King

The Polykenas stepped through the towering gates into a breathtaking throne room, the very heart of the fortress. Massive pillars lined the chamber on either side at precise intervals, supporting a ceiling so high that it was veiled in shadows. 

A grand carpet of deep crimson stretched from the entrance, woven from the finest fabric, dyed in the spilled blood of fallen human kings, through the vast hall until it reached the throne. 

The seat of power loomed atop a high dais, accessible only by twelve wide, steep steps—each one designed to remind those who ascended of their insignificance. 

The walls were adorned with immense tapestries, woven with meticulous detail, their golden threads depicting the tragic downfall of a once-thriving world. 

The first showed a land brimming with life, its people strong, its cities prosperous. 

But then came the darkness. 

Scene by scene, the murals chronicled the doomed resistance—how the planet's inhabitants rallied, forging a mighty army in a desperate bid for survival. Near the throne, the final tapestry loomed, capturing a cataclysmic battle where legions clashed beneath a sky swallowed by smoke. 

The creature standing before the throne smirked to itself. It did not need to glance at the last tapestry to know how the story ended. 

The throne room seemed utterly deserted, but the Polykenas knew better. 

He could feel him—above. 

Watching. 

Yet before he could lift his gaze, a door behind the throne creaked open. 

Two figures emerged. 

The first was a human—an emaciated man clad in a tattered black shirt and frayed trousers, the lower hems caked in filth and torn to shreds. 

He was barefoot, his skin sickly pale, untouched by the warmth of any sunshine. He could almost pass as a Polykenas. 

Black hair framed his hollow face. Though young—no older than twenty-five—his presence carried an eerie weight. 

The second figure was no man but a beast—a walking mountain of muscle, standing at least two and a half meters tall. 

He was clad in heavy black armor, its metal plates thick with the scars of countless battles. His skin was the color of ashen stone, his grotesque face broad and brutish, adorned with six small, glinting yellow eyes that drank in the room with predatory calculation. 

His gaze locked onto the creature standing before the throne, but the Polykenas did not even acknowledge his existence. 

He was fixated solely on the human. 

"Greetings, my Duce," he intoned, immediately sinking to one knee. 

The man barely spared him a glance before striding toward the throne. He ascended the steps slowly, deliberately, then sank into the seat as if it had been made for him alone. 

The massive Polykenas, known as Shire, stepped forward, bearing an obsidian crown as dark as the void. Without a word, the young man took it and placed it on his head. 

Xersies, the kneeling Polykenas, felt the weight of his master's gaze settle upon him. 

"Xersies," the Duce murmured, his voice cold, unnaturally deep for one so young. "How fortunate that you return so soon. Do you have what I seek?" 

"Yes, my Duce," Xersies answered without hesitation. "It took little effort to crush the planet's defenses, and once we began siphoning its energy, we quickly unearthed the stone." 

"Then what the fuck are you waiting for?" The Duce's voice hardened. "Hand it over!" 

Even though this human was way weaker than Xersies, he dared not wait. 

His loyalty was unquestioned! He was their Duce, their sovereign—his ruler, their ruler—the absolute master of the entire Polykenas race! He rose and tossed a small pouch toward the throne. With practiced ease, the Duce caught it midair and peered inside. 

A slow, satisfied smile crept across his lips. 

"Well done, Xersies. Now leave! I will absorb it immediately." 

"I am unworthy of your praise, my Duce," 

Xersies murmured, inclining his head before turning to depart. 

But before he could take another step, the great doors at the far end of the hall burst open. 

A new figure scuttled inside—thin, sickly, its white skin so stretched that its bones jutted visibly beneath the flesh. It was draped in a tattered cloak that billowed around its skeletal frame. Yellowish eyes gleamed feverishly beneath a mess of long, unkempt gray hair. 

Every few seconds, the creature bared its jagged, needle-like teeth in an involuntary snarl. It hunched forward as it moved, its spindly arms ending in six clawed fingers, which it kept folded neatly behind its back. 

It slithered toward the throne, casting a venomous glance at Xersies as it passed. 

The Duce waved one hand lazily, resting his head upon the other. "What is it, Ramor?" 

Ramor immediately dropped to his knees. "Glorious news, my Duce," he rasped. 

"The fortress... it is complete." 

The Duce straightened, his lips curling into a smile devoid of warmth. 

"Good. Very good. Finally! But before we test its strength, I must cultivate. So scram!" 

