The woman's voice dominated everything.
It did not need to shout. It simply existed — vast, ancient, and suffocating, pressing down on every soul like the weight of an entire fallen era. The purple sky seemed to bow lower. The dark beings above fell into unnatural silence. Even the wind died, as if the world itself was listening.
"Remnants of the Dragon King…" the voice echoed, cold and absolute, "what is your choice?"
The pressure intensified. Some warriors collapsed instantly, blood leaking from their eyes and ears, bodies unable to withstand the aura. Others shook violently on their knees, teeth gritted, clinging desperately to consciousness even as their bones creaked under the invisible mountain pressing upon them.
The voice continued, laced with a terrifying gentleness:
"Your King is gone. His age has ended. Serve the new dawn… or perish with the old one."
It paused, as if truly sorrowful.
"How tragic… that so many of you still cling to a ghost."
Three factions broke first.
The Silent Hand, led by a trembling Amon, lowered their heads in submission. The Ironscale Legion, their once-proud warriors reduced to ghosts of themselves, followed. The Void Watchers, eyes dimming with shame and exhaustion, also knelt.
The rest refused.
The Crimson Blades, Obsidian Shields, Stormcallers, Blood Tithes, and the others remained standing — barely — defiance burning in their eyes even as their bodies screamed in agony.
The voice sighed. A sound filled with genuine sorrow… yet laced with something far more dangerous. Something hungry.
"Such sorrow I feel… to be rejected by those I would have uplifted. But I am also… delighted. It has been so very long since I took from one who once ruled this world."
A chilling smile could almost be felt in the voice.
"Very well. Those who reject me… flee. Hide as best you can. Run to the ends of this broken world. I will enjoy hunting every last trace of you."
The refusers, barely able to stand, turned and fled into the ashen wasteland, carrying what little pride and broken bodies remained. Their footsteps faded into the smoke.
The voice then commanded, cold and absolute:
"Erase everything they once were. Their names. Their banners. Their histories. Let nothing remain… until the day they come crawling to me."
Dark forces descended upon the battlefield like a tide of living shadow.
For those who had submitted — the Silent Hand, Ironscale Legion, and Void Watchers — the voice offered salvation.
"You have chosen wisely. Receive my blessing."
Dark energy poured into them like liquid night. Wounds began to close. Cracked armor mended with black crystal and violet veins. Their eyes gained a new, unnatural glow. They were no longer remnants of a fallen king.
They were now part of the many followers of the order.
The voice whispered one final time, soft and deadly:
"Welcome… to the age of truth."
---------------
Amon lowered his head.
Indura scratched his chin as he let his words sit. The woman's voice, her offer. It all didn't seem to sit right with Indura. It wasn't enough.
"There is more, isn't there, Amon?"
Amon spoke, his voice low, laced with fear.
"Y-Yes, your Highness. In the years that followed, Chaos did not simply fall."
He paused.
"It was remade."
Indura remained silent for a long moment, golden eyes fixed on Amon.
"Continue."
---------------
The Disciple of Darkness — she who spoke with the voice that could crush mountains and rewrite souls — did not rule through brute force alone. She reshaped the very nature of the world. Where the Dragon King had ruled with tyranny and conquest, the Disciple ruled through devouring truth itself.
Her influence spread like black veins beneath the skin of reality.
Divine temples were torn down, their marble pillars shattered and used to build towering obsidian spires dedicated to the new order. Golden statues of old gods were melted and recast into grotesque idols with too many eyes and smiling mouths. Entire cities that once worshipped the Dragon King's legacy were renamed and repurposed. Hope was slowly, systematically stripped away.
Those who submitted were "blessed." Their bodies were altered — eyes turned violet, veins filled with shadow, minds reshaped to forget inconvenient truths. They became the Hollow Choir — fanatical followers who roamed the lands, offering "salvation" at the edge of a blade. Countless lives were taken in ritualistic purges. Entire bloodlines were erased for the crime of remembering the old king too fondly.
The Dragon King's followers, those who still had faith in him, suffered the worst.
