into them, he saw a darkness, a cunning intellect shrouded in deceit. He had encountered men like this many times before in the Sorbaj—those who never bloodied their own hands but wielded words like daggers.
His expression hardened. Sardiun’s calculating gaze filled him with unmistakable distaste. But it was Sardiun’s next words that escalated the tension even further.
“However, as my prince mentioned, it would be more appropriate to greet the master before the slave.”
And then, with a practiced facade of humility, he added:
“By the way, if you could withdraw your Lightstone energy, we would greatly appreciate it. There are those in the room who cannot withstand your power.”
Corvus’ eyes turned to Justinianus. The old king’s face had paled, beads of sweat clinging to his forehead. His eyes were unfocused, and his hands trembled. Being in such close proximity to Corvus, he had suffered the brunt of the oppressive Lightstone energy. Without a moment’s hesitation, Corvus withdrew his energy. Yet, his expression remained ice-cold as he turned back to Sardiun.
“I don’t care about your master-slave nonsense.”
His voice struck the walls like a slap. Then, locking eyes with Sardiun, he continued, his words a direct challenge.
“We ‘barbarians’ do not act according to your traditions. Your master-slave shit doesn’t concern me,” he said, his voice slapping against the cold stone walls of the room like a sharp crack. Then, this time, he locked eyes directly with Sardiun. His gaze was as sharp as a blade’s edge.
His words were not just a response—they were a challenge. There was an unyielding will in his tone, carrying the spirit of Rhazgord’s warriors, a defiance that refused to kneel. He took step forward. Now, it no longer felt like he was only addressing Ibarum or Sardiun—his words were a message to everyone in the room, even to the shadows lurking beyond the walls.
“And… Even if we were to live by your traditions…”
His voice dropped slightly, but the sharpness within it did not waver for even a moment.
“I am here as Rhazgord’s representative. And as Rhazgord’s representative…”
He tilted his head slightly, as if scrutinizing Sardiun more closely.
“…I shake the hand of whoever I wish.”
As his final words echoed through the throne room, a silence settled in—one so heavy that even the walls seemed to acknowledge Corvus’s presence.
Yet, Corvus did not receive the reaction he had expected from the man before him. Instead of anger or frustration, Sardiun’s face remained completely composed. On the contrary, he was smiling—like everything was going exactly as it should. The false warmth on Sardiun’s face struck Corvus’s mind like a calculated chess move. The man’s eyes were masterfully guarded, betraying nothing of his true thoughts.
“Ah… forgive me, sir,” he said, his voice spreading through the throne room like the smoothest silk.
“You speak the Adler tongue so fluently that, for a moment, I forgot you were from Rhazgord and had your own traditions.”
Sardiun’s words were carefully chosen. The humility in his tone, combined with the excessive reverence in his bow, only made it seem more artificial—further unsettling Corvus. Yet, even so, he could not fully decipher the man’s true intentions. But Sardiun didn’t stop at merely bowing; he nearly bent to the ground, completing his sentence with a theatrical flourish:
“No matter what, on behalf of the great prince, I thank Rhazgord for honoring our invitation.”
Corvus struggled to make sense of the man before him. Was he someone who knew when to restrain his anger and step back, or was he merely a player buying time?
A voice inside Corvus warned that pressing forward any further would only lead to a new conflict. He had not come here to crush Sardiun or get entangled in arrogant wordplay. His true purpose was to prove that Rhazgord bowed to no one—that, if necessary, they could stand against even Sizat Empire. And he felt he had already achieved that. So, his expression softened.
“I'm just ignoring it this once.” he said with a detached tone.
Just then, the massive doors of the throne room swung open once again. Heavy footsteps echoed between the cold stone walls, drawing the room’s attention to the newcomers. Representatives of other kingdoms entered, clad in dazzling robes and heavy armor. With their arrival, they loudly saluted Iberium. The room filled with their voices, yet Corvus and Sardiun’s gazes did not waver from each other, not even for a moment.
