The two massive crystal leaves at the far end of the Pavilion groaned as they swung open.
The sound was not like the beautiful music from earlier in the night. Instead, it was a rhythmic, painful grinding sound, like heavy stone being dragged over cold, hard iron. A line of guards wearing armor made of Black-Thorn Steel marched into the hall. Their footsteps were completely silent on the white moss, but the burden they dragged was loud and terrifying.
A long, rusted chain rattled across the floor, its jagged links biting into the moss and leaving a dark, bruised trail behind it. At the end of that chain was the "Offering."
It was a man, or what remained of one. His clothes were little more than burned rags, and his skin—once bronzed by the sun of the battlefields—was now a canvas of glowing orange symbols: the Spirit-Binding Seals.
These seals were not mere ink; they were living magical parasites that pulsed with a sickly, steady light. They were designed to leak a person's cultivation out of their body drop by drop, turning his very soul into a living battery for the King to drain.
The ten thousand guests watched, their fake smiles finally disappearing, replaced by a hollow, wide-eyed terror. They knew this man. He was the General of the Thorn Kingdom, a hero who had once saved thousands from the Great Forest Fire. He was a man of the people, a legend whose name was usually spoken with love and gratitude.
Seeing him reduced to a mere "gift" was a chilling reminder: in Kṣaya's world, being a hero was just another way to get noticed—and getting noticed by Kṣaya was a death sentence.
Kṣaya leaned his head on his hand, his posture lazy, his eyes bored.
"General," Kṣaya said, his voice a low, raspy friction that echoed in the sudden, suffocating silence. "I heard you had a very strong spirit. They say you refused to bow even when your legs were broken. Let's see if that spirit is still as bright as they say."
The General lifted his head. His neck made a crackling sound as he moved, the chains weighing him down like the gravity of a dying star. His eyes were bloodshot, swimming in a sea of broken vessels, but they lacked the submissive fear which the other Eight Kings had. He looked straight at the Crimson Throne, straight into Kṣaya's gaze.
"A king who feeds on his own people," the General rasped, his voice thick with spit and grit, "is not a god. He is a parasite. Killing people makes you feel strong? Wow, what a coward king."
A collective gasp ripped through the hall. Some guests covered their mouths to stifle screams, terrified that even hearing the insult would mark them for death. To insult the King during the Great Culling was not just brave—it was a request for the most painful exit possible.
Kṣaya did not flare with rage. Instead, he smiled. It was a wide, jagged expression that reached his eyes, though the light in them remained as cold as a mountain grave.
"Coward king," Kṣaya repeated softly. "A parasite? Perhaps. But a parasite lives while the host dies. Guards... begin the extraction. I want to taste the 'spirit' of a man who thinks he is brave."
The guards stepped back. As they did, the orange symbols on the General's skin began to glow violently, turning from a soft yellowish-orange to a blinding, electric reddish-orange.
The torture was not of the flesh, but of the very essence of his being. The General's body jerked as if struck by lightning. He screamed—a sound so raw and primal that it caused the glass walls of the Pavilion to vibrate in a sympathetic, high-pitched whine.
This was the Gift of Spirit in its most brutal form.
The seals began to "bite" deeper, the glowing edges sinking through the skin and latching onto his Spirit Veins. The guests watched like they were in a bad dream. They saw the General's powerful frame—the body of a man who had survived a hundred wars—begin to physically wither.
His muscles, once thick and strong, seemed to dissolve, shrinking against his bones as if he were aging a century in a matter of seconds.
From the General's mouth, ears, and eyes, a faint, golden mist began to rise. It did not drift away like smoke; it swirled into a concentrated vortex, spiraling toward the center of the hall. This was his life force, his decades of meditation, his hard work, and his very memories being pulled out of him.
Kṣaya watched with a hungry, unblinking focus. He could see the "Spirit" as it gathered—a shimmering, liquid light that held the light of the General's courage.
"Look at that color," Kṣaya whispered, his voice a silken thread in the void of the General's screams. "The best of the best always have the sweetest taste when they finally break. Can you feel it, General? Every victory you ever won, every person you ever loved... it is all being compressed into a single, refreshing sip."
The extraction intensified. The golden mist grew thicker, turning into a heavy, glowing liquid that Kṣaya began to draw into a crystal bottle with a flick of his fingers. The General's screams were dying now, replaced by a horrific rattling in his chest. His skin was turning a translucent, ash-grey—he was becoming a "smoke mummy," a hollow shell whose internal structure had been entirely harvested.
A small drop of tear silently fell on the ground.
