Volume2:
Chapter 5: The King of Shadows
The throne room of the Virelian palace was a masterpiece of opulence and power, a gilded cage where light itself bent to the will of its ruler. The walls, carved from marble so pure it shimmered like liquid gold, bore the weight of centuries—etched with the sigils of kings long dead, their legacies reduced to mere whispers in the grand tapestry of Virelia's history. Enchanted lanterns hovered in the air, their glow pulsing like captured stars, casting shifting patterns across the floor. The ceiling, a vast dome of enchanted glass, fractured sunlight into a thousand tiny rainbows that danced upon the polished tiles.
It was a place of breathtaking beauty.
And yet, just beyond its towering gates, the city of Virelia rotted.
The streets, once bustling with life, now lay choked in silence. The people moved like ghosts, their faces hollow, their voices stolen by fear. Disappearances were common—spoken of only in hushed tones, as if even the air itself carried ears. The palace loomed above it all, a radiant monument to a king who ruled not with mercy, but with an iron grip that crushed even the thought of rebellion.
The elites stood in perfect formation, their masks gleaming under the shifting light—Red, Blue, Pink, Yellow, and White. They did not fidget. They did not speak. They barely even breathed out of turn. Each of them was a masterpiece of discipline, a weapon honed to lethal precision.
And then—
A trumpet sounded, deep and resonant, the note trembling through the air like a funeral dirge.
"Welcoming the King."
He did not stride in with arrogance. He did not need to.
The King of Virelia entered with the weight of inevitability, his presence bending the room to his will. Tall, broad-shouldered, his body was a testament to both war and regality—muscle carved beneath ceremonial armor, black and gold, each plate etched with symbols of dominion. His cape, a river of liquid sunlight, pooled behind him as he moved, whispering against the marble. His face was sharp, angular, framed by dark brown hair that fell just above eyes so black they seemed to devour the light.
The air itself stilled.
The elites dropped to one knee in perfect unison, heads bowed, bodies frozen in reverence.
The king settled onto his throne—an obsidian monstrosity, its back crowned with golden engravings of the sun, the moon, and a single, unblinking eye that watched all who dared stand before it. He leaned forward, resting his chin on a gloved fist, his lips curling into a smile that held no warmth.
"You lot took a long time."
Red, ever the first to speak, kept her voice steady. "Your Majesty, we apologize. There were... complications."
The king exhaled through his nose, a sound almost like amusement. "Those brats that escaped." His gaze slid to White, and in that moment, the temperature in the room plummeted.
"You failed."
The words were soft.
And then—
The world broke.
A force like the fist of a god slammed down upon the elites. The marble beneath them cracked, spiderwebbing outward in jagged fractures. White gasped as his body was driven deeper into the floor, his bones screaming under the pressure. The air itself became a prison, thick and suffocating, pressing against his lungs like a vice. He could hear his own heartbeat, too loud, too frantic, as if his body knew—
This was not anger.
This was disappointment.
And disappointment, from a king like this, was fatal.
"How could you let mere children escape?" The king's voice remained smooth, almost lazy, but beneath it thrummed something ancient and terrible. "Have you forgotten why I let you live?"
Pink dared to speak, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your Majesty—"
The pressure vanished.
The king leaned back, chuckling as if he had merely been lost in thought. "It seems I lost myself there." He waved a hand dismissively, the motion elegant, effortless. "Next time, kill those brats. No mercy."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Blue tilted her head, the edges of her mask catching the light. "Shall we mobilize the entire Eclipsed Hands?"
The king paused.
A maid, silent as a shadow, stepped forward, her hands trembling as she poured wine into a crystal goblet. The king took it, swirling the liquid absently, watching the way the crimson caught the light.
Then, he smiled.
"No. They haven't done anything that serious yet."
He tilted the glass, letting the wine spill onto the pristine floor in a slow, deliberate stream. The maid behind him gasped.
A heartbeat later, her body hit the ground with a wet thud, blood spreading beneath her like a grotesque halo. The king held out his goblet again.
The blood reversed its flow.
It coiled upward, defying gravity, snaking into the cup until it brimmed with dark, shimmering red.
The king raised it to his lips.
"Even if they were a threat..." He took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving his elites. "They can't even dream of beating me."
The meeting continued, the king's mood shifting as easily as the wind. Reports of merchant betrayals, regional unrest, spies who had outlived their usefulness—all were discussed with the same detached amusement. And then, just as swiftly as it had begun, it ended.
The elites dispersed, melting into the shadows from whence they came.
White's Reflection: The Fight That Should Have Been Impossible
White stood atop the palace rooftops, the wind clawing at his cloak, the moon a pale eye watching from above.
His fingers traced the scar on his cheek—a wound that still burned with the memory of battle.
"Those brats..."
His mind returned to the fight.
Cilia had been small. Fast. A spark in the dark.
At first, he had dismissed her. She fought like a cornered animal—wild, untrained, her movements fueled by desperation rather than skill. She threw punches, kicks, even hurled a rock at his head in a last-ditch effort to survive. He blocked them all with ease, his body moving on instinct, his mind already calculating the quickest way to end her.
But then—
Something changed.
Her breathing steadied. Her eyes, once wide with panic, sharpened.
And then she adapted.
Her next punch came faster. Her footwork tightened. She feinted left, then struck right, her knuckles grazing his ribs before he could react.
White had felt it then—the first flicker of unease.
He swept her legs out from under her with a brutal roundhouse, his boot connecting with her temple hard enough to send her crashing into the stone floor. Blood streaked from her forehead, her body limp.
And yet—
She stood.
Her eyes were blank. Unseeing.
She was unconscious.
And yet—
She was still fighting.
Her next punch was perfect.
White barely registered the pain at first—just the impact, the way his ribs groaned under the force, the way the air left his lungs in a single, ragged gasp. He stumbled back, his vision swimming, his body screaming at him to move, move, MOVE—
But it was too late.
She had already struck.
For the first time in years, White had felt something he thought long dead—
Fear.
He stared at her crumpled form, his chest heaving.
That kind of potential... it wasn't natural.
And then there was the boy.
The other one.
The one who unsettled him in ways he couldn't explain.
White had fought countless enemies—monsters, mages, assassins who moved like shadows. But this boy...
He was different.
Not in strength. Not in skill.
But in presence.
When White had locked blades with him, the air had felt wrong. Thick. Distorted. The boy's eyes held something fractured, something that didn't belong in this world. His movements were unpolished, his technique flawed, and yet—
The boy looked at him as if he was looking at a child
A shiver traced white spineーa sensation so foreign that still made him shake
He was one of the Five elites. A machine that is not supposed to falter or hesitate.
The wind moaned through the palace spires. Somewhere in the city below, a child cried—a long, mournful sound that echoed through the streets like a dirge.
White turned his face to the moon, letting the cold light wash over him.
He would find that boy again.
And when he did...
He would carve that unnatural gaze from its sockets and see what lay behind it.
The night swallowed his silhouette whole.