Chapter 67: I Am A god!

The stories of Josh Aratat—known throughout the land as the Black Dragon—had spread like wildfire crackling through parched brush.

There was hardly a corner of the empire, no alley or backroad too remote, that hadn't heard his name at least three times over. From the sand-swept cities of the south to the cloud-brushed peaks of the north, whispers turned to declarations, and declarations to legend.

Now, with the Gathering of Princes and nobles fast approaching, anticipation gripped the empire like a fever. Eyes turned eagerly toward the horizon, hoping for a glimpse of the masked enigma whose deeds had outpaced his origins.

Some claimed he wore the mask to contain a power so dangerous, it might kill anyone caught in its raw presence. Others insisted it was guilt—that he had a past so steeped in blood, his present heroism was but penance. Still, darker tales suggested that to see his face was to seal your own fate; that your lungs would empty and your heart would cease the moment his gaze found yours.

The stories differed wildly, each more dramatic than the last. But they all agreed on one thing: the mask. No one knew his true identity. No title, no name beyond the one carved into the hearts of the people like a brand of fire—the Black Dragon. Not just a name, but a symbol. A warning. A hope. A legend.

Parents told tales of him to their children at bedtime, his name passed down with the reverence of a saint and the thrill of a ghost story. A hero that many hoped to emulate, and an enigma that gives many spies- headaches.

Each new tale ignited the public imagination—his arrival in El'dan City, the battle with the Manticore King—those alone had set the empire ablaze with wonder. But when word broke that he had faced the Scarlet Raven—a creature of myth, a living embodiment of chaos—there was no containing the storm of fascination.

In the bustling streets of Region 1, the Imperial capital, and as far out as Region 68 and especially Region 32—the land whispered to be his home— children could be seen darting between market stalls, wearing paper masks shaped like a dragon's snout, with black capes fluttering behind them.

Vendors quickly caught on. Trinkets, amulets, even toy swords etched with crimson and obsidian scales were selling faster than they could be made. The insignia of the Black Dragon had become more than merchandise—it was a movement.

Even nobles had begun to speak his name with curiosity, some with envy, others with unease. And among them, none brooded deeper than Prince Balek of Region 2, and Prince Jaden of Region 6

In the warmth of his lavish residence, Prince Balek sat at a long, obsidian-lacquered table, pulling the tender meat from a seasoned chicken thigh. Beside him was his close confidant, Amiel Racta, still nursing bruises from his last confrontation with the masked hero. The room was filled with soft harp music and the subtle rustle of silk-draped windows catching the afternoon breeze.

Then the door burst open.

A servant rushed in, breathless. Amiel moved to intercept him, but Balek raised a lazy hand, stopping him mid-step.

"My Lord," the servant said, bowing low.

Balek chewed slowly, eyes still fixed on his meal. "What is it?"

"It's the Black Dragon, sire…"

The name alone made Prince Balek pause. His appetite vanished as swiftly as a flame under water. He set the food aside and turned, posture stiffening.

"What did he do now?" Balek asked, the steel in his voice unmistakable.

The servant hesitated, heart thudding against his ribs. Prince Balek's reputation for impatience—and cruelty—was no secret.

"Well?" the prince demanded, voice lower now, more dangerous.

The servant swallowed hard. "Last week, it was rumoured he slew the Manticore King. Nearly a thousand manticores wiped out by his hand…"

Amiel Racta scoffed, but before he could speak, the servant continued, "…and yesterday—he was seen in battle with the Scarlet Raven."

Amiel dropped his goblet. "The Scarlet Raven? By the heavens, that beast still lives?" He stared in disbelief. "And the Black Dragon fought it—and lived to tell the tale? Or rather the witnesses lived...Is this a joke?"

The servant nodded frantically, eager now that the worst had been said. "I saw it, my Lord. With my own eyes. Traders from across the empire witnessed it too. The news is everywhere."

Prince Balek said nothing. He sat still as stone, but his fingers curled slightly on the table's edge.

The servant, sensing he had perhaps said too much, bowed lower. "I thought… my Lord would wish to be informed first."

His gaze flicked briefly toward Amiel Racta, but just as quickly looked away. Among the prince's household, Amiel's name had become a whispered joke ever since his escape during his encounter with the Black Dragon. Respect had waned.

Prince Balek gave a small, imperceptible nod. "You may go."

The servant bowed quickly, nearly stumbling as he backed away, the heavy doors closing behind him with a muffled thud. Silence swallowed the chamber once more, but it was no longer the calm silence of peace—it was heavy, bristling with tension, like the air before a storm.

Balek sat still for a moment, then slowly leaned back into his seat. The obsidian trim of his chair gleamed in the soft light as he tilted his head to the ceiling, eyes narrowing. Ornate carvings stared back at him—dragons, lions, and kings etched in gold leaf. But he wasn't seeing them. Not truly.

His thoughts spiraled inward.

The Black Dragon...

The name echoed in his mind like the toll of a bell. Revered. Chanted. Worshipped. And now, compared—to him. That faceless stranger had accomplished in months what he had spent his entire life working toward—earning the people's awe. Worse, the admiration of the other royal houses.

"Let him have his moment," Balek muttered, voice low and cold. "Let the empire sing his name, carve his face into the wind. The Gathering draws near."

His fingers curled into a slow, deliberate fist.

"And when it does… all masks will fall, and you will know that I, Balek, I am more than a dragon, I am a god...."

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