Chapter 9;- The Rise of the Reaper King

The air in the city was thick with tension. Fear. Uncertainty. Submission.

The war was over, yet the battle was far from forgotten. The streets, once filled with the bustling chatter of merchants and nobles, now stood eerily silent. The banners of the fallen fluttered in the cold wind, torn and lifeless, much like the kingdom that had once flourished under its now-defeated ruler.

And at the heart of it all, stood Rhaegar Crowne.

He walked through the grand entrance of the castle, his boots echoing against the marble floors stained with blood. His once-pristine black armor was now scratched and dented, his cloak tattered, yet he stood tall, his golden eyes gleaming with an intensity that sent chills down the spines of the remaining nobles who had gathered in the throne room.

Sebastian was gone—defeated, humiliated, and cast away. His soldiers had sworn loyalty to Rhaegar, though not out of respect, but out of fear. The city, the kingdom, they all belonged to him now.

But a kingdom built on fear was a fragile thing.

Lucian walked beside him, hands in his pockets, looking around with amusement. "Well, well, well," he muttered. "Looks like these people are already pissing themselves."

And they were.

The nobles, the advisors, the surviving generals—they knelt before Rhaegar, trembling.

One of them, an old, frail man with sunken cheeks and trembling hands, dared to speak.

"M-My lord," he stammered. "W-We welcome you back, of course. But… w-what are your plans for the kingdom?"

Rhaegar tilted his head. "My plans?"

The man nodded desperately. "The people… they are afraid. They whisper of your return as if it were an omen of doom. They fear you more than they ever feared Sebastian."

Lucian let out a sharp laugh. "I mean, can you blame them? Look at him. He literally killed an entire army with nothing but a sword and a grudge."

Rhaegar said nothing.

He turned his gaze to the throne—the seat of power, the very thing that had been stolen from him.

For a moment, he simply stared at it.

Then, slowly, he walked forward.

The tension in the room grew unbearable.

And when he finally sat down, the kingdom itself seemed to exhale a breath it had been holding.

The Reaper King had risen.

But his rule would be nothing like Sebastian's.

He would not be a ruler of gold and decadence.

He would not be a weak king who relied on politics and deception.

No.

His rule would be one of iron and fire.

He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand as his golden eyes scanned the room.

"Tell them," he said finally, his voice low, commanding. "Tell the people that the days of cowardice are over. Tell them that this kingdom will not be ruled by weak men and false kings."

He leaned back, a smirk playing at his lips.

"Tell them their true king has returned."

Lucian grinned. "Oh, this is going to be fun."

The Reaper King had Taken his throne. And the world... was about to change.

A heavy silence filled the throne room. The nobles dared not move, nor breathe too loudly, as if any sudden motion would invoke the wrath of the man who now sat upon the throne.

Rhaegar's golden eyes gleamed under the dim torchlight, his expression unreadable as he studied the room before him. Every face, every trembling figure, every bead of sweat rolling down the foreheads of the spineless nobles who had once served Sebastian.

And now, they knelt before him.

Lucian, standing beside the throne, let out a short scoff. "I gotta say, this is the funniest thing I've ever seen."

Rhaegar hummed in amusement. "Oh?"

Lucian nodded, grinning. "These bastards were kissing Sebastian's ass just a few days ago, swearing their undying loyalty and all that poetic bullshit." He crossed his arms. "Now look at them. On their knees, praying you don't rip their heads off."

A nervous murmur rippled through the nobles.

One of them, a man draped in deep red robes, cleared his throat shakily and attempted to regain some dignity. "My lord, you must understand, we—"

"Silence."

The word, though spoken softly, carried a weight that crushed the air from the noble's lungs.

Rhaegar's fingers tapped against the armrest of the throne. Slow. Rhythmic. Menacing.

"You dare to speak as if you are still in a position to negotiate?" Rhaegar tilted his head, his gaze piercing. "As if your pathetic attempts at diplomacy will grant you mercy?"