Those who refused to bend were hunted without mercy. The loyal remnants of the Crimson Blades were crucified along trade routes as warnings. The Obsidian Shields were buried alive inside their own broken fortresses. The Stormcallers had their tongues cut out and their throats filled with living darkness so they could never speak of their old master again. Many were enslaved and forced to build the very temples that mocked everything they once believed in.
Statues of the Dragon King — once towering symbols of power — were toppled and smashed. His name was scrubbed from history books, his greatest victories rewritten as myths. Only those who still resisted remembered him clearly… and they were forced to keep fleeing.
They were chased across continents, driven into the deepest chasms and forgotten ruins beneath the planet's crust. Entire generations lived like rats in the dark, telling stories of a king who might one day return, while above them the world grew darker.
This was not the tyranny of the Dragon King.
This was something worse.
Under the Disciple, even the Sky Palace — once the untouchable seat of celestial authority — fell. Its golden halls were desecrated, its rulers either corrupted or replaced by shadow puppets. Her forces were allowed to roam freely: formless horrors that fed on despair, cultists who sacrificed entire villages for favor, and silent assassins who erased bloodlines in a single night.
Many who had once hated the Dragon King's cruelty eventually whispered the same desperate prayer in the dark:
"Even your cruelty was better than this."
Because under the Disciple of Darkness, there was no glory in resistance.
There was only endless, suffocating obedience.
And the world learned to smile while it screamed.
---------------
Indura sat still on his crimson throne, golden eyes half-lidded as he processed everything he had just heard. The weight of three thousand years of history hung in the air between them. The Silent Plains remained deathly quiet, as if even the land feared to interrupt.
"Hmm…" he murmured, a light, almost amused smile touching his lips. "And here I thought it would be so bad."
He continued, voice calm and thoughtful.
"It is clear now… with how the world is…"
He looked directly at Amon.
"Why is the world this way? Why aren't there dark forces still roaming freely? Why does it seem so… peaceful?"
Amon answered immediately, his voice still shaking but obedient.
"The world… no… those who resisted earned it."
Indura narrowed his eyes, studying him carefully.
"Continue."
Amon swallowed hard and spoke, choosing his words with visible caution.
"There was a certain group from the South… They fought back against a dragon that was meant to rule them. Their resistance and eventual victory… it pleased the Disciple of Darkness."
Indura touched his chin, intrigued.
"Why weren't they erased afterward?"
Amon's voice grew quieter.
"Their resistance was allowed. They were given time to live however they wanted… to live knowing what would come in the end."
Indura closed his eyes for a moment, processing. When he opened them again, a knowing smile formed on his face.
"So they were given a choice… to kneel, or live knowing what it would cost... Hope!"
He turned his gaze toward the sky, then slowly back to Amon.
"I see... I understand the South's fate now. But tell me… how, or why, were my generals bound by the Sky Palace?"
Amon answered instantly.
"I was never permitted to know anything related to that... your highness!"
Indura narrowed his gaze, then sighed softly.
"It's fine. I will find out from them instead."
He finally rose to his feet. The crimson throne dissolved into a swirling red aura that faded into the sand. He placed his hands behind his back as he stared at the towering structure ahead.
Vespera remained bowed. Sabrel remained perfectly still.
Indura seemed deep in thought, his expression calm but calculating. The wind brushed lightly through his crimson hair as centuries of unspoken questions settled around him like invisible chains.
"Something does not add up very well," he said finally, voice low.
He continued, steady and precise.
"For the South to have been given the luxury of a chance, they would have to accomplish something great. Something they wouldn't be able to achieve through their caliber alone. An achievement worthy of... a chance."
Amon's body seemed to shake, as if he already knew what was coming.
Indura turned to him.
"I know of Dark Haven's power and influence. I know because I clashed with them head-on. And I know Vyragon couldn't be defeated that easily… not by two."
He bent low before the still-kneeling Amon, golden eyes piercing straight into his soul.
"What really happened... Amon?"
Indura continued, his voice calm yet carrying absolute weight.
"To defeat a dragon, one would need Divinity to slay them. To fend off against the dark forces, one would need Divinity as well. It is simply how it is."
