Josh shouted again—
"I... AM KING!"
The cry ripped through the battlefield like thunderclap from the gods. It wasn't just sound. It was power.
Primal, pure... sovereign.
And then, as if the very skies heard his roar and answered it, something broke.
Something ancient and caged within him—unleashed.
A burst of power surged through his broken form like a dam exploding, sending torrents of raw energy coursing through every shattered fibre of his being. The ground trembled beneath him. The wind turned wild, swirling in eddies as if honouring the awakening of something older than war.
The Manticore King didn't have time to pause.
It was already before him—towering, monstrous, fatal.
But Josh... Josh was ready.
Kingly Awareness: Activated.
He activated his kingly awareness, a D-grade skill that works in a radius of about 10 meters of his presence for 30 minutes, which could be upgraded.
It wasn't a flashy skill. In fact, by system standards, it was just D-grade.
A simple ring of awareness—ten meters in radius—like a shallow puddle in a sea of higher-tier talents.
But for close combat, it was divine.
Everything within that radius became readable—predictable. Attacks, footsteps, shadows, even intentions.
Josh rarely used it. It burned through his energy like wildfire, and couldn't last more than thirty minutes.
But now? In this moment of desperation and destiny?
He unleashed it.
The last time he'd tapped into this power, he'd prevented Princess Jerusha from harming Lola.
But now... it was more than protection.
It was warfare.
It was survival.
It was the final hand of a king who refused to fall.
And then, something else awakened.
It wasn't summoned. It wasn't trained. It wasn't earned.
It simply... was.
'I Am King' Protocol: Initiated.
It was the crown jewel of the Kingly System.
So rare, so elusive, that even history whispered only fragments about it.
A myth among monarchs.
Even those who had possessed the Kingly System in the past for their whole lives had died without glimpsing it.
But in that moment of blood, resolve, and sacrifice, Josh had stepped into that sacred threshold.
David Stormborn—the system's interface avatar—shouted with pride from within Josh's mind.
> "You've done it, Josh! You've awakened the protocol! Invincibility of will, surge of spirit, divine perception—YES! Yes! Yes!"
But Josh didn't even hear him.
His eyes were locked on the beast before him.
His grip tightened around his glowing scepter, and time—slowed.
The Manticore King swung its massive claw.
Josh didn't dodge like a warrior—he flowed like a ghost.
With a fluid twist, like a body unbound by bones, he spun backward, leaping into the air. The claw missed him by inches.
Too slow.
The Manticore King roared, pivoting, and lashed out with its venomous stinger.
But Josh—guided by his Kingly Awareness—turned exactly in time.
The stinger cut air.
Still too slow.
He countered—swift as lightning. His scepter moved not with desperation, but with precision, targeting the third digit of the Manticore's segmented tail.
The Manticore King felt it—that terrifying, splitting second where instinct screamed:
> "Danger."
It tried to pull away, but fate was already sealed.
CRACK.
The scepter connected.
A flash of golden light.
The Manticore King froze.
Then its flesh began to char. Smoke curled from its spine. Its mouth opened, but the scream never came—only a silent, shocked gasp as its colossal form began to disintegrate into embers.
Its final expression wasn't rage.
It was... regret.
And then, it was gone.
Burnt to ash—scattered by the wind.
The remaining 269 manticores—witnesses to their king's fall—howled. Fury lit their eyes. They wanted to rush up to stop Josh Aratat from hurting their king, But it was too late, before even one could move, their bodies erupted into flames.
One by one, they ignited—like cursed shadows bound to their sovereign's fate.
Ash. Ash. Ash.
And then… silence.
Only the wind carried the remains of an ancient terror across the battlefield.
Josh staggered as he held on to his sceptre tightly.
His knees buckled, and only his staff kept him upright.
He was bleeding—head to toe—a living tapestry of wounds and defiance.
But his spirit?
Unbroken and alive.
Behind him, the generals had watched in stunned reverence.
Now, their awe gave way to jubilation.
Someone among his generals, who was sold completely to the goosebumps shooting throughout his body from the scenes he had just witnessed—began to chant:
"The Black Dragon..."
Another joined in.
"The Black Dragon..."
Then a dozen more.
"THE BLACK DRAGON!"
A thunderous, pulsing chorus that shook the valley.
Their voices were cracked, hoarse, wild with reverence—but unified in one undeniable truth:
Their king had not just won.
He had become legend.
Josh allowed himself a smile—just a sliver of pride—as he pulled out a health potion, uncorked it, and drank.
His wounds started to close gradually as the portion took effect.
And then...
Lola.
She ran to him, not caring about the blood. Not caring about the battlefield.
She hugged him—tightly, fiercely, as if holding him together with her own arms. You could see the emotions in her eyes, the trembling of her lips, the shaking of her hands...
"If you ever do that to me again," she whispered, trembling with emotion, "I will kill you myself."
She didn't care that he was her master. Her commander.
Because in this moment, she was just a woman who almost lost the man she loved.
And the Black Dragon?
He was just a man who was willing to burn for them all.
After a while...
The battlefield had grown quiet, save for the soft rustling of the wind that carried ash and embers into the dying twilight.
The scent of scorched fur and steel still lingered in the air, mixing with the tang of blood and sweat. The once-ominous presence of the Manticore King was now reduced to scattered cinders, drifting away like shadows vanquished by dawn.
Josh Aratat, still leaning on his staff, sat silently amidst the aftermath. Lola remained at his side, her hand gently resting over his as if grounding herself in the truth of his survival. Around them, the generals—bloodied, bruised, yet alive—had collapsed into exhausted heaps. Their breaths were heavy, their chests rising and falling as if trying to believe that they were, in fact, still breathing.
Roughly thirty minutes passed. The horizon shifted from orange to violet, the skies above beginning to unveil stars like quiet witnesses to their victory.
Josh exhaled slowly, then pushed himself to his feet. Though his limbs protested, his spirit was once again anchored. He looked around, watching as small groups of warriors huddled together, retelling every second of the fight, each version more vivid than the last.
The chants of "The Black Dragon" had faded now, replaced by the crackle of fire and murmured tales of glory.
Yet despite the triumph, a deep tug of responsibility pulled at his chest.
"We didn't come here for war stories," Josh muttered to himself, then raised his voice.
"Conrad Stan," he called out, steady and commanding.
The tall, broad-shouldered general snapped to attention, even while still seated. "Yes, my lord?"
Josh took a step forward, then another, forcing his body to obey. "Let's go find the prisoners. They're why we came here in the first place."
His voice, though calm, cut through the noise like thunder in a cathedral. The generals turned toward him, the realization dawning slowly across their faces. The victory had swept them into celebration—but their mission wasn't over.
Josh looked them over, his voice firm now. "We didn't climb Manticore Mountain just to bathe in battle. We came here for the men, women, and children chained on this mountain by those beasts. Innocents. Families."
There was a long silence. Then heads began to nod. Shoulders straightened. Eyes refocused.
Conrad stood and gave a slight bow. "Understood. I'll rally the men."
Josh's eyes flicked westward, to where the mountain's inner caverns loomed in darkness. "Good. Once they're free and safe, we head to the next city. Our work isn't finished. Brimhold still waits for our return—but not yet. Not till we finish what we started."
And so, with ash still on their cloaks and blood on their boots, the Black Dragon and his legion moved toward the heart of the mountain—where hope, long forgotten, awaited deliverance.