The noble swallowed hard.

Lucian smirked, shaking his head. "These guys really don't get it, do they?"

Rhaegar leaned forward slightly, his golden eyes flashing. "Do you know what amuses me the most?"

No one dared answer.

So he continued.

"You all feared Sebastian. Feared his power, his cruelty. You bowed before him, licked his boots, and bent your knees so easily. Yet, when the opportunity arose, you abandoned him without hesitation, like the rats you are."

He let the words sink in.

"Now, here you kneel, pledging the same hollow loyalty to me."

The silence in the room was suffocating.

Lucian sighed dramatically. "Man, you guys should really work on your loyalty skills. I mean, at least pretend you're not completely spineless."

One of the generals finally mustered the courage to speak. His voice wavered, but he forced himself to meet Rhaegar's gaze. "My lord… we are simply men who serve the crown. Our duty is to the kingdom, not to any one man."

A beat of silence.

Then—laughter.

Low, dark, dangerous.

Lucian raised an eyebrow as Rhaegar chuckled, the sound sending a cold shiver down the spines of everyone present.

"The kingdom?" Rhaegar repeated, amusement lacing his voice. "You speak of duty, of serving the kingdom… and yet, when the kingdom was rotting under Sebastian's rule, you did nothing."

He rose from the throne.

Every noble flinched.

"When he drove his people into ruin, when he drained them of their wealth, when he sent innocent men to die for his arrogance—where was this loyalty of yours then?"

The general clenched his jaw, but he did not answer.

Lucian whistled. "Damn. Tough crowd."

Rhaegar stepped forward, descending the few steps from the throne. The tension in the room became unbearable.

"You are not men of duty," he continued, his voice turning cold. "You are men of survival. You cling to whoever holds power, hoping to save your own miserable skins."

He reached the general. The man stiffened, his body frozen in place as Rhaegar leaned in slightly, his golden eyes gleaming like a predator ready to strike.

"And men like you…" he whispered, "are nothing but parasites."

The general's breathing grew rapid, but he remained silent.

Then, Rhaegar stepped back, his expression once more unreadable.

"You may keep your lives," he said finally. "But do not mistake this for mercy."

The room was so quiet, they could hear the crackling of the torches.

"You will rebuild this kingdom. You will follow my command. And if I find even a whisper of treachery, I will burn you all to the ground."

The nobles bowed their heads so low, they were practically kissing the floor.

"Y-Yes, my lord!" one of them stammered.

Lucian leaned against one of the marble pillars, shaking his head. "You know, this whole 'intimidate the nobles' thing is fun and all, but when do we start dealing with the real threats?"

Rhaegar turned slightly, his golden eyes meeting Lucian's. "Soon."

Lucian raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You got something planned?"

A smirk tugged at the corner of Rhaegar's lips.

"I didn't come back just to take a throne, Lucian."

Lucian's grin widened. "Ah, now we're talking."

Because they both knew—this was only the beginning.

The Reaper King had risen.

And soon, the world would know his name.

The weight of silence in the throne room was unbearable.

Rhaegar sat upon the throne, his golden eyes gleaming like a predator surveying its prey. The nobles before him barely breathed, their bodies stiff with terror. They had seen men fall before, seen rulers rise and crumble—but never had they stood before a king who had crawled out of his own grave.

And now, he sat before them, very much alive, very much in power.

Lucian leaned lazily against a pillar, watching the scene unfold with a faint smirk. "Man, this is tense. I love it."

Rhaegar's fingers drummed slowly against the armrest of his throne.

"Tell me," he said, his voice deceptively soft. "How many of you were there when they dragged me to my execution?"

The nobles flinched. Some glanced around, as if hoping to melt into the shadows. No one dared to answer.

Lucian chuckled. "Oh, come on now, don't be shy. Weren't you all so eager back then?"

