The hall was dipped in a silence so profound that the only audible sound was the rhythmic thump of Kṣaya's boots striking the white moss.
With every step he took, the Musical Harp-Trees in the distant corners shook with a low, trembling vibration. It was not a melody; it was a shiver of the wood itself. The music no longer resembled a celebration—it sounded like a dying pulse, slowing down with every passing second.
As Kṣaya bypassed the first few tables, the bowing masses began to tremble. They pressed their foreheads so deep into the moss that they left visible dents. Not a single soul looked respectful; they appeared like prisoners awaiting a guard to strike them.
Kṣaya offered no glances. His gaze was fixed solely on the Throne of the Crimson Thorn.
To the ten thousand guests, the King looked like a ghost made of skin and bone. His skin was unnaturally smooth, his eyes possessed a predatory brightness, and his presence felt physically heavy. Although he carried the appearance of a young man, the reality was far more twisted.
In this world, reaching Level 6 could halt the aging process, yet a flicker of time's passage usually lingered on a person's face. But Kṣaya, having surpassed eleven centuries and touched powers beyond mortal reach, was the ultimate exception to the rule.
The air around him seemed to thicken into a viscous fog, making it nearly impossible for those nearby to breathe. This was the "Weight of the Crown"—a crushing pressure that only a Level 7 cultivator could create.
In the midst of this suffocating dread, the children in white petals continued to scatter Solar-Flakes. The tiny, glowing leaves drifted like golden snow, clinging to the King's dark, somber robes. It was a haunting contrast: in a room full of paralyzed adults, only the clueless children remained smiling, unaware of the monster among them.
He reached the center of the hall where the eight lesser kings sat. There, he stopped.
The silence intensified until it was painful to bear. One of the kings, a younger man adorned in gold, accidentally shifted his weight while bowing. His knee struck the table leg, causing his silver cup to rattle against the wood.
Cling—
The sound was light, yet it echoed through the Pavilion like a loud bang. The young king turned a ghostly shade of white. He stared at the moss-covered floor, his eyes wide with a desperate wish that the earth would simply open and swallow him before the Great King noticed his clumsiness.
Kṣaya turned his head with a slow, mechanical grace. His gaze was not a look; it was a physical burden dropped upon the young man's shoulders.
"The wine," Kṣaya remarked, his voice low and scratchy. "It must be exceptional if you cannot keep your composure, King."
The young king found himself voiceless. He could only tremble, his fingers white-knuckled as he gripped one cup to raise a toast. "D-Divine King..." he stammered, his voice fracturing under the pressure. "It is... a supreme honor to witness your... 1,100th year."
Kṣaya leaned in, his shadow lengthening over the table. "Honor is a burden too heavy for a man with shaking hands," he whispered.
Without waiting for a response, he moved forward. His heavy cloak brushed the table, sweeping the other silver cup to the floor. No one dared to pick it up. The wine bled into the white moss, staining it a bruised, regal purple. The Cloud-Silk Moss hissed as it soaked up the liquid, but Kṣaya had already ascended to his throne.
He did not look back at the thousands of bowed heads. He ignored the Eight Kings who were supposed to be his equals by the ancient laws. He looked only at the throne. As his hand touched the armrest, the blood-petals began to pulse with a rhythmic, crimson light. The throne had recognized its master.
He sat.
He sat with a straight, rigid posture, his hands resting on the sharp edges of the seat. He surveyed the sea of submissive souls, the reflection of the coldness shimmering in his eyes.
"Rise," he commanded.
Ten thousand people stood in a single move. In perfect unison, they bowed once more and hailed.
"LONG LIVE THE KING! MAY THE GODS BLESS YOU WITH HEALTH AND POWER! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MY KING!"
"GOD!" another voice cried out. "BLESS US!"
Suddenly, a sound erupted that froze the blood of every person in the hall.
"Hahahaha.....hahahaha!"
It was a slow, authoritative laugh—a warning wrapped in amusement.
"Have you all forgotten?" he asked, his voice quiet as it reached every corner. "I am your god."
The smile vanished. His face became a mask of stone. "It appears you all have no intention of living much longer… do you?"
"Forgive us, our Lord! Have mercy!" The crowd cried out in a panicked chorus, their eyes still glued to the floor. No one dared to make eye contact.
"Hahahahah!" His demonic laughter rang out again, bouncing off the glass walls. The sight of the adults breaking down in terror finally reached the children. Their smiles faded. They began to tremble, silently hiding behind the robes of their elders.
Suddenly, the King's expression smoothed into a calm, chilling smile. "Very well. I find myself in a generous mood today. Let us enjoy the celebration. For I am certain that by the end of this event, you will all truly understand who your god is."
A good mood? The words felt like a cold blade against the neck. To the ten thousand guests, there was nothing "good" about the atmosphere. Kṣaya's smile was not one of warmth; it was the smile of a predator watching its prey settle into a false sense of security.
Enjoy? The thought rippled through the crowd like a poisoned current. Does he mean to enjoy our company, or to enjoy the sight of our blood?
Beads of cold sweat formed on the foreheads of the High Ministers. They stood frozen, their hearts hammering in a desperate, uneven rhythm. They traded glances—some filled with confusion, others with the hollow stare of men who already knew their fate was sealed.
"Are you all going to remain standing?" Kṣaya's voice cut through their thoughts. "These rigid figures are beginning to make me feel quite ill."
He hadn't even finished the sentence before the entire hall collapsed back into their seats. Within a single second, ten thousand people had vanished from the standing void and tucked themselves behind their tables. Seeing the King's chilling smile, the guests tried their best to create a "good mood" for him.
