The throne room doors swung open with a low groan.
Cold air slipped inside, whispering across the marble floor.
The Winter Warlock entered, boots clicking lightly against the polished stone.
She walked straight toward the throne.
Unhurried.
Unbothered.
When she reached the steps, she stopped.
No bow.
No salute.
Just a stillness, calm and heavy, like snowfall muffling the world.
The King sat high above, draped in his simple, charcoal robes.
No crown. No scepter. Just a heavy, worn presence.
He leaned back lazily, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Not every day I see you this late," he said, voice casual, warm as a late afternoon sun.
The Winter Warlock chuckled softly. Briefly.
"Normally, I'd be at home," she said, "sipping tea by the window."
A small smile ghosted across her lips.
"But the Astral Sovereign hosted a Scourge Rite."
The King stirred at that.
Shifted his position, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the broad arms of his throne.
"Scourge Rite, huh?" he mused, voice light but eyes sharpening.
"At whose request?"
The Winter Warlock tilted her head, amused.
"An elf," she said. "Named Amanda."
The King's brows lifted a fraction.
Recognition flickered behind his eyes.
"The Adventurer's Goddess, is it?" he said, tapping a slow rhythm on the throne's armrest.
His voice turned thoughtful.
"Is this about the orc lord's subjugation?"
The Winter Warlock nodded once.
"Leo won," she said simply.
The words floated in the chilled air between them.
The King paused, digesting.
"Hmph," he grunted, shifting again in his seat.
"Wouldn't be the first time some rising system user knocks down another," he said.
A small, crooked smile.
"Big-headed idiot deserved it eventually."
His tone softened, almost nostalgic.
"Strong, though," he added. "Definitely strong."
The Winter Warlock's gaze sharpened slightly.
"It wasn't just any system user," she said.
"It was the VIP System user."
The King chuckled—half a breath of disbelief.
"The VIP," he began.
Stopped.
Dead.
His head snapped toward her.
The Winter Warlock didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Only nodded. Slow, deliberate.
The King straightened in his throne, the casual ease draining from his posture.
Tension crackled quietly in the space between them.
The Winter Warlock continued.
"And it wasn't just defeat," she said.
Her voice stayed even.
But the weight of the words hit hard.
"The Dragon Lord was killed during the fight."
Silence.
Thick and humming.
The King's mouth opened, but no words came.
He gripped the arms of his throne tighter.
"You're telling me," he said slowly, "that the Dragon Lord..."
His voice trailed off, lost somewhere between disbelief and something deeper.
Something like awe.
The Winter Warlock nodded again, her white hair catching the dying light slanting through the tall windows.
"They fought inside the Astral Arena," she said.
"A wise decision by the Astral Sovereign."
She let the thought linger.
Then added, voice dipping lower:
"Even the Astral Arena couldn't contain the final blow."
The King lifted a hand sharply.
"Hold on a moment, will you?" he said.
He waved the air between them like she was physically throwing things at him.
"You're tossing way too many details at my head all at once."
A rare crack in his usual composed mask.
The Winter Warlock smiled faintly.
And waited.
The throne room felt colder somehow.
As if the whole castle itself was holding its breath.
Waiting for what would come next.
A long silence stretched between them.
The Winter Warlock waited.
Patient as falling snow.
When the King finally settled back against his throne, releasing a slow breath, she continued.
"The curse," she said, voice level, "is real."
Her words dropped like stones in a still lake.
"The Blight of the Vanquished. It exists."
The King's fingers drummed once on the armrest.
Then stopped.
###
Thousands of years ago, when the demon hordes first invaded the world, they weren't led by an army general or a tyrant.
They were led by a being who bore the Demon God system.
The invasion was swift. Ruthless. Entire cities vanished under skies darkened by the wings of flying demons. Their shrieks tore through the heavens. From the east, armies of shadow monsters slithered across the lands like rivers of living death, devouring fields, forests, and towns whole.
Adventurers rose to defend the cities.
They fell one after another.
The world had been protected for generations by system users. Heroes, champions, guardians, but none were prepared for the existence of a God-class system born from the abyss itself.
The Demon God's strength was absolute.
High-level adventurers who once stood as legends were crushed in an instant, their defenses meaningless against her overwhelming might.
Panic spread faster than the armies.
In the blink of an eye, the Demon God obliterated the legendary first city of adventurers, the cradle of the world's strongest, protected by barriers said to be impregnable.
It didn't matter.
The city turned to ash in moments.
With its fall, the last true defense crumbled.
The demon hordes surged forward, striking every continent in relentless waves.
Desperation choked the world.
The World Tower became the last refuge, a monolith untouched by war, but few could reach it in time. Those left behind were slaughtered in the streets, their screams haunting the dead air long after the demons moved on.
In that darkest hour, a figure emerged.
The world's strongest adventurer, once exiled by jealous kin, rose to face the apocalypse.
He was the bearer of the Hero system.
Once cast out, now humanity's last hope.
He gathered the remaining system users who had not fled, who still had the will to fight. Together they carved bloody paths through the demon tides, dragging the world back from the brink.
The Hero became a legend even as the battle raged around him.
But it wasn't enough.
The decisive battle came on a scorched plain under a broken sky.
The Hero and the Demon God faced each other.
The collision between them tore the land asunder. Light against darkness. Hope against despair.
It wasn't even close.
The Hero fought with everything he had, but the Demon God's might was overwhelming. She summoned a spear, a thing wrapped in roiling black clouds and pulsing with raw malice, and hurled it with terrible precision.
It struck.
The Hero was pinned to the earth, the spear through his chest, the life draining from his body.
The battlefield froze.
And then—the Demon God herself faltered.
A dark, pulsing sigil appeared on her body.
Blight of the Vanquished.
The price of victory at the cost of another system user's life.
For fifty years, her power would bleed away, drained by the countless souls she had conquered.
The Demon God, once unstoppable, weakened in an instant.
But even crippled, she remained a nightmare.
No adventurer dared move.
Even at a fraction of her strength, she could still tear through armies.
The Demon God turned to retreat, her figure wavering with exhaustion, but she wasn't given the chance.
Something massive crashed onto the battlefield.
"Great White Bear!"
A colossal beast, radiating primal force.
It was the Beast Master System, one of the last warriors left standing.
In his towering form, he launched himself at the Demon God, pinning her down with claws that tore through demonic flesh.
The Demon God struggled, summoning the last of her strength.
Her desperate command rallied the remaining demons, and they surged toward them.
Spears. Fangs. Blades.
They pierced both her and the Beast Master alike.
In the end, it wasn't a duel.
It was mutual destruction.
Their bodies collapsed under the tide of death.
With the Demon God's fall, the demon invasion shattered.
The world was saved.
But the cost was seared into memory. A reminder of what happened when a system user killed another, passed down centuries later.
A price that would never disappear.
A price that no one dared to take.
A myth that no one dared to confirm.