He leaps high, then descends—slamming into the ground like a meteor, the impact alone pulverizing a dozen soldiers beneath him. Blood and dust fill the air.
More try to run.
More fail.
His claws carve through flesh. His fangs sink into throats. Every movement is a blur of death, his speed and strength unmatched. Soldiers die in droves, their screams drowned beneath the relentless slaughter.
But even with his power, even with his speed—he can’t kill them all.
They run. As fast as their broken bodies can carry them.
And Varkas?
He only laughs.
By the time the last of the coalition soldiers vanish beyond the horizon, the battlefield is eerily quiet. The ground is soaked in blood, the air thick with the scent of death and burnt flesh.
From the fortress walls, the soldiers watch in stunned silence. No one speaks. No one moves.
Then—
"By the gods..." Nyssara finally breathes, her golden eyes wide with disbelief. "General Varkas is amazing!"
She isn’t the only one thinking it.
Thurn crosses his massive arms, shaking his head slowly. "Monstrous. That’s the only word for him."
Nyssara turns to him, eyes still fixed on the battlefield. "Do you think we could ever reach that kind of strength?"
Thurn snorts, glancing at her. "Sorin, maybe. You? Fifty-fifty at best.*"
Nyssara glares at him in annoyance. "Oh, shut up."
Veltha, coiled nearby, hisses in amusement as she drinks a health potion. The torn scales along her serpentine body slowly mend, the potion’s effects taking hold. "I don’t know, Thurn," she says, her voice smooth. "Nyssara might surprise us one day."
Groth, still gripping his axe, exhales deeply. "If we all push ourselves, if we never give up—" His sharp red eyes flick toward the horizon, where the last remnants of the human army are fleeing for their lives. "—and with His Majesty’s guidance, we’ll all reach Tier 5."
Sorin, who has been silent, finally speaks. "We have to." Her voice is quiet but firm, filled with conviction. "If we want to stand… beside His Majesty… we must become stronger."
The group falls into silence, the weight of those words settling over them.
They all know it.
They’ve seen what true power looks like today.
And now—they crave it.
-----
The expensive glass shatters against the marble floor, its fragments scattering across the room. The crimson wine seeps into the cracks like spilled blood, but Darius barely notices. His hands tremble, his breathing ragged.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
He grips the armrest of his chair so tightly his knuckles turn white. His mind spins, replaying the words he just heard. The good news he had been waiting for—the victory he had all but secured—never arrived.
Instead—
"Why did this happen?!" Darius roars, his voice echoing through the lavish chamber. His body shakes with rage. His vision blurs with disbelief. "Becoming Crown Prince was already within my reach!"
His father had promised him. Promised him. If this campaign succeeded, if he brought victory to Valgros, then the throne would be his. His father had even assigned one of the kingdom’s marshals to ensure his success.
And yet—
"Draven—dead?" His voice cracks. "That’s impossible! There’s no way he died to some nobody!"
He paces, his mind unraveling with every step.
Draven, the Thunder God of Valgros, the undefeated warlord, had fallen. Not in an epic battle against a rival champion, not against an army of equal might—but to a monster.
A monster.
Darius grips his hair, his breath coming in short, erratic gasps. "No… no, there has to be another explanation!" His eyes dart wildly, his thoughts latching onto a desperate theory. "It must be the work of the Ordeya Kingdom! Yes! They must have interfered! There’s no way—no way—a monster killed Draven!"
His words are filled with hysteria, but he clings to them like a drowning man grasping at straws. He refuses to believe that some unknown beast, some nameless creature, had shattered his ambitions.
His chest heaves. His heart pounds.
Then, his rage turns cold. His trembling stops.
"I won’t accept this." His voice lowers, his eyes darkening with dangerous intent. "I won’t allow this setback to ruin me."
His father will make him Crown Prince.
--------
The throne room is heavy with tension. The air is thick, suffocating, as King Rewalt sits upon his throne, his fingers tapping against the armrest in slow, measured movements. His expression is unreadable, but the fury simmering beneath the surface is undeniable.
Before him, Darius kneels, his body stiff, his mind scrambling for the right words.
"Father, please, listen!" Darius’s voice wavers slightly, but he forces himself to remain composed. "This was not my failure! The Ordeya Kingdom—they must have interfered!" He clenches his fists. "Draven would never have fallen to some unknown monster! There must have been treachery—"
SLAM!