Rhaegar tilted his head. "Let me refresh your memories."

He lifted a hand, and with a flick of his fingers, the doors to the throne room swung open.

A group of armored men strode in, dragging several nobles forward. These men—dressed in torn, sweat-stained robes—were different from the others. Their faces were pale, their eyes sunken with fear.

They had been taken from their homes, from their comfortable beds. They had thought themselves safe.

Until now.

The rest of the nobles froze as they realized exactly who these men were.

Rhaegar's voice was deathly calm. "These are the men who stood on the balcony the day I was sentenced to die. Who signed their names in ink and blood on the decree of my execution. Who watched, unflinching, as I was dragged through the streets like a dog."

One of the nobles—an older man with silver hair—began to tremble. "M-My lord, we… we only did what was necessary at the time—"

"Necessary?" Rhaegar's voice was smooth, but there was venom beneath it. "Selling your loyalty to Sebastian? Turning on the very man who ensured this kingdom thrived? Condemning me to death the moment it was convenient?"

The noble tried again. "It—it was nothing personal, my lord! We were merely following orders!"

Rhaegar smiled.

"Neither is this."

Without another word, he raised a hand—and the first noble's body exploded.

The room screamed.

Blood splattered across the marble floors, dripping down like melted wax. The other traitors stumbled back, choking on their terror.

Lucian whistled. "Damn, that was messy. Effective, though."

Rhaegar stood, his presence drowning the room in pure, unshakable authority. His golden eyes gleamed beneath the torchlight, his black cloak flowing behind him like the wings of death itself.

"One by one, you will all answer for your treachery."

The next noble collapsed to his knees, weeping. "Mercy! Please, my king, I—"

Rhaegar did not hesitate. He flicked his wrist—a black blade of energy materialized in his hand. He moved like a shadow, a blur of death, and in one swift motion—

A head rolled across the floor.

The nobles recoiled, horrified.

Lucian grinned, shaking his head. "Oh, this is better than a damn play."

The remaining traitors pleaded, begged, sobbed.

"We had no choice!" one of them wailed. "Sebastian would have killed us if we didn't obey!"

Rhaegar turned to him, expression blank.

"And now, I will kill you because you did."

A flicker of darkness—and the noble collapsed, lifeless.

The scent of blood filled the air, thick and suffocating. The surviving nobles shook in absolute terror.

Rhaegar returned to his throne, sitting down slowly, as if he had done nothing more than flick dust off his shoulder. He exhaled, calm. Controlled.

Then he spoke.

"Let this be a lesson."

No one moved. No one breathed.

"Loyalty is not a game. It is not something you trade when convenient. It is a vow—one that you either honor, or you die breaking."

His golden eyes scanned the room, piercing, unrelenting.

"Sebastian is gone. His reign is over. You will serve me, or you will perish like the worms you are."

Silence.

Then—one by one—the nobles fell to their knees.

"Long live the Reaper King," someone whispered.

Another voice joined in.

Then another.

Soon, the entire throne room was filled with trembling voices.

"Long live the Reaper King."

Lucian leaned in toward Rhaegar, grinning. "Damn, brother. You really know how to make a statement."

Rhaegar smirked.

Lucian leaned against the throne, arms crossed, amusement flickering in his sharp eyes. "So… now what? Gonna throw a feast? Maybe a parade? 'Cause I gotta say, after all this carnage, people might need a little wine to wash down the trauma."

Rhaegar chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. "They don't deserve celebration." He tilted his head, watching the nobles still kneeling before him, their faces pale, bodies stiff with terror. "They deserve fear. And now, they have it."

Lucian scoffed. "Well, no shit. I'm pretty sure half of them just saw their lives flash before their eyes. Not that I blame you, of course—Sebastian's bootlickers had this coming. But still…" He sighed, stretching his arms. "This kingdom's seen enough tyranny. You gonna keep your foot on their throats forever?"