Across the Pavilion, a wave of fake laughter and forced smiles erupted. It was an ugly sight—people chuckling with tears of terror in their eyes, trying their absolute best to create an environment of artificial happiness. Parents, moving with a silent, frantic speed, whispered to their children, sending them toward the side exits. They wanted their innocence far away from a god who found "sickness" in the sight of standing men.
The music shifted. The Harp-Trees began a more melodic, upbeat tempo, though the underlying vibration still felt like a warning. Then, the performers arrived. A troupe of dancers glided into the center of the hall. This was the Dance of the Eternal Verdure—a performance meant to tell the history of the Vṛkṣa-Maṇḍala.
The young girls moved like fluid shadows, their bodies weaving through the air. As they spun, the silks of their dresses caught the light, leaving trails of glowing dust in their wake. They didn't just dance; they manipulated the very air around them.
The boys leaped over the dancers, their movements sharp and powerful, mimicking the growth of the Great Tree. At the height of their jumps, they would burst into mid-air, their robes fluttering like petals in a fast-forwarded bloom. They created a swirling vortex of color—crimson, gold, and emerald—that looked like a living painting moving across the white moss floor.
It was magical. It was beautiful.
Everyone watched with wide, unblinking eyes, clapping in perfect rhythm, keeping those massive, painful smiles plastered on their faces. They drank high-tier wines from the Vintner Sprouts, the alcohol numbing their nerves but never quite erasing the sight of the man on the Crimson Throne.
Kṣaya sat perfectly still, watching the dancers as if they were nothing more than insects under glass. He took a sip from a cup carved from Ivory Skeleton-Wood, his eyes never losing that terrifying, calm light.
The party had begun, but the guests weren't celebrating a birthday. They were celebrating the fact that they were still allowed to breathe.
The final rising of the harp-trees faded, leaving the dancers panting in a perfect, frozen formation. For a heartbeat, there was silence—then the Pavilion erupted into a roar of desperate applause. Kṣaya didn't clap. He merely flicked his fingers, a dismissive gesture that sent the dancers into the shadows like frightened rabbits.
"The art was... adequate," Kṣaya remarked, his voice amplified by the acoustics. "But I did not invite eight kings here to watch children spin in circles. I believe you brought me 'trinkets' to celebrate my continued existence. Let us see who among you actually values their own life."
The air turned cold. This was the Gift Ceremony.
First to stand was the King of the Lower Leaf, who approached with a trembling tray holding a Level 5 Restoration Root.
"Divine King," he stammered, "I bring the Heart of the Verdant Well. It can heal any wound of the flesh in a single breath."
Kṣaya leaned forward, squinting at the root. "A healing root? For a man who hasn't bled in centuries?" Kṣaya let out a short, dry mocking laugh. "Who has the power to even touch me….. huh? Is there anyone?"
The silence was the answer.
"Tell me, King of the Lower Leaf, do you think I've grown so fragile that I need a vegetable to keep my limbs attached? Or are you simply projecting your own cowardice onto me?"
The guests erupted into a sudden, sharp burst of laughter—a forced, nervous sound. They laughed because the King had made a joke, and to remain silent was to side with the loser. The King of the Lower Leaf turned a shade of grey and retreated so fast he nearly tripped.
Next came the Kings of Thorn, Wood, Stem, and Root. One by one, they presented treasures: sap-diamonds, iron-vines, and earth-essence. To each, Kṣaya offered a stinging tongue. To the King of the Stem, who offered a spear of unbreakable wood, Kṣaya asked, "Is this for me to lean on in my old age, or did you think I needed a toothpick for the dragon-meat I ate this morning?"
Then, the King of the Ocean stepped forward. He presented the Abyssal Extraction Pearl.
"Divine King," the Ocean King bowed. "This Level 7 artifact commands all liquid. It can absorb a Great Lake or the very blood in a man's veins. If left unused, it cultivates a second pearl from the essence it has taken."
Kṣaya's eyes lingered. "A weapon of drought and flood," Kṣaya mused. "It is... useful. A drop of blood for my collection. I shall keep it."
Finally, the King of Blossom stood. He carried a box containing a single, dried seed that looked like burnt coal.
"The Void-Sprout Seed," Kṣaya whispered, standing up from his throne.
"Indeed," the Blossom King said. "The only plant that can grow in the vacuum of the Celestial Rim."
Kṣaya reached out and took the box, his fingers almost trembling with dark greed. "You," Kṣaya said, "actually understand what a God needs. The rest of you brought me toys. He... he brought me a ladder."
The King sat back down, clutching the box. But Kṣaya's smile returned—the wide, terrifying one.
"But do not get comfortable," Kṣaya whispered. "The tributes of the eight kings are merely the opening act. The 'trinkets' are finished. Now... it is time for the Main Show."
He leaned back, his eyes flashing with a demonic light. "The gifts of the earth are common. I want to see a gift of spirit. Guards! Bring out the first 'Offering' for the Great Culling."
The guests froze. This was the part of the birthday celebration no one spoke of—the part where the King's "good mood" required a sacrifice.
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That is the true tragedy of the Vṛkṣa-Maṇḍala. It doesn't matter how many years the Eight Kings have ruled or how much gold they own; in the face of absolute power, dignity is the first thing to burn. When a man has the strength to unmake the world, morality becomes a luxury that no one else can afford. To survive, the "best of the best" must learn to crawl, proving that even the highest peak is just a footstool for a god.
~ 🌱 So how was the today's chapter ?….