The street reeked of iron and fear.
Smoke curled in lazy tendrils above the capital's grand square, mingling with the scent of burning banners and the sharp stench of fresh blood. Dismembered heads dotted the cobbled path like grotesque milestones. Pools of red stained the earth, forming crimson streams that trickled downhill like the empire itself was weeping.
And at the centre of it all, Emperor Groa stood. Sword drawn. Breathing hard.
His eyes, twin embers of wrath, scanned the trembling crowd that had once cheered another name — Black Dragon — and dared to question his identity, his right to rule.
The skies themselves seemed to flinch as Emperor Groa's rage blazed upward like wildfire. His jaw clenched tight enough to crack stone. His voice cut through the air like a guillotine.
"Go... and bring me—Manuel." His voice dropped to a gravelly, lethal whisper. "Now."
"Yes, my L–Lord!" the guard sputtered. But his bow was anything but graceful — more like a controlled fall. His hands trembled like spoons in a blender, and his feet took off with the desperation of a man running from a prophecy. You could almost hear his thoughts: 'If I don't come back with Manuel, I may not come back at all.'
The Emperor turned without ceremony and thrust his blood-soaked blade into the arms of another guard. The steel hissed faintly as it slid into its sheath. Even silent, it seemed to hum with recent violence.
The first guard returned in record time — exactly fourteen minutes and thirty-nine seconds later (though no one was counting…except perhaps Death). At his side walked a man beside him. A man in worn but elegant robes, calm as a dusk breeze.
—Manuel Stunner,
the Emperor's legendary right hand — part advisor,
part therapist,
part magician of the spoken word.
The man whose words had once calmed a full-blown rebellion without drawing a single sword.
He stepped carefully over a severed arm, coming closer to the emperor whose robe was stained with blotches of fresh red, and he was given a wide berth by the terrified onlookers who were formerly pinned on the spot by a single truth — this man will kill you if you blink wrong.
Manuel did not flinch. Not even when he locked eyes with the Emperor.
But shortly after, his usual confident gait slowed to a near halt. His eyes scanned the room — and immediately wished they hadn't. Heads. Heads everywhere. Some still rolling. Necks resembled garden fountains, spraying arcs of red in defiance of gravity. Blood coated the floor like someone had tried to paint a mural with rage. And the Emperor? Standing there with his robe soaked, his sword still dripping, eyes blazing like the forge of the gods.
Even without context, Manuel could read the room. And the room was screaming: "Today is a bad day to be clever."
He cleared his throat and advanced cautiously, bowing low and deep. "My Lord... the Emperor."
The Emperor's gaze didn't soften. His voice was steel wrapped in fire.
"You… are the Hand of the Emperor. Tell me, Manuel… why do these flea-bitten rats still misbehave?" His hand swept toward the corpses like a bloody show-and-tell. "Why do they squeak their defiance in the streets? Is your job not to carry my weight? To put my fear in their bones so they wake up sweating from dreams of me? Why, then, does my throne feel mocked?!"
By now, everyone in the surrounding had started an instinctive backwards shuffle — a choreography of terror, trying to vanish into the walls. And honestly, no one would blame them.
Emperor Groa's voice dropped to a chilling calm. "I built this empire on the bones of those who doubted me. If I must… I'll burn it down to the last stone and build again."
A silence followed. Thick. Suffocating. Until…
"My Lord, the Emperor," Manuel began, bowing once more with the grace of a dancer and the caution of a man defusing a bomb, "please… don't let your righteous anger becloud your royal foresight."
He glanced subtly toward the gathered onlookers.
"Your enemies beyond our borders would gladly pounce upon any weakness. If we tear ourselves apart, we open the gates wide for them. But… if you must punish," he said with a dramatic pause, "let it be targeted. Strategic. Like lightning from the heavens — swift, precise, unforgettable."
The tension in the Emperor's eyes began to ebb — like a pot no longer boiling over.
Manuel's words were magic. Not the glowing, spell-weaving kind — but the type that could talk a dragon into handing over its gold and apologizing for the smoke damage.
"Then tell me," he said, louder now, turning toward the distant crowd who had dared to gather and whisper behind cupped hands. "This Black Dragon... this symbol of the people's misguided affection... what do you suggest we do about him?"
And yet… Manuel's expression didn't change.
"My Lord," he said softly, "you are the storm — yes. And it is precisely storms that we both admire and fear."
He took a step forward, his voice calm yet clear, like the voice of a father gently waking a child from a nightmare.
"But may I speak plainly, as I always have?"
The Emperor narrowed his eyes. That was as close to "permission" as it got.
"The people… they are fools, yes. But not all fools deserve the sword. Their minds are feeble, their memories short. They saw power in the Black Dragon and clung to it like children to shadow puppets. You, my Emperor, are not diminished by their ignorance. You are magnified by your restraint."
The crowd held its breath.
The silence that followed was deafening. You could hear a fly gulp.
Manuel, calm as a monk sipping tea during an earthquake, continued as he stepped forward, his voice low but sharp as a blade in velvet.
"There are two paths, My Emperor."
He raised a single finger.
"One: a bounty. A call to every blade in the realm—bring me his head, and your name will echo in every corner of the continent. No need to lift a finger. Your enemies vanish before your shadow even stretches."
He paused.
"But…" —he tilted his head— "there are risks."
Groa's interest sharpened like a blade on stone. "Such as?"
Manuel gave a soft sigh. The kind one makes when forced to explain the obvious to children.
"If the Black Dragon learns of the plot, he may vanish into the wind—or worse—he may retaliate. And if he is clever enough, he could flip the story. Make you the tyrant. And a villain with a crown..." —he leaned in slightly— "is a villain surrounded by daggers."
Groa's mouth tightened.
"And the second path?"
That's when Manuel smiled—barely. A slight curling of the lip. The kind of smile that warned of incoming plot twists.
"We wait for the Gathering of Princes. The world will be watching. In a duel cloaked by honour and tradition, you crush him. Before their eyes. You vent your wrath on his bones, and let every empire watch as the so-called dragon dies at the feet of the storm that birthed this world."
A shiver rippled through the bystanders. Even the guards stiffened.
And yet…
The Emperor… smiled.
That cold, curved grin—the one that had sent generals running and diplomats begging.
He looked once more at the crowd. At their trembling reverence. Their new silence.
And Manuel stepped closer.
"Let them remember that day, not as a pageant of princes… but the day the Emperor rose above them."
Another beat.
Then finally, Groa's shoulders relaxed. He nodded slowly, like a god deciding to spare a city.
"The second option… it is."