Rhaegar glanced at him. "Do you doubt me?"

Lucian held up his hands. "Not at all, my king. I just enjoy playing the voice of reason every once in a while."

Rhaegar exhaled, standing from his throne. His black cloak billowed behind him, trailing through the pools of blood. The nobles flinched as he moved past them, but he barely spared them a glance.

"You think I'm a tyrant?" Rhaegar murmured.

Lucian shrugged. "No. I think you were forced to become one."

A pause.

Lucian studied him for a moment, then sighed. "Look, I get it. These bastards betrayed you. They made you suffer. But if all you do is kill, all you do is rule by fear… what makes you any different from Sebastian?"

The question hung in the air.

For a long moment, Rhaegar said nothing. Then—slowly—he looked back at the kneeling nobles, their eyes filled with silent terror.

His golden gaze pierced through them.

"Rise."

They hesitated.

"I said rise." His voice was firm, unwavering.

Shaking, the nobles scrambled to their feet.

Rhaegar studied them, his expression unreadable. "Your lives are mine. Your loyalty is mine. If you falter again, if you so much as whisper treason…" He stepped closer, his presence drowning them in overwhelming pressure. "I will carve your names into history as an example of what happens to those who betray their king."

One of the nobles—an older man with graying hair—swallowed thickly. "W-We understand, my king."

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes. "Do you?"

He raised a hand—dark energy crackling at his fingertips. The noble's face twisted with fear, but before Rhaegar could strike—

Lucian placed a hand on his shoulder. "Alright, alright, I think they get it. No need to reduce the noble count to zero."

Rhaegar's fingers twitched. The shadows flickered.

Then—slowly—he let them fade.

The nobles exhaled in relief.

Rhaegar turned away, his expression hard. "Leave."

The nobles didn't hesitate. They fled.

The grand doors slammed shut behind them, leaving Rhaegar and Lucian alone in the bloodstained throne room.

Lucian let out a low whistle. "Damn. You really know how to clear a room."

Rhaegar exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "They disgust me."

Lucian chuckled. "I'd be worried if they didn't." He crossed his arms, leaning against the throne. "So… what's next, oh mighty Reaper King?"

Rhaegar's golden eyes gleamed beneath the torchlight.

"Sebastian is still breathing."

Lucian grinned. "Not for long, I'm guessing?"

Rhaegar smirked. "Not for long."

Lucian sighed dramatically, slumping into one of the lesser thrones beside Rhaegar. He sprawled across it, draping one leg over the armrest as if he owned the place. "So, let me guess. You're thinking full-scale war? Burn their cities to the ground? Maybe toss in a little psychological torment? I gotta say, you really know how to keep things interesting."

Rhaegar didn't answer immediately. He stood before the massive war table in the center of the throne room, its surface carved with detailed maps of the continent. Shadows curled at his fingertips, flickering like dying embers as he traced the borders of the kingdoms that had stood against him.

"This is not just war, Lucian." His voice was low, dangerous. "This is retribution."

Lucian sat up, his smirk fading slightly. "Yeah, yeah, I get that. But we're talking about multiple kingdoms. These aren't just nobles you can butcher in a single night. You're going to need a plan. A damn good one."

Rhaegar's golden eyes gleamed beneath the dim torchlight. He placed both hands on the war table, the wood groaning under the force. The map beneath his fingertips twisted, dark tendrils snaking across the parchment as if responding to his fury.

"Veldrith." He pointed to the vast kingdom to the west, its banners once bearing his name—before they turned on him. "They funded my execution. Gave Sebastian gold, weapons, and men. And now?" A wicked smirk curled his lips. "Now, they will be the first to burn."

Lucian whistled. "Starting with the big dogs, huh? Ballsy. I like it."

Rhaegar continued. "And then there's Avaria. The cowards didn't send troops, but they celebrated my fall. Their king called it 'a triumph of justice'—"

Lucian snorted. "Sounds like a smug bastard."

