Chapter 145 (Part 2): Crimson Reckoning
Symphony of Betrayal
The Imperial Guards' formation shattered like glass beneath a hammer. Lao Yan stumbled backward, his ceremonial sword trembling in his grip. Ahead, the Royal Garrison's thousand-strong phalanx—once their brothers-in-arms—pivoted in chilling unison. Sunlight glinted off their drawn blades, polished not for ceremony but slaughter.
"For the new dawn!" roared a Garrison captain, his voice raw with zeal.
The first wave struck. Imperial Guards crumpled mid-yawn, their delicate dress swords snapping like twigs against the Garrison's battle-hardened steel. Blood sprayed in arcs, gilding the golden plumes strewn across the cobblestones. Lao Yan stared, numb, as a young guardsman—barely eighteen, his helmet askew—collapsed with a crossbow bolt through his eye.
This isn't happening.
But it was. The Victory Square had become a butcher's yard. Royal Garrison troops herded fleeing civilians like sheep, their tactics too precise, too rehearsed. They've drilled for this, Lao Yan realized with icy clarity. While we polished our feathers, they sharpened knives.
Coffins Unleashed
"Fall back! To the Soloman floats!" Lao Yan bellowed, rallying survivors. The gaudy wooden monstrosities loomed ahead, their carved reliefs mocking the carnage.
Too late.
With a cacophony of splintering wood, the Soloman "floats" erupted. Hidden panels dropped, revealing murder holes bristling with crossbows. Arrows hissed forth, shredding the last cohesive line of Imperial resistance.
"Traitors!" Lao Yan spat, watching House Soloman's black-clad mercenaries swarm from the coffins. Their banners, once embroidered with golden scales, now bore a crimson fist clutching broken chains.
A Garrison blade slashed toward his throat. Lao Yan parried, his dress sword shattering on impact. He lunged, seizing a fallen soldier's broadsword. The weight felt alien after years of ceremonial frippery.
The Price of Gilt
Madness reigned. Imperial Guards—pampered, underarmed—fought like cornered rats. A boyish lieutenant crawled past, intestines spilling from his gutted abdomen. "Mother…" he whimpered before a boot crushed his skull.
Lao Yan's world narrowed to survival. His newfound broadsword cleaved through a Garrison soldier's gorget, spraying hot blood. For a fleeting moment, the blade glowed faintly white—combat aura, the desperate awakening of a third-tier knight.
Two Garrison elites closed in, their eyes glinting beneath visors. Lao Yan fought like a demon, but steel found flesh: a slash to his thigh, a stab through his shoulder.
Jazz… I'll never hear that title now.
The killing blow came as he impaled one attacker. A black-fletched arrow punched through his chest. Lao Yan collapsed, his final breath misting the blood-slicked cobblestones. Around him, the last Imperial Guards fell, their golden plumes trampled into crimson mud.
Throne of Flames
At the Central Plaza, Crown Prince Cassian spurred his charger forward, blade leveled at Emperor Augustus VI. The aging monarch stood rigid on the palace steps, his once-sagging frame radiating imperious wrath.
"You dare?" Augustus's voice boomed across the square, momentarily stilling the chaos.
Cassian's answer was a battle horn's cry. From the Victory Square's direction, House Soloman's archers emerged, their bows trained on the emperor. The stench of blood and smoke thickened the air.
"Today," Cassian snarled, "the crown bows to steel."
Panic metastasized through the crowd. Royal Garrison troops carved through fleeing civilians, their advance toward the palace relentless. A mother clutching an infant fell beneath a warhorse's hooves; a merchant's severed hand still clutched a pouch of festival coins.
Ephemeral Dawn
When historians later dissected the Solstice Coup, the numbers chilled:
3,000 Imperial Guards annihilated.
400 Royal Garrison casualties—a slaughter ratio that redefined military doctrine.
10 days before the Victory Square's wells ran clear of blood.
But in that moment, as Cassian's forces encircled the palace and Soloman arrows darkened the sky, only one truth mattered:
The Empire's gilded age had ended in fire.