"King is never like that, never!" The General whispered, closing his eyes in a final surrender.
Kṣaya looked over at the King of the Ocean, who sat just a few feet away. The Ocean King was gripping his wine cup so hard that the silver was beginning to groan and crack. A bead of cold sweat rolled down his face.
"Why aren't you cheering, Ocean King?" Kṣaya asked softly, his voice amplified by the silence of the extraction. "Is the show not to your liking? Or do you find it difficult to watch a 'hero' turn into a toothpick for my table?"
The Ocean King's knuckles were white. He forced his lips into a trembling, grotesque smile. "It is... a magnificent display, Divine King," he stammered, his voice thin and hollow. "It shows your... absolute authority."
"Indeed," Kṣaya mused, turning back to the General.
The final surge of the Spirit-Binding Seals hit. The General's back arched one last time, his spine snapping with a dry crack that echoed like a gunshot. The last of the golden mist was ripped from his chest, and the orange light of the seals vanished, leaving behind only charred, blackened skin.
The General's body went limp, held upright only by the iron collars around his neck and wrists. He was no longer a man; he was a pile of grey ash and brittle bone held together by a thin layer of dry skin.
Kṣaya held up the crystal bottle, swirling the golden liquid. It glowed with a warmth that the rest of the cold hall did not have. He took a slow, deliberate sip. His eyes flared with a sudden, predatory brightness as the stolen power rushed through his veins, making him look even younger, even more powerful.
"Good enough," Kṣaya said, flicking his fingers.
The guards opened the chains. The General's husk hit the white moss with a soft, hollow thud—the sound of a dried leaf falling on a grave. The Cloud-Silk Moss hissed as it drank the few drops of blood that remained, turning a bruised grey around the corpse.
The hall remained frozen. The torture was over, but the terror was only beginning. Kṣaya wiped his lips with a silk cloth, his "good mood" now a sharp, dangerous high. He scanned the room, looking for the next person whose spirit might provide a different "flavor."
"Who else?" Kṣaya whispered, his gaze lingering on the High Ministers.
"Who else among you has a spirit so 'heroic' that it needs to be harvested?"
One of the High Ministers, an old man who had served the throne for eight hundred years, fainted silently, his head hitting the table with a dull thud. No one moved to help him. They were all too busy trying to breathe in an atmosphere that had become a graveyard.
The General's hollow husk was dragged away like trash, leaving a jagged, dark stain on the white moss that refused to fade. Kṣaya sat back, the stolen spirit essence of a hero surging through his veins, making his skin glow. He looked completely satisfied.
The eyes of the people were filled with sadness, but a forced smile on their faces was the last thing they could do. Many of them were looking at the fallen General with pure respect in their eyes, their heads subconsciously bending down in shame. He was brave, indeed brave.
"The air is finally clear," Kṣaya remarked, his voice a smooth, cold silk that traveled to every corner of the massive hall. "I find myself in an exceptionally generous mood. The small things are finished. Now, let the true purpose of this event begin."
He raised his pale hand. The light in the Pavilion looked more brightened; it felt as though the very concept of "day" was being pulled out of the room.
"Invite the Celestial Head to the center," Kṣaya commanded. "Let us see if the stars have more to offer than the earth."
The ten thousand guests held their breath. The Celestial Sect was a legend wrapped in a mystery. They were the "Shadow Sect," the keepers of the ancient laws of the sky, whose whereabouts were unknown. For centuries, they had remained in the shadows, refusing to participate in the politics of the nine Kings.
To see them here was a sign of Kṣaya's absolute, terrifying reach. He had not invited them; he had summoned them with a "Blood Decree"—a forced ancient law that even the stars could not ignore.
The huge crystal leaves at the far end of the Pavilion did not open this time. Instead, the air in the center of the hall began to shimmer and shake, like heat rising from a desert floor. Slowly, the space began to dissolve into a shimmering, indigo mist.
From the heart of the mist stepped Elder Master Zenith.
He was a man who looked both ancient and ageless. He did not wear the heavy armor of the guards or the flashy gold like the Eight Kings.
His robes were made of a material that seemed to be woven from the night sky itself—a deep, swirling indigo that held the faint, flickering light of distant galaxies. He did not walk; he glided, his feet never truly touching the white moss, as if the earth were not worthy of his step.
Behind him, six members of the Celestial Sect followed in perfect, ghostly silence. They moved with a rhythmic, mechanical grace that made the guests' skin crawl.
