The1above666

All the best kings are monsters.”

There are stories meant to inspire hope.
There are tales of golden heroes, bright swords, and promises of a better tomorrow.
This is not one of those stories.

This is the story of Vaelen Cross.
A being born not of love, but of hatred.
Not of hope, but of ruin.
Not to save the world… but to own it.

He was not chosen.
He was not destined.
He took.

In a universe that had long since tired of heroes, Vaelen rose — merciless, brilliant, inevitable.
He did not ask for thrones. He claimed them.
He did not court the powerful. He bent them.

And when the gods themselves dared to stand in his way,
he smiled…
and built a kingdom from their bones.

This is the story of the King of Nothing,
the Sovereign of Ash,
the Lord of the Black Garden.

And it begins with ruin.

Crowned Crimson

Not the fragile silence of waiting.Not the sharp silence of mourning.Not the hollow silence of fear.

This was the silence of fulfillment.

The silence that falls when destiny has bowed its head,and time itself no longer dares to turn.

Vaelen Cross sat upon his Throne of Bone and Ash.The Garden of Ruin sprawled endlessly below,black roses drinking from the veins of dead stars,silver rivers winding through forests of surrender.

Above him, the sky bore no sun.No moons.No constellations of old.

The Eclipse Crown, endless and absolute,burning silently over the worlds he had remade.

At the foot of his throne knelt his Queens —the sacred five.

Seris, Kaela, Veyla, Aurelia, and Astrid.

They had long since abandoned the need for words.Their bodies, their breathing, their hearts beating in unison were prayer enough.

They were not ornaments.They were not trophies.

They were extensions of his will,fragments of his glory,woven into the roots of the new reality.

Vaelen's gaze swept across his empire.

The wars.The betrayals.The resistances.The dreams of rebellion.

All had fallen into dust beneath his stride.

All had been reworked into something purer, greater, eternal.

The King of Nothing.

And Nothing was his.

He rose from his throne —and the Tower itself shifted to support him, vines wrapping lovingly around its foundation, the bones beneath sighing in reverence.

The air bent to his will.The soil sang beneath his steps.The sky shuddered with joy.

The Queens lifted their heads as he passed,each one pressing their forehead to his hand as he moved among them.

Seris, the black-winged hymn.Kaela, the blade made flesh.Veyla, the garden bound in blood.Aurelia, the sun remade as a priestess of dusk.Astrid, the void crowned in stars.

Each one, perfect.Each one, wholly his.

He paused at the edge of the Tower.

Below him, the world stretched out like a living offering,every tree, every stone, every creature breathing his name with every pulse of their being.

And yet, even now,the King of Nothing dreamed.

A new world — not born from rebellion or chaos or desperation —but from choice.

From sovereignty.

And the world waited — holding its breath, leaning closer, desperate for even a glimpse of the new dream that would spill from the mind of their King.

Because in a universe stripped clean of lies,there could only be one truth left to follow:

Where Vaelen gazed, the worlds would bloom.

Where Vaelen willed, the stars would be born.

Where Vaelen ruled, existence itself would kneel.

And they would love it.They would love him.

Chapter 17: The King of Nothing