Chapter 146 (Part 1): Thrones of Shadow and Flame
Silence Before the Storm
The nobles lining the high platforms flanking the imperial palace froze, their jeweled goblets slipping from trembling hands. Below, Crown Prince Cassian's rebellion unfolded like a nightmare scripted by the gods of irony.
For decades, these gilded spectators had whispered of Cassian's ambitions in silk-draped parlors. Yet none—not even the wiliest patriarchs of House Soloman or the hawk-eyed spies of the Merchants' Guild—had imagined the prince would bare his fangs beneath the solstice sun.
Cassian sat astride his black destrier, blade leveled at the palace steps where Emperor Augustus VI stood. The emperor's once-imposing frame seemed shrunken beneath ceremonial armor, his gnarled hands gripping the throne's armrests like driftwood in a storm. Behind him, two hooded figures—the legendary Shadows of the Throne—hovered, their obsidian daggers unsheathed.
"Why?" Augustus' voice cracked across the square, raw as an open wound.
The question hung in the sulfur-tinged air. Even Cassian's rebel forces held their breath—a momentary hush before the tempest.
A Prince's Requiem
Cassian dismounted, his ceremonial helmet clattering to the cobblestones. Silver streaks marred his raven hair—tokens of sleepless nights plotting in candlelit chambers.
"Look at me, Father!" He tore open his gorget, revealing a scarred neck. "Fifty winters. Fifty. Yet you still treat me like the boy who wept when his first falcon died!"
The blade trembled in his grip as he pointed toward Prince Chen's platform. The younger prince—barely twenty, his delicate features frozen in shock—flinched as if struck.
"Him?" Cassian's laugh curdled blood. "A mewling child who trips over his own robes! For thirty years, I bled to become what you demanded. Learned statecraft from dawn till midnight. Led armies while he suckled at wet nurses' teats! And for what? So you could discard me like a dulled blade when his mother's perfume still lingered on your sheets?"
Emperor Augustus swayed. The Shadows moved to steady him, but a flick of his fingers stayed them.
"Power," Cassian spat. "That's the lesson you taught me that day. When you tore my birthright away for a whim, I saw truth bare as a gutted stag. This—" He slammed his fist against his breastplate, "—is the only crown that matters. The crown forged by those brave enough to seize it!"
The Breaking
A metallic shriek split the air as Cassian's sword scored a jagged line across the flagstones.
"Abdicate." The word fell like an executioner's axe.
Ten thousand voices thundered in unison: "ABDICATE!"
Nobles clutched amulets and lovers. A duchess fainted into her consort's arms.
Augustus turned to the right-hand platform where Count Raymond stood, his crimson cloak billowing like a war banner. "Raymond of House Varro. This treason stinks of your hand."
The count bowed, mockingly deep. "No, Sire. You sowed these seeds when you betrayed your oath—to justice, to lineage, to the very empire you claim to cherish."
As the emperor's face purpled, Prince Chen rose, his voice trembling with forced courage. "Brother, this madness—"
"Silence!" Cassian's roar echoed off palace walls. "You'll speak when I permit it, boy."
The White Tower Awakens
A tremor shook the earth—not of hoofbeats, but magic.
Bennett staggered as raw arcane power lashed his senses. The White Tower, that alabaster needle piercing the heavens, erupted in light. A bolt of cerulean lightning struck its apex, igniting the Adamantine Prism—a gemstone the size of a warhorse.
Gods above… Bennett clutched his staff, tears of awe and terror mingling. The ancient wards laid by Archmage Alaron during the Aragón Dynasty stirred after centuries of dormancy.
Runic chains materialized above the city, each link blazing with primordial sigils. The walls themselves glowed as if molten, ancient spells carved into their foundations now pulsing like veins of light.
Cassian's rebels faltered. Horses reared as the ground hummed with gathering power. Even the Shadows retreated a step, their daggers dimming.