Elder Master Zenith stopped in the center of the hall. He did not bow. He did not lower his head. He stood with a stiff, cold dignity, his eyes were pale like moonlight—meeting Kṣaya's predatory gaze with a deep, silent unwillingness. It was the look of a man who had been dragged to a feast he despised.
"The Celestial Sect has answered the Blood Decree," Zenith said. His voice was not loud, but it had a vibration to it, like the low hum of a tuning fork that made the silver cups on the tables rattle.
"Good," Kṣaya replied, his overconfidence radiating from him in waves. He leaned forward, his hands gripping the armrests of the Crimson Throne.
"I have ruled this world for many centuries. I have tamed the forests and broken the mountains. But now, I want the heavens. I want the power of the stars and the moon to bend to my will, so that no tide in this world ever turns without my permission."
He paused, a dark, arrogant smirk playing on his lips.
"But before we begin the ritual of the Star-Binding," Kṣaya continued, his voice dripping with ego, "I want a bit of entertainment. Read my star chart, Elder. I want to see the map of my eternity. I want to see exactly how many thousands of years the heavens have for my rule."
A sense of unease went through the Celestial Disciples. The Elder Master's face became a mask of stone.
"Divine King," Zenith warned, his voice heavy like it was being pushed against the air. "The heavens are not a theater for your ego. The stars do not bow to men; they only witness them. If I show the map of your fate, you must not interfere. The process is a link between your soul and the Great Void. If you touch it with an angry hand, the truth will burn more than just your eyes can handle."
"I am the Law of this world and this is the heaven, Elder," Kṣaya snapped, his patience thinning. "I do not fear the light from some far away stones. Do it. Show me my destiny."
The Elder Master closed his eyes. He did not reach for a scroll or a tool.
He simply raised his palms toward the glass ceiling. Suddenly, the Pavilion vanished. Or, at least, the sight of it did.
The golden lights, the white moss, and the terrified guests were swallowed by a sudden, absolute darkness. Above them, the ceiling seemed to dissolve into a massive, three-dimensional map of the galaxy.
Thousands of tiny, stinging lights floated in the air, spinning in complex, overlapping circles. It was beautiful and terrifying. At the very centre of this cosmic map was a single, giant, golden star. It burned with a fierce, aggressive light that outshone everything else in the room.
"Your Life Star," the Grand Master whispered, his voice sounding as if it were coming from miles away.
The Elder began to move his fingers through the air, "weaving" the strands of light. The guests watched, amazed by the sight, as the star-map began to move faster. But as Zenith calculated the paths of the surrounding planets, his hands began to tremble. A look of genuine horror appeared on his calm face. He stepped back, the star-map shaking as his concentration broke.
"What is it?" Kṣaya demanded, his voice echoing in the darkness. "Does it show a million years? Does it show my soul becoming the sun itself?"
Overconfidence flooded Kṣaya. The more he saw the chart, the more assured he was of himself.
"King, this much confidence is not good," the Grand Master whispered in a low warning, his face stern and scared. As he read more, his face grew even paler.
"It shows a cliff," Master Zenith mumbled, his voice breaking. "Great King... your star is not growing. It is tied down. The light of your life is being pulled toward a void that was not there before. Your survival is no longer an infinite line, Kṣaya. It is a closing circle."
The silence in the hall was no longer just quiet; it was a vacuum that sucked the air out of the lungs. Kṣaya's face turned from a smug grin to a mask of absolute, volcanic rage. To a man who had worked for centuries to become a god, the idea of an "end" was a poison he could not swallow.
Is it a joke? he thought.
"Liar!" Kṣaya roared.
He stood up from the throne, and the physical pressure of his Level 7 aura became so great that the Topaz tables near him began to crack and shatter.
"I am the Law! I am the one who decides when the world begins and when it ends! You dare to tell me I am mortal? You dare to bring me a fake prophecy?"
In his right hand, a magical plant suddenly appeared. It didn't grow from the ground; it was summoned from the dark, distorted energy of his "Inner Garden." It was a Lava-Flytrap—a grey and red living weapon that hissed with the sound of boiling steam. Its mouth was a jagged, pulsing opening that dripped with a grey-red aura. From its throat, it produced a ball of condensed, black bubbling lava.
The aura of the plant was so powerful that the guests nearby felt goosebumps.
"Die with your lies!" Kṣaya screamed. With a violent, mechanical grace, he threw the lava ball at the Elder.
BOOM.
A massive explosion of black smoke swallowed the centre of the hall. The heat was so intense that the silver cups on the tables melted into puddles of liquid. Everyone assumed the Elder was gone—turned into the same "smoke mummy" state as the General.
But the black smoke didn't disappear. It began to swirl.