"A dead bastard," Rhaegar corrected. "Their people will watch as their city crumbles around them. They will remember what happens when they mock a king who refuses to stay dead."

Lucian leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. "Alright, so that's two kingdoms. What about Eldoria? They stayed neutral, didn't they?"

"Neutral?" Rhaegar let out a cold laugh. "They stayed silent. They let it happen. They watched as I was betrayed, as I was dragged to the executioner's block, and did nothing. That makes them just as guilty." His fingers curled into a fist. "Their silence was an act of war. And war is what they will get."

Lucian studied him for a moment before shaking his head with a grin. "Damn, Rhaegar. You're really leaning into this whole 'vengeful warlord' thing, huh?"

"I am not a warlord." Rhaegar's gaze was sharp. "I am a king. And I will not allow my enemies to live."

Lucian chuckled, kicking his feet up onto the war table. "Yeah, yeah. Just don't forget—wars take time, planning, and resources. We've got power, sure, but we need more than brute force. We need strategy."

Rhaegar tapped his fingers against the table, considering. "Sebastian built his army on lies and coin. His supporters follow him because they think he is the stronger ruler. If we break the illusion of his strength, they will crumble."

Lucian raised a brow. "So you're saying... we don't just fight them. We make them destroy themselves?"

A slow, deadly smile spread across Rhaegar's face. "Exactly."

Lucian exhaled, shaking his head with amusement. "Alright, you maniac. Tell me the plan."

Rhaegar gestured to the map. "Veldrith falls first. We do not march into battle—we let the city tear itself apart before we even arrive."

Lucian's smirk widened. "Now this I gotta hear."

Rhaegar's golden eyes glowed with cold fire. "We start by spreading whispers. Rumors of an unstoppable force, a shadow that moves unseen. We make them fear something they cannot fight. Paranoia will set in. Then, we strike from the shadows. Assassinate their leaders. Poison their wells. Burn their food stores. Let them turn on each other before they even realize we're at their gates."

Lucian let out an impressed whistle. "Damn, Rhaegar. That's some next-level sadism. But I gotta admit, it's brilliant. By the time we actually invade, they'll already be broken."

Rhaegar nodded. "Once Veldrith falls, the other kingdoms will hesitate. They will see what happens to traitors. That is when we move to Avaria. We give them a choice—submission or annihilation."

Lucian leaned back, grinning. "And knowing you, annihilation is the real option."

Rhaegar smirked. "Of course."

Lucian stretched, cracking his knuckles. "Alright then. Looks like we've got a war to prepare for. But before we start… you do realize what this means, right?"

Rhaegar raised a brow. "What?"

Lucian grinned. "You're gonna need a really badass war speech."

Rhaegar chuckled, dark and low. "Oh, they'll hear it soon enough."

The throne room was no longer just a place of power—it had become the heart of a growing storm. Rhaegar sat upon his darkened throne, his golden eyes surveying the dim chamber where torches cast flickering shadows against the stone walls. The air crackled with an unseen energy, thick with the weight of something inevitable. War was no longer a possibility; it was a certainty.

But war was not won with ambition alone.

Rhaegar knew that his enemies would not fall with sheer brute force. He needed an army—not just any army, but one that would obliterate his foes. He would not raise simple soldiers. No, he would forge warriors as unyielding as steel, as relentless as the storm. They would be ruthless, disciplined, and unwavering in their loyalty.

And he knew exactly where to begin.

The Selection of the Worthy

Not just anyone would serve in his army. He needed the strongest, the fastest, and the most unbreakable. The cowards, the weak, and the undisciplined had no place in his ranks. He sent out a single decree across the lands:

"To those who seek true strength, come forth. To those who have been cast aside, prove yourselves. To those who would bow to none—serve me, and you shall rise beyond mortality itself."

