Chapter 11: The Hollow Sovereign

The next morning…

Thomas sat at an outdoor café, lazily stirring the coffee in his cup while his eyes flickered toward the large clock hanging on a nearby building. The morning was bright, the sky clear, but he was in no mood to enjoy the day. His patience was wearing thin.

"Late again," he muttered under his breath, exhaling sharply.

The streets bustled with people going about their day—businessmen in suits, students rushing to their classes, street vendors setting up their stalls. But Thomas wasn't paying attention to any of it. His focus was solely on the woman approaching him through the crowd.

Eva.

She walked with purpose, her expression unreadable. The sun caught the slight curl of her dark hair as it swayed with her steps. Her outfit was simple yet elegant, but the irritation in her posture was impossible to ignore.

As she reached the table, she crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. "You're staring."

Thomas smirked. "Maybe because I had nothing better to do while waiting for someone who doesn't respect time."

Eva scoffed, pulling out a chair and sitting down with a huff. "Oh, please. I told you I'd be a little late."

"A little?" Thomas leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "It's been thirty minutes, Eva."

Eva rolled her eyes. "And yet, you're still alive."

Thomas chuckled, shaking his head, but then his amusement faded as Eva's expression turned serious. She sighed deeply, looking at him with a gaze that was equal parts frustration and concern.

"You're doing it again, aren't you?"

Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Doing what?"

Eva exhaled sharply, leaning forward. "The gang fights, Thomas. Don't act dumb. I told you before, I won't stick around if you keep choosing that life."

The playful smirk on Thomas's face disappeared. He clenched his jaw, suddenly finding his coffee cup more interesting than her accusing stare.

"Eva, who's been filling your head with this nonsense?"

Eva tilted her head slightly, studying him. "So you're denying it?"

Thomas met her gaze, trying to keep his expression neutral. "I'm saying you shouldn't believe everything you hear."

Eva scoffed. "Oh, really? And what if I have proof?"

Thomas felt his chest tighten for a second, but he quickly covered it with a forced chuckle. "Proof of what, exactly?"

Eva leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Rafael."

The name sent a shiver down Thomas's spine. His fingers instinctively curled into fists under the table.

Eva wasn't just guessing anymore. She knew something.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Thomas tried to dismiss it, but the slight edge in his voice betrayed him.

Eva's eyes darkened. "Don't do that, Thomas. Don't lie to me. I know Rafael is involved, and if he's involved, that means you are too."

Thomas forced himself to remain still, but his mind was racing. He knew Eva well enough to understand—she wasn't going to drop this.

He swallowed, realizing one thing.

This wasn't just an argument.

It was a warning.

Scene shifted...

A thick, suffocating silence blanketed the space. The air was dense, almost unnatural, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. The dim glow of a flickering bulb barely illuminated the chaos within—a room filled with deep cracks, shattered furniture, and an overwhelming sense of something… twisted.

"Beg… beg… beg… destruction… destruction…"

The voice was neither a whisper nor a scream. It was something far worse.

A dark, guttural murmur that seeped into the air like poison.

Then—BAM!

A single fist slammed into the concrete wall. But instead of leaving a dent, the entire section of the wall fractured violently, splitting apart like fragile glass. Chunks of cement rained onto the ground.

But there was no blood on Ethan's knuckles.

Only his slow, controlled breathing.

The dim light failed to fully reveal his face, but his hunched posture, his trembling fingers, and his ragged breaths painted a haunting picture.

Then came the laughter.

A twisted, empty laugh—cold and humorless.

It started slow, barely audible, like a whisper crawling through the shadows. But then, it grew. Manic. Hollow. Deranged.

Suddenly—the door creaked open.

A silhouette stood at the entrance, the faint hallway light outlining his sharp features. His voice was calm but edged with unease.

"Ethan… stop this madness."

Ethan didn't move.

He remained still, his back turned, his shoulders rising and falling with deep, calculated breaths.

The man in the doorway sighed. Then, with a simple hand gesture, twenty large, heavily built men stepped into the room.

They weren't ordinary men.

They were trained killers, their bodies sculpted by war and survival. Their movements were precise, disciplined, robotic. They had seen monsters before. They had killed monsters before.

But as they stepped closer to Ethan, something shifted.

The air grew heavier. Darker.

A faint, almost imperceptible shiver ran through some of them.

One of them spoke, attempting to mask the unease.

"Ethan, surrender. We don't want to hurt you."

Silence.

Then—

A whisper.

"You… don't want to hurt me?"

The voice was soft. Too soft.

Then Ethan turned.

For the first time, they saw his face in the dim light.

And fear gripped them.

His eyes—pure black, soulless voids. No light, no emotion. Just endless darkness.

His lips—dry, cracked, as if he hadn't spoken in days.