Suddenly, a spark of pure, blinding white light erupted from the heart of the darkness. A jolt of energy—cool and sharp as a winter moon—sent the black smoke flying back in a perfect circle.
Elder Master Zenith rose into the air.
He was no longer himself. His body was rigid, his feet dangling a few feet above the floor. His eyes were no longer pale; they were glowing with a solid, terrifying white light that looked like the surface of a star.
Nature had possessed him. The very laws of the Stars and the Moon had taken over his flesh to deliver a message.
The giant star-map changed. The golden star at the centre—Kṣaya's star—began to turn a dark, bruised, sickly red. Then, it began to bleed. Large, heavy drops of crimson light fell from the star, splashing onto the white moss floor with the sound of falling stones. The white path was soon covered in red spots on the ground.
The possessed Elder opened his mouth, and a voice came out that sounded like the mountains grinding together.
"Your pulse is only a borrowed rhythm, and the earth will soon reclaim its debt. You will surely perish, showing the world that your throne is the fragile clay. Your death is a prophecy accumulated by the hands of Creation and finished by the wrath of Decay. You dared to defy the Law; now, the Law will be your end. Look at the face of the one who dared to chain the Unseen, for the tides you have chained are rising to drown you."
Kṣaya stood frozen, his hand still outstretched from the throw. The words "Hands of Creation" and "Wrath of Decay" rattled through his cluttered, arrogant mind like a cage. He felt a sudden, sharp chill. His mind flashed back—past the festivities, past the torture, to a memory he had tried to bury. He looked around the room, his eyes moving fast, until they landed on a specific spot.
The chair of the High Priestess. It was empty. It had been empty for years.
Creation... Creation... his mind screamed. He remembered the night of cinder eclipse, three months ago. He remembered. He remembered the Priestess's secret.
"Creation..." Kṣaya hissed, his voice cracking with a fear he hadn't felt in a thousand years. "Elder! Read the chart of the High Priestess! Tell me of her child! Now!"
"But the child died?" he whispered to himself.
The possession suddenly left the Master's body. The white light vanished, and he fell to the ground, unconscious. The Second Elder of the Celestial Sect ran forward, his eyes wide with a terror greater than the King's.
"Three months ago..." the Second Elder stammered, his voice shaking.
"The night of the cinder eclipse. The High Priestess... it was a girl. And she did not die. The report of her death was a lie told to the world to protect her from your reach. Her whereabouts are unknown, but she... she is the Hand of Creation."
"She might have known about this, or else..." the King wondered.
The Pavilion descended into absolute chaos. The "dead" child of the Priestess was alive. The one who would bring the "Wrath of Decay" was out there, somewhere in the shadows.
Kṣaya's face turned a deep, black. The fear of his hard work—his centuries of power—falling apart made him scream with pure, demonic madness. He kicked over his red ruby wood table, sending wine, gold, and pearls flying across the hall.
"You fools!" he screamed at the guards, who were standing frozen in shock. "What are you standing here for? Watching my stars bleed? Is this a game to you?"
He pointed a trembling finger toward the exit, his eyes wide and bloodshot.
"Go! Go now! Search every kingdom, every root, every shadow of this world! I want her found! I want her brought to me in chains! No... I want her dead! DEAD! Do you hear me? I want her head on a spike!"
"DEAD!"
He stood alone on his platform, the "God" of the world, screaming at an empty chair while the bleeding star above him slowly faded into the dark.
**********
Talk of the Day
"A crown can protect your head, but it cannot hide you fate."
The Power of fear :
Sometimes we look at a powerful person and wonder, "How can they be so cruel?" But the truth is simple: when someone has the power to destroy the whole world, even the best and bravest people have to bow down. We see this with the other Kings in the room. They are powerful men, yet they forced themselves to smile while a hero was destroyed in front of them. They weren't being mean; they were just terrified and trying to stay alive.
The King's Mistake :
Kṣaya has spent hundreds of years believing he is a God. He thought that because he conquered the earth, he could also control the stars. But today, he found out the truth. His overconfidence was just a mask. The moment the stars started to bleed, his "good mood" turned into madness. It shows us that no matter how many people you hurt or how much gold you own, you can never truly control nature.
The Lesson :
The General died in pain, but he was actually the only free man in the room because he was the only one who spoke the truth. Kṣaya sits on a high throne, but he is now the most trapped person in the world. He isn't fighting soldiers anymore; he is fighting a prophecy. As the stars told him: The power you stole is finally turning against you.
~ 🌱 So how was the today's chapter ?.…