Emperor Augustus straightened, sudden vitality hardening his gaze. "You sought to lecture me on power, boy? Then behold its true face!"
Echoes of Aragón
The White Tower's prism fractured the sunlight into a kaleidoscopic dome. Within its shimmering embrace:
Rebel arrows disintegrated mid-flight, reduced to ash.
Cassian's warhorses collapsed, frothing at the mouth as if crushed by invisible hands.
Noble platforms trembled, their gilded railings warping into grotesque shapes.
Bennett's knees buckled. The magic here wasn't mere spellwork—it was alive. Hungry. He glimpsed phantasmal dragons coiling within the light-dome, their roars syncing with the tower's vibrations.
Cassian rallied, driving his sword into a crack in the magic-warped stones. "Archers! Bring down that thrice-damned prism!"
But as the first bowstrings tensed, Count Raymond raised a hand. His smile chilled hotter than the tower's fury.
"Patience, Highness. Let the old man exhaust himself. When dawn comes…"
He nodded toward the northern gates, where shadows darker than midnight gathered.
"…we'll show him true madness."
Chapter 146 (Part 2): The Crown's Fractured Covenant
A Web of Betrayals
Count Raymond's sigh blended with the metallic tang of blood in the air. "Twenty years," he murmured, gaze fixed on the White Tower's pulsating prism. "Twenty years since I last witnessed this… magnificence."
His voice carried across the square, crisp as winter frost. "Your Majesty—while this grand spellwork dazzles, let us not forget its cost. The royal mages required one full hour to activate these defenses. Tell me… how did they begin preparations before His Highness Cassian even drew his sword?"
Emperor Augustus' knuckles whitened on his throne. "You… engineered this timing."
"Merely honored the lessons you taught us," Raymond replied, bowing with glacial elegance. Behind him, dozens of nobles rose like crows from a corpse—House Solomon's patriarch, General Junger in his obsidian armor, even the treasurer who'd kissed the imperial seal that morning.
Anatomy of a Coup
"The palace guard?" Raymond continued, ticking points off gloved fingers. "Three thousand elites slaughtered at Victory Plaza. Seven thousand remnants now scurry like rats through empty corridors. The mages?" He gestured toward the White Tower. "Exhausted. Useless. And the city walls—"
A bitter laugh escaped him. "Oh, the walls! Your pride, Your Majesty! Sealed tighter than a nun's chastity belt by your own magic. No messengers. No reinforcements. Just three days for Cassian to… rearrange the throne room."
The emperor's roar shook the platform. "Solomon! You—you smuggled those archers!"
The silver-haired lord inclined his head. "Via your royal merchant fleet, sire. Your personal seal opened every checkpoint. A masterstroke of irony, wouldn't you agree?"
General Junger stepped forward, medals clinking. "And you, Augustus? Would've stripped my command within weeks to please your precious Chen. We're simply… preempting."
The Poisoned Legacy
The emperor collapsed into his throne, blood trickling from bitten lips. "Traitors… all traitors…"
"No." Raymond's voice softened, almost pitying. "You betrayed us."
He swept a hand across the rebel nobles—graying temples, battle-scarred hands, eyes hardened by decades of service. "We were your chosen ones. The companions you handpicked to guide Cassian since his youth. 'Teach him statecraft,' you ordered. 'Sharpen his mind. He'll need you when he rules.'"
Bennett watched his father with dawning awe. Count Raymond's words wove truth and venom into a crown of thorns.
"For thirty years," Raymond pressed, "we molded ourselves into his pillars. Then—" His blade-like gaze shifted to Prince Chen, "—this pampered princeling learned to walk, and you tore our life's work asunder! What were we to do? Wait for Chen's puppies to replace us? Starve in obscurity while our families' honor rotted?"
The square held its breath. Even Cassian's rebels lowered their swords, transfixed.
The Puppeteer's Gambit
Prince Chen rose.
Sunlight caught the gold thread in his robes as he descended the platform, unarmed, unguarded. The crowd parted like wheat before a scythe.