He looked directly at Amon.
"Who really took down Vyragon? Because I know the Phoenix and whoever she was with could not have done it alone."
Amon gritted his teeth in fear, sweat dripping down his ashen face. His hands trembled against the sand as he forced the words out.
"When we... found out about the resistance in the South… every follower was sent to crush it. Upon arriving there, we slew many who dared challenge the law, but… everything changed when…"
He paused, voice failing him.
Indura's tone sharpened, cold and commanding.
"Speak."
Amon continued, stuttering.
"O-Of the ones who r-resisted… There was a Phoenix, a Titan… the Blood Queen, and…"
He held his breath, then forced it out.
"…Humans. Of which one of them… wielded the divine sword… D-Drake."
Indura leaned back slightly, a slow, knowing smile forming on his face.
Of course. I'm not surprised at all, since that battle in Varta. So it found someone to keep it company.
He chuckled.
I expected this. It makes sense why that old man was able to hold my weapon. That power… it wasn't ordinary.
He asked, voice steady and curious.
"What happened during that battle? What really overturned the tides?"
Amon continued, voice trembling.
"Upon the sight of the sword… those of us sent to fight against the resistance all knew too well. The sword couldn't be wielded by anyone but the Dragon King. But seeing a human hold it… a human that possessed… immeasurable power… we all understood. A few came to the conclusion that the human was your disciple. A few of those who chose the darkness suddenly felt hope, and were slain by the sword."
He swallowed hard.
"The dragon, as well as the dark followers… we couldn't defeat the human, as he wasn't alone. There was a dark mage with him, one who used sorcery of another world to fend off against the darkness."
Indura's smile remained calm and knowing.
"Sorcery of another world?! Well, I do not know of such an individual, but the one who swung my sword, however... He does not matter anymore because he is dead. That is how it is supposed to be. But what I don't understand… is how Drake chose a human in the first place."
Indura took a few steps away from Amon, turning his back on him as he gazed out at the vast, silent plains.
"I see it now. My temples were broken down," he said quietly. "My followers were slaughtered. Whatever remained of me was reduced to history… or forgotten."
He continued, voice steady.
"The South was given a chance… and soon they shall fall."
He paused, letting the words hang heavily in the air.
"...and a war is the end result."
A calm wind swept past him, gently swaying his crimson hair before it went still. Indura continued.
"The Sky Palace already rained down its thunder on the small lives… and now I find out it's not the end. How interesting… and deserving."
Suddenly, Indura felt… off.
An emotion he had never truly felt before — alien, uncomfortable, almost foreign. For the first time, the Dragon King felt… sorry for those who had resisted. He placed a hand on his chest, brow furrowing slightly.
What is this? What is this feeling?
Then he realized it.
This wasn't entirely his usual self. It was the younger soul — the other part of him — stirring within.
Deep inside, in a vast, dark mental space, the other Indura sat alone. He had been listening the whole time. The sorrow he felt for the countless lives lost weighed on him. Yet it also bothered him deeply — he wasn't supposed to care this much about those smaller than him. The silence and loneliness of that inner space seemed to press on him.
He sighed softly.
Outside, the Dragon King felt the shift. He turned back toward Amon.
I can't stay out for so long. Any more than this would lead…
He smiled faintly at the thought.
He looked at Amon and asked calmly,
"Do you truly believe what you received was a blessing or a curse?"
Amon's eyes widened for a moment.
Indura continued, voice low and cutting.
"You should have let yourself be killed rather than join the darkness. For even they now own your soul."
Amon slowly lifted his face, trying to look at Indura.
Indura looked down at him with calm, crushing disappointment.
"You are a fool in the end, Amon. But even fools know how to survive. Perhaps I can commend you on that."
His eyes closed slowly.
The overwhelming presence around him gradually receded.
Vespera gasped, panting in visible relief.
Sabrel lifted her head in worry, eyes fixed on Indura.
Then... Indura slowly opened his eyes.
Everyone — Vespera, Sabrel, Amon, and even the dragon — looked at him.
He took a deep sigh, the weight of his True Self settling back into balance.