King Rewalt’s fist crashes down upon the throne’s armrest, the sound reverberating through the chamber like thunder.
"Enough."
Darius flinches, his throat tightening. He dares to look up. His father’s gaze is like steel—cold, merciless, and filled with disappointment.
"Darius." The king’s voice is low, but the weight behind it is suffocating. "You disappoint me."
Darius’s breath catches.
"Do you have any idea?" Rewalt continues, his tone sharp as a blade. "The magnitude of your failure? The loss of Draven is a huge loss. And you? Instead of taking responsibility, you stand before me spewing nonsense?"
"It’s not nonsense!" Darius protests, his voice rising in desperation. "There’s no way Draven could have lost under normal circumstances! It had to be sabotage—"
"Silence!"
This chapter is updat𝓮d by freēwebnovel.com.
The sheer force behind the king’s command crushes Darius’s words in his throat.
King Rewalt leans forward, his presence overwhelming. "Your mistake alone is enough for me to strip you of your right to fight for the throne. Do you understand that?" His golden eyes burn with barely restrained fury. "One more failure, Darius… and I will not be so lenient."
Darius’s breath quickens. He clenches his fists so tightly his nails dig into his palms.
This isn’t fair. This was never supposed to happen.
But he knows better than to argue further.
Lowering his head, he grits his teeth and forces the words out. "I understand, Your Majesty."
The king exhales slowly, leaning back against his throne. "Good. Because there will be no second mistake.*"
Silence lingers between them.
Then, with a wave of his hand, King Rewalt dismisses him. "Leave."*
Darius rises stiffly, his legs feeling like lead as he turns and walks toward the massive doors of the throne room.
After the doors fully close behind Darius, a deep voice finally breaks the silence.
"Your Majesty."
Marshal Zinov, who has remained quiet throughout the exchange, finally speaks. His voice is calm, but there is a weight behind his words.
King Rewalt rubs his temples, his patience already worn thin. "What is it, Zinov?"
King Rewalt rubs his temples, his patience already worn thin. "What is it, Zinov?"
Zinov steps forward, his crimson cape brushing against the polished floor. He is a man of few words, his expression unreadable beneath his silver-gray beard. "The western border, Your Majesty. The region where Marshal Draven was stationed." He pauses briefly, allowing the words to settle. "If we do not station another commander soon, the monsters from the crevice will start pouring into the kingdom."
King Rewalt exhales sharply, his headache worsening.
The Valgros Kingdom has always been strong. Even with Draven’s death, they still have more Tier 5 warriors than their rivals. The Ordeya Kingdom has only one. Raltheon? They don’t even have a single Tier 5 combatant.
And yet—strength alone is not enough.
Each of his marshals has an irreplaceable duty.
Draven had been guarding the western border, holding back the endless tide of monsters that emerged from the abyssal crevice. Without him, that cursed land would soon overflow, and no ordinary army could hold it back.
Marshal Tesvin was stationed at the southeastern border, fending off the relentless barbarian tribes. No matter how many times Valgros crushed them, those savages always returned, as if the land itself bred them endlessly. Moving Tesvin would only shift one disaster onto another.
That left only Zinov himself.
The king’s golden eyes settle on the seasoned marshal. "Can you leave your post?"
Zinov shakes his head. "I cannot. The capital’s defenses are my duty. If I leave, the heart of the kingdom is exposed."
Rewalt massages his forehead. "Damn it."
For the first time in years, Valgros is short on power.
Losing a Tier 5 warrior was not just a blow—it was a crack in their foundation.
A thought suddenly strikes Rewalt. His fingers stop drumming against the armrest as his eyes narrow in contemplation.
"What about General Rostri?" he asks, his voice measured. "He’s already at the peak of Tier 4… level 499."
Zinov considers the suggestion, stroking his beard. After a moment, he nods. "He should be able to handle it, Your Majesty." His tone is steady, confident. "After all, no Tier 5 monsters have ever emerged from that crevice. As long as it stays that way, Rostri can maintain the defenses."
Rewalt exhales slowly, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. "Let’s do that, then."
But as he speaks, there is an undeniable trace of regret in his voice. He leans back against his throne, golden eyes dark with dissatisfaction. "Too bad Rostri can’t break through to Tier 5," he mutters. "Even after everything we did to push him… he just couldn’t."
Zinov remains silent. There is nothing to say.
Some warriors are born to transcend their limits. Others, no matter how talented, no matter how close they come, will never take that final step.