"As you command, my Duce," the two Polykenas answered in unison, bowing before retreating toward the exit. 

The Duce's cold gaze followed them. Xersies, Ramor, Ester, Shire, and Fril. 

They were his five generals—the most powerful of all Polykenas. Each formidable in their own right, each wielding strength surpassing even his own. And yet, they obeyed him without question, without hesitation. 

It was in their nature, woven into the very essence of their being. For years, the Duce believed they merely used him to further their own ends, but as time passed, he had come to realize that the Queen had spoken no lies when she gave him control over the Polykenas. 

They existed for him. 

They lived to serve him. 

Speaking off, his eyes drifted upward. 

A shadow clung to the ceiling—something inhuman, its limbs splayed as it hung like an oversized spider. Its skin was as black as Shire's, though it was scarcely half his size. Layers of tattered cloth concealed its form, leaving only its six luminous yellow eyes visible through the darkness of its hood. 

It stared at him. 

Unblinking. 

Unmoving. 

The Duce sighed. "That means you too, Fril. I will not be disturbed." 

A chittering sound, like a hyena's laugh, echoed through the chamber. The creature released its hold and dropped, landing in a crouch before the throne, soundless as a phantom. 

"As you command," it hissed before slinking away on grotesquely elongated limbs, hunched and twisted. 

The Duce exhaled slowly, turning his gaze to Shire, "Go to the gates. Let no one enter. I will not be disturbed." 

The massive Polykenas inclined his head and obeyed. 

The Duce, his name was Nero, but no one had used it in decades, unfastened the small pouch Xersies had given him, a cold smile playing on his lips as he pulled it open. 

Inside lay a tiny black stone—insignificant in appearance, yet its power was almost tangible. He could taste it, an intoxicating aura of raw energy seeping into the air. He took it into his hand, feeling its weight, knowing what it represented. This unassuming fragment was the ultimate prize—the result of an entire planet's conquest. 

It was the sixth of these stones he had ever held in his hand. He had long questioned why each world seemed to harbor only one. His servants had spent years overturning every rock, excavating hundreds, even thousands of kilometers deep into the planet's crust, yet never had they found a second one. 

He exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head before closing his fingers around the stone and crushing it effortlessly. 

The stone did not break into mere shards. Instead, it dissolved into black smoke, which surged into Nero's body like a living being. 

He inhaled sharply as the raw power coursed through his veins, flooding toward his second heart—the wellspring of his magic, the core of his existence. 

Every true sorcerer possessed one, and if it were destroyed, the result was no different from losing an ordinary heart. Yet even now, after years of wielding his power, Nero still did not know how this second heart was formed—or why some were born with it while others were not. 

Then the pain struck. A searing, venomous force latched onto his essence, clawing through his veins, warring against the magic that already resided within him. It was like poison, eating into him, trying to consume what was his. 

Every muscle in his body screamed for relief, but he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to endure. The pain was overwhelming, numbing, suffocating—but he pushed through, sharpening his mind, focusing his magic. He had to fight it. He had to dominate it. 

It was a delicate battle. Too much force and he would destroy the new power before it could be absorbed. Too little, and it would tear him apart. 

He had to maintain absolute balance—attacking when necessary, withdrawing when required—until the energy finally yielded to him, allowing itself to become part of his being. 

Each stone he had absorbed varied in strength. The first had been the most potent by far, unlocking something deep within him, and awakening his true potential. The ones that followed, while powerful, had never matched its intensity. He still did not understand what dictated the strength of a planet's stone. 

But one thing was certain—they granted him unparalleled power. 

The Polykenas called them the Shards of Chaos. 

After nearly seven hours, Nero finally opened his eyes. Sweat drenched his body, his limbs felt numb and heavy, and his veins still burned with searing heat. 

Yet, despite the lingering agony, a satisfied gleam shone in his gaze. He had undergone yet another qualitative transformation—the fourth he had experienced. And each time, his power had surged to terrifying new heights. 

With a deep exhale, Nero rose to his feet. His movements were slow but deliberate. After steadying himself, he called for Shire. His gaze drifted toward the great gate, where Shire entered, watching him with countless glowing yellow eyes. 

"Well then, Shire," Nero murmured, his voice low and edged with dark amusement. 

"Shall we finally test the power of the fortress?" 

Shire let out a deep, guttural grunt of approval.