His body—inhumanly chiseled, veins bulging against his skin, his six-pack stomach rising and falling with controlled precision.

Then—he smiled.

"Then why are you shaking?"

Before anyone could react—he moved.

What followed wasn't a fight.

It was a massacre.

Limbs twisted at grotesque angles. Bones shattered like brittle wood. Blood painted the ground, seeping into the cracks.

Some screamed. Others tried to run.

None succeeded.

The room became a symphony of agony.

Outside the doorway, the man who had first spoken didn't move.

He simply listened.

Screams.

Then silence.

The metallic scent of blood filled the air. The bodies lay still, twitching, broken.

A slow clap.

The man finally stepped forward, his tone disturbingly amused.

"Your power has grown, Ethan. You took down twenty trained monsters like they were nothing."

The faint flicker of light caught Ethan's face again.

There was no smirk of arrogance. No sign of exhaustion.

Just pure, unshaken emptiness.

His black eyes remained hollow, staring past the corpses like they weren't even there. His fingers twitched slightly, as if hungry for more.

"I need more."

His voice was hoarse, almost desperate.

The man narrowed his eyes. "More?"

"More."** Ethan whispered, his expression darkening.**

Then—he smiled.

A terrifying, unnatural stretch of his lips, revealing sharp teeth like a predator toying with its prey.

His gaze locked onto the man.

"Tell me… what do you think would happen if I experimented on you instead?"

For the first time, the man tensed.

His heart skipped a beat.

He knew.

Even one second in front of Ethan was too long.

Then—Ethan's expression broke.

His lips trembled. His breath hitched.

Then, suddenly—tears.

Uncontrollable.

His body shook, his fingers gripping his skull. His voice cracked.

"What have I done…?"

His breathing turned erratic. His shoulders trembled.

His voice faltered.

"What did they do to us…?"

His tears fell onto the blood-stained ground.

Then—he laughed.

A completely unhinged, spine-chilling laugh.

It started soft.

Then—manic. Loud. Twisted.

He threw his head back, the madness consuming him once again.

And then—

"I'LL DESTROY THEM ALL!"

The entire room seemed to tremble.

And the darkness consumed him once more.

Scene shifted....

A grand palace stood towering over the land, its design regal yet drenched in darkness.

Once, it may have been beautiful. Now, it was a kingdom of despair.

Cracked stone walls. Blood-red banners. Torches flickering dimly against the cold, merciless air.

The great hall was massive, lined with chained prisoners, warriors who had lost their battles, and servants who barely dared to breathe.

At the center—on a throne of jagged obsidian—sat Ethan.

No crown adorned his head. No jewelry decorated his body. And yet, he ruled over them all.

His posture was neither relaxed nor stiff. He sat motionless, as if time itself had frozen around him. His body was carved from stone, his muscles coiled like a caged beast.

His eyes—void of light.

His lips—lifeless.

His face held no warmth, no cruelty—just absolute emptiness.

This wasn't a man.

This was a force beyond reason.

A few moments ago, he had been in "training."

If it could even be called that.

It was nothing. A mere warm-up.

A casual morning exercise.

And yet—twenty men had died screaming, their bodies now nothing but stains on the stone floors.

And Ethan hadn't even broken a sweat.

---

"Boss, we have two more."

Kaito stepped forward, his voice steady but cautious. He motioned toward two men, their hands bound in iron chains.

They were dragged forward, their bodies covered in bruises and dried blood. Defeated. Broken.

"These two were caught trying to attack a school. They wanted to start a gang fight."

A moment of silence.

Then, Anshu, a young boy around 22 years old, scoffed from the side. His sharp eyes glared at the two prisoners.

"Pathetic. You tried to play war in a child's playground?"

The prisoners shivered. They could barely speak.

They weren't afraid of Anshu.

They weren't afraid of Kaito.

They were afraid of him.

The dead king on the throne.

Ethan remained silent. He didn't blink. He didn't move.

Then—his hand lifted slightly.

A command.

"Let them go."

The words were spoken without emotion. A simple, lifeless decree.

Kaito raised an eyebrow but nodded. He understood.

This was nothing to Ethan.

Mere insects in his world.

Even acknowledging their existence was a mercy.

The chains were removed. The two men fell to their knees, trembling. They didn't even dare to thank him.

They simply ran.

But no one paid them any mind.

Because at that moment, Ethan spoke again.

For the first time in a while.

"Let's go outside."

Kaito straightened. "Huh?"

Ethan slowly stood up.

His movements were deliberate. Calculated. Controlled.

His muscles rippled with quiet strength.

His eyes—still dead.

"It's been a while," he said, his voice hollow. "Since I tasted pure air."

The great hall fell into silence.

And then—without waiting for a response—Ethan stepped forward.

And the shadows followed him.

----

End of chapter 11