The victor of this silent battle was unclear, but one thing was certain: both of them had bigger confrontations in mind. Sardiun took a step closer to Corvus, his voice once again carrying that same soft yet hollow politeness:
“You’ve come a long way, and we have an important meeting tomorrow, Lord Corvus. If you wish, Belisarius can escort you to your chamber.”
Corvus immediately understood why Sardiun had made this offer. The newly arrived envoys should not witness the power struggle happening here. Sardiun wanted to end Corvus’s challenge in this very moment. After a brief silence, Corvus gave a slight nod of approval and exited the throne room. Alongside him, Rhazgord’s warriors moved as well. Belisarius followed a few steps behind, his movements tense and hurried.
As they distanced themselves from the throne room, the corridors grew quiet. Their footsteps echoed against the towering stone columns, assuring them that no one else was around. Yet, Belisarius’s stride became increasingly rigid. His shoulders were stiff, and his eyes were filled with concern. Finally, he stopped in a shadowed corner of the corridor. He hesitated for a moment, ensuring that no one could hear them before suddenly grabbing Corvus’s arm.
“Do you have any idea who—what—you’re getting yourself involved with, Corvus?”
His voice was hushed, nearly a whisper, yet brimming with unmistakable fear.
Corvus, seeing the panic on Belisarius’s face, instinctively reacted. He turned to face him, his crimson eyes flashing with a threatening fire. His expression hardened into steel. He took a step forward, closing the distance between them.
“And what about you?” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous, as if barely restraining his fury.
“Do you know who you’re standing before?”
Belisarius did not want to step back, but the lethal gleam in Corvus’s eyes forced him into caution.
“It seems Adler has forgotten what Rhazgord truly is.”
His voice grew firmer with each word, each syllable hammering down on Belisarius like an iron strike.
“Do you think we fear Sizat? That we bow beneath them?”
Belisarius found himself backed into a corner. Corvus’s eyes burned with an almost incendiary intensity. His tone carried not just anger but the echoes of history itself.
“We follow the orders of our gods and fight only against Demons—so you think we have forgotten who we are?”
To emphasize his words, he gestured toward an imposing statue of an ancient Adler emperor standing in the corner. The stone face, untouched by time, still carried the weight of an empire’s legacy. But Corvus’s words stripped that legacy bare, exposing its decay.
“You remember your ancestors! But what about mine?” His voice was quiet but menacing. A cruel smile played at his lips.
“When was the last time you read the history books about what happened when you underestimated us? Sragor Tiamat. Have you forgotten my great-great-grandfather?”
His voice dropped even lower, but the threat in it was razor-sharp.
"Have you forgotten how the Adler Emperor refused all calls for help and watched half of the continent - the continent that was yours at the time - burn?”
Sragor Tiamat. Grandfather of Drakar Tiamat and the man who had etched Rhazgord’s name into history with sheer terror. He had lived during the peak of the Adler Empire—yet a single smirk, a single misplaced word, had ignited a massacre. Simply because he had been mocked, he had razed an entire city, sparking a war that bathed half the continent in blood.
At the time, Adler had thought itself strong. But true power lay in the edges of Rhazgord’s blades. Adler had watched in silence as its allies burned, retreating into its own shadow, paralyzed by fear. That silence had eventually turned into whispers of collapse. The alliances they had once ignored had shattered their prestige, and the fall of that prestige had foreshadowed the empire’s current fractured state.
Belisarius knew all of this well. Forgetting the blood-stained pages of history was an emperor’s greatest folly. But for some time now, Rhazgord had kept its swords sheathed. Ever since Lightstone and the Demons had emerged, they had avoided war with other kingdoms, focusing solely on the demonic threat. Perhaps that was why the rest of the continent had forgotten Rhazgord’s true power.
But Rhazgord never forgot. Because, as everyone knew, no matter how divided Rhazgord was internally, it always acted as one against the outside world. And when Rhazgord stood as one—there was no force in the world that could stop it. Now, they had Lightstone in their hands. Not only had they reclaimed their former glory… They had surpassed it.