Men and women from across the continent heeded the call. Some were mercenaries, hardened by years of battle. Others were exiled warriors, outcasts from fallen kingdoms, burning with vengeance. And then there were the monsters, the ones society feared—assassins, murderers, and those who thrived in bloodshed.

They came in thousands, eager to serve under the man who had risen from his own grave. But Rhaegar did not accept them blindly.

No.

They had to earn their place.

The Trials of the Abyss

Rhaegar established a brutal, merciless trial system. There would be no leniency, no second chances. Those who failed would either leave in disgrace or perish where they stood.

1. The Trial of Endurance – A relentless test of stamina and pain tolerance. Recruits were stripped of food and water, forced to march through the harshest terrain for seven days. Those who collapsed were left behind. Those who begged for mercy were cut down.

2. The Trial of Strength – Not a simple contest of brawn, but one of brutality. Warriors were pitted against each other in death matches, their only rule: survive. There was no room for weakness. If a man hesitated to strike down his opponent, he was not fit for the battlefield.

3. The Trial of the Mind – Strength alone meant nothing without strategy. Recruits were given impossible situations, forced to outthink and outmaneuver their foes in a series of war simulations. Those who relied solely on brute force failed instantly.

4. The Trial of Loyalty – Rhaegar did not tolerate betrayal. To prove their devotion, warriors were made to choose between their past and their future. Some were ordered to execute former allies. Others were given choices that tested their very souls. Only those who showed absolute loyalty remained.

By the time the trials ended, only a fraction of the original recruits remained.

And they were no longer mere men.

They were weapons.

Forging an Elite Force

Rhaegar did not want a simple army. He wanted a legion of nightmares. He divided his warriors into specialized divisions, ensuring that each one was lethal in its own right.

1. The Reapers – His elite shock troops, draped in dark armor, their faces hidden behind menacing visors. They moved like shadows, striking before the enemy could even scream.

2. The Blackguard – An unstoppable wall of destruction. Towering warriors clad in obsidian-plated armor, wielding massive greatswords that could cleave through plate and bone alike. They were the immovable force, the first line of death.

3. The Phantom Blades – A network of spies, assassins, and infiltrators. Masters of deception, trained to kill in silence. They could slit a throat and vanish into the night before the body hit the ground.

4. The Warcasters – Mages of devastation. No simple spellcasters, but battle-hardened sorcerers who wielded their magic like weapons. Fire, ice, lightning—pure destruction at their fingertips.

5. The Abyss Riders – Rhaegar's cavalry, mounted on massive, nightmarish beasts bred for war. These were no ordinary warhorses. Their glowing red eyes and razor-sharp fangs struck fear into even the bravest men.

Each division was trained with ruthless discipline, ensuring that they would act as one unstoppable force.

And at the heart of it all, leading them into battle, was Rhaegar himself.

The Final Test

Before he could march on his enemies, Rhaegar tested his army the only way he knew how—by making them experience war before war even began.

He led them to a city of traitors, a minor kingdom that had once pledged loyalty to him, only to turn away the moment he fell. He did not send a warning. He did not offer surrender.

He unleashed hell.

The Reapers stormed the gates, carving through the guards like butchers at a slaughterhouse. The Blackguard pushed through the city streets, leaving nothing but broken bodies in their wake. The Warcasters ignited the skies, sending down rains of fire and lightning.

The city burned within hours.

By the time the sun rose the next morning, there was nothing left but ash and ruin.

Rhaegar stood atop the highest tower, his golden eyes surveying the annihilation he had created. His warriors—his monsters—knelt before him, their armor stained in the blood of their first conquest.

And for the first time, Rhaegar smiled.

"You are ready."

The army roared.

Their voices echoed across the wasteland, a chorus of rage, power, and loyalty.

Rhaegar turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the great kingdoms lay beyond.

"Sebastian," he murmured, his voice dark with promised vengeance.

"Your time has run out."