"Count Raymond," he said, voice honeyed yet cold. "A question, if I may."
Cassian tensed, but Chen continued, unblinking. "Had my father commanded you from the start to serve me instead of my brother… would you have obeyed?"
Silence thicker than siege smoke settled over the square. Raymond's mask slipped—a flicker of unease.
Chen smiled. "Or is loyalty merely a cloak you wear when the wind blows your way?"
Chapter 147: The Duel of Broken Crowns
A Prince's Gambit
Bennett's chest tightened as Count Raymond's laughter rang out—a sound like ice cracking beneath spring sunlight. "Clever, Your Highness Chen. Exquisitely clever. But these theatrics won't sever our loyalty to Prince Cassian."
The Count's voice dropped, raw and unguarded. "Had your father commanded us to serve you from the start? Yes, we'd have obeyed without question. But thirty years—" His gloved hand clenched, crushing the air. "Thirty years spent shaping Cassian into a king, only for Augustus to discard us like dulled blades for your sake. Tell me, Prince—what would you do, if your life's purpose were erased overnight?"
Gasps rippled through the nobles. Even Emperor Augustus leaned forward, his rheumy eyes widening.
Chen's reply sliced through the silence: "Then my father erred gravely."
The emperor recoiled as if struck.
"Father," Chen continued, bowing with flawless grace, "allow me to resolve this. Return to the palace. Let your son shoulder the throne's burden."
"Insolent worm!" Cassian's sword scraped free, its tip trembling at Chen's throat. "This ends only when Father's crown is mine!"
The Gray Eminence
A shadow stirred behind Augustus—a man draped in ash-colored robes, his presence hitherto as unobtrusive as cobwebs. With a single step, the air curdled.
Bennett staggered back, phantom blades pricking his skin. Such killing intent…!
"You overreach, Cassian," murmured the gray-robed figure—Lucien Rothe, the "Gray Eminence," whose sword had carved empires before Cassian drew breath.
Cassian sneered. "Lord Rothe. The legendary 'Saint-Blade' who's guarded Father since my infancy. Did you think I'd forget you?" He turned to a knight encased in black steel. "Third favor, my lord: sever this relic's thread."
A sigh colder than glacial winds answered. "As you command."
Bennett's blood froze. He knew that voice.
The knight removed his helm, revealing gaunt features etched with melancholy. Moonlight seemed to weep along his blade—Moonlit Sovereign, the sword that had felled kingdoms. Rodrick Valesk, the continent's second Paladin… and the man who'd once sworn fealty to Bennett's own bloodline.
Rodrick shed his armor, standing revealed in plain linen. "Lucien Rothe. I've long questioned your title. 'Saint-Blade'? For a man who's never touched the Golden Threshold?"
Golden flames erupted around Rodrick—a corona of divine wrath. Gasps became screams: "Golden Aura! A Paladin!"
Eclipse of Saints
Rothe's sword trembled. Decades of honed skill meant nothing before that blazing gold—the chasm between Ninth Rank and sainthood yawned like an abyss. Yet when he faced Augustus, his smile held only peace.
"How long have we walked together, old friend?"
"Fifty-four years." The emperor's voice broke. "Since… since we hunted icewolves in the Frozen Wastes."
"Fifty-four years," Rothe echoed. "And tonight, the gods grant me a final boon—to cross blades with true sainthood." He knelt, pressing his forehead to the emperor's boot. "Forgive this farewell."
Rothe's blade gleamed silver as he descended the dais, its hilt wrapped in fraying hemp—a warrior's weapon, unadorned yet lethal. His aura flickered, silver edged with feeble gold.
Rodrick bowed, Moonlit Sovereign humming in reverence. "You honor me, Gray Eminence."
"No." Rothe's stance flowed into the Crane's Last Flight—a suicidal opening gambit. "Honor lies in the strike. Show me the Peak."
Gold and silver collided. The magic阵 overhead fractured, raining prismatic shards as two eras clashed: one ascending to legend, the other embracing oblivion.