Now that the Kraken was slain, the undercurrent of changes had started to become more pronounced in its absence. The wasteland, once a cursed stretch of sand and rot, had begun to stir with new life. And as if guided by fate itself, another exit emerged—once hidden, now revealed in the Kraken's absence.
The El'dan gatekeepers, who once had the authority to bar passage through the gates, now found themselves obsolete. The title of "wasteland" no longer fit. What stood before them was a path reborn. Change was coming, and while change is rarely welcomed quickly, the truth was undeniable.
Josh Aratat, known commonly in whispers and ballads, in regions and cities within, as the Black Dragon, mounted his horse in silence. His generals followed, still haunted by the memory of what they had seen—or more accurately, what they had failed to see. For none of them (except the big three- Ralia, Conrad and Lola) had witnessed the battle that felled the Kraken. Only its death, and the bloom of life left in its wake.
They rode slowly at first, across the terrain once dominated by the beast's towering shadow. Now it was open, quiet, and oddly sacred.
Their destination was still the same—Cumba City, specifically the Ruma District, where the golden toad known as Xerm resided. They sought its legendary toadstool, and now, with the direct path clear, the journey would be swift.
The route once blocked by the Kraken was the fastest to Cumba. But for decades, no man dared tread it. The Kraken had made sure of that. Now, with its death, a floodgate would open. Traders, pilgrims, adventurers—Cumba would soon feel the ripple of this change.
Had the creature lived, Josh would've been forced through a far more tedious path—where he would have to pass in a roundabout manner—eight cities, perhaps even ten cities, winding through harsh terrain and volatile borders to get to Cumba City. Even with elite warhorses, the journey would have taken three long, grueling months.
But now, all that lay ahead was open road and the scent of a world that had been forced to hold its breath for far too long.
Meanwhile…
Region 1
Imperial City
The Emperor's Palace
While the Black Dragon departed the ashes of a former nightmare, chaos of a different breed simmered beneath the gold-veined walls of the Empire's seat.
On this particular morning, Emperor Groa, sovereign of the realm, emerged from his quarters—an event so rare the palace guards blinked in disbelief.
For nearly three months, the Emperor had buried himself in luxury: drunk on wine, ate to his hearts content, indulge in all forms of sexual pleasures, lost in the arms of his wives, concubines, and any woman who happened to catch his wandering eye. He had gorged himself into torpor, while his people suffered and whispered.
But now… he sought adoration.
Perhaps a flicker of conscience. Perhaps a hunger for attention beyond the silken sheets. Or perhaps… envy. The name Josh Aratat was spreading like wildfire, and it wasn't long before it reached even the most decadent ears.
With two imperial guards in tow, Groa made his way through the outer district, expecting cheers, gifts, perhaps a poem or two. I mean, He was their emperor after-all...
However...
He got none of that.
Instead, what met him was a brawl.
Two men, locked in a furious struggle over an ornately carved staff, shouting like mad dogs in a marketplace.
Apparently, the merchant had done his job a little too well. The staff he crafted was no mere trinket—it was an uncanny replica of the legendary weapon wielded by none other than Josh Aratat himself. Every curve, every etching, every whisper of dragon-fire detail… flawless.
And that was the problem.
The first man to lay eyes on it—Nenu—had recognized its value instantly. But he lacked the coin. Desperate, he begged the merchant for time—just twenty-four hours to gather the funds.
Then came Merat. He had the silver. No questions, no delays. He bought it on the spot.
The merchant, in classic fashion, took the money and vanished—leaving behind two furious men, one magnificent staff, and a crowd eager for blood.
What followed was chaos.
And all because the merchant had created something so perfect… it became priceless.
The crowd had gathered, and yet no one bothered to pay homage to the Emperor. All eyes were on the staff—a replica crafted to resemble the mythical weapon carried by none other than the Black Dragon himself.
"Give it back!" barked a lean man in tattered robes, muscles twitching beneath aged skin. His name was Merat, and he clung to the staff as if it were his lifeline. "I bought it! From the local merchant! Everyone knows I'm the Black Dragon's biggest fan. I need it. I deserve it."
His opponent, Nenu, equally desperate, spat back with red-eyed fury. "You? Don't make me laugh. I was there! Region 32—he saved my life, pulled me from the rubble! I told that merchant to hold it for me! It was mine!"
Their arms wrestled over the staff's smooth length like wolves fighting over a bone, and the insults flew sharper than blades.
"You poor bastard," Merat sneered, lips curled in contempt. "You can't even afford clean robes—go back to washing latrines and stay out of my way."
Nenu's fist landed before the insult could finish echoing. A crunch of cartilage. Merat's nose burst in a splash of crimson. But he never let go of the staff.
With a guttural cry, Merat retaliated, slamming his fist into Nenu's gut, forcing him to double over. Still, the rod stayed clutched between them like a sacred relic.
All of a sudden...
"Kneel before the Emperor!" came the thunderous roar of a bodyguard.
Everything froze.
Merat and Nenu turned, chests heaving, eyes wild.
And then, in perfect, defiant unison, they answered.
"Which stupid emperor?"
The air chilled.
"He's probably in the palace right now," Nenu added, "stuffing his face and groping priestesses. If he had half the spine of the Black Dragon, maybe this empire wouldn't be a joke."
Merat, still bleeding, nodded with grave solemnity.
They may have been enemies in that moment…
But their hatred for the Emperor united them more than any staff ever could.
And from his ornate golden litter, Emperor Groa watched in stunned silence. For the first time in a long while, his name meant less than a common thief's.
The age of opulence was fading.
The age of the Black Dragon had begun.