A faint tremor coursed through the bones of the palace ever since the battle between the King and the Knight began.
Walls shook off their dust with each pulse.
The ground exhaled — as if warning of an inevitable collapse.
In the main hall, servants huddled in corners, swallowed by dread.
Lara stretched out her arms, cradling the air more than the people,
whispering fractured words that failed to still their trembling.
As for Kraye, she stood like a spear — unmoving, sharp.
Her eyes traced the ceiling's quiver;
the grinding of stone echoed in her chest more than her ears.
Just a step away, Lupera clutched her child —
tight enough to match the fear that seeped into every corner of the palace.
But what gripped Lupera wasn't weakness — it was ignorance.
The knight they now glimpsed, flashing like stormlight,
fought with power equal to that of a Sovereign.
And the child she once followed for a cure —
the one she thought brave, yet weak —
was now dueling such a being as an equal.
Just as the tremors began to fade…
The northern wall inhaled once—then shattered.
A cyclone of pale dust surged inward,
cut through by a streak of silver light — then another.
Two shadows tangled midair,
blades carving wild arcs across the room,
and vanished before the echo could catch its breath.
The scene lasted no longer than a heartbeat,
but in that heartbeat — two worlds of chaos collided.
Kraye instinctively raised her hand,
as if to catch time itself before it escaped.
But all she grasped was a fading thread of light,
disappearing at the far end of the now-ruptured hall.
Lupera yanked her daughter close,
her lips mouthing a silent incantation.
One of the servants gasped and collapsed,
as if the air had been stolen from his lungs just as the wall had been torn from the stone.
Then silence —
as though the palace had exhaled one long, final breath:
— Dust drifted down like ash seeking a fire that no longer burned.
— The twin sparks became a memory trembling behind every blinking eye.
— A ruined wall opened the hall to a corridor drowned in ruin —
bearing witness to a battle that had not ended…
but merely moved to devour something else.
Kraye exhaled sharply, voice barely a whisper:
"I thought I understood the gap between us…
but he just shattered that foolish thought."
Lupera said nothing.
She pulled her child tighter, eyes fixed on the darkness in the wall —
knowing that what would come next…
was greater than any void left by the passing swords.
And above them all, the palace still trembled —
its final shudder before regaining breath,
while the battle beyond hunted for a new wall to break
In a realm unbound by time or place,
the Hall of the Void trembled — as though it, too, had begun to breathe.
It was a place the King had once seen in a vision that nearly killed him.
He had emerged from it torn between death and waking —
but now, it was no dream.
Now… it trembled beneath the weight of truth.
The thrones stretched in an imperfect circle,
and on each sat a being — king, sovereign, god, or something nameless.
Some had form.
Some were shadows.
Some shimmered as fragments of pure will.
But all shared a single gaze —
fixed upon the arcane gateway floating at the heart of the chamber:
a wound in the fabric of reality,
projecting the battle between King Isaac and the Knight,
in sound… and in vision.
Their swords clashed —
the gateway shuddered —
and then came the voice:
"Breath of the King… Second Level."
The words came in Isaac's own voice — cold, deliberate —
yet they hit the chamber like a thunderclap.
All at once, the seated figures leaned forward — in perfect unison,
as if a single, unseen force had stirred their hearts.
Their hands clenched the arms of their thrones,
so tightly that stone and wood cracked beneath their grip.
Not in fear… but in pure, unfiltered exhilaration.
Many smiled.
Some bled from cracked lips.
Others let saliva drip freely — as if the scent of power had become too sweet to resist.
Then a voice rose — low and silken,
belonging to a man draped in the noble finery of the Murim,
the Eastern bloodline known for its martial elegance and sovereign austerity.
He did not shout.
He simply said, with quiet reverence:
"Truly… you underestimated him, Lord of the Void."
And the smiles deepened.
The room pulsed with new hunger,
as though each throne now echoed a single name —
the one fighting outside their reach,
to break the ceiling…
or be broken beneath it.
A new sound cracked the silence —
not from the gateway…
but from the battlefield itself.
The swords collided with raw, unfiltered force.
The King leapt — the Knight followed, like a shadow fused to motion.
And so, chaos returned to its rightful center.
Though Isaac fought with brilliance, with staggering talent and a mind sharp as steel,
he was still learning how to carry battles of this magnitude.
And even as he grew sharper with each clash —
he realized something unsettling:
The Knight wasn't fighting seriously.
He wasn't struggling.
He was… enjoying himself.
But enjoyment turned to something else.
Without warning, the Knight stopped.
No guard. No warning.
Just stillness.
The King halted as well —
his gaze fixed on the still body of his opponent.
The Knight smiled. It was subtle — but electric.
His voice was laced with anticipation:
"He truly didn't do you justice… did he, my King?"
He raised his sword,
his voice rising with it —
as though sunlight cracked the sky through his words:
"Honor…
Dignity…
Nobility…"
Then, louder — clearer:
"Form of the Chivalric Sovereign."
And he vanished.
A blink too late.
All of the King's instincts screamed: Move now.
But time had already betrayed him.
The Knight's sword pierced through his back.
Straight into the heart.
The pain was immense —
so much so that a moment's lapse in control might have cast him into unconsciousness.
But the King… smiled.
A crooked, unnatural smile.
He turned his head slightly — not all the way — and spoke with an eerie calm:
"You won't leave… in one piece."
The Knight flinched.
Not from the voice —
but from what came next.
An aura.
A will.
A killing intent so sharp, so absolute,
that even beings who had ruled empires would feel its edge.
It did not come from Isaac.
It came from elsewhere.
And it was closing in —
Fast
From far away…
what first seemed like wind became a sound.
And that sound became a low, growling roar slipping through the skies.
At the exact moment the blade pierced the King's heart,
something trembled —
not in flesh, not in stone —
but in spirit.
Far from the battlefield,
Azeriel stood still.
His eyes wide open —
as if something inside him had been torn in two.
"Brother…"
He whispered the word… and then ran.
No teleportation —
the magical toll would be too high,
and the battle awaiting him… too grave.
He ran,
his footsteps ripping through the air,
uprooting the ground that dared stand between him and the King.
Sixty miles —
a promise carved by muscle and fury.
Every inch devoured with no mercy.
…
Then he arrived.
Though he could not yet unleash his true magic,
his physical force was far from a jest.
The sky was unprepared.
The earth — unworthy.
But he landed between silence and explosion.
His back to the King.
His eyes locked on the Knight.
The Knight had been preparing to leave…
and then he stopped.
Not because of a threat he saw.
But because of a feeling.
Azeriel's gaze was empty.
Not indifferent — but utterly void.
A gaze steeped in pure hatred, sharpened by love.
He spoke in a voice of quiet malice:
"Why don't we play… a little?"
The Knight didn't answer.
But his fingers edged toward his sword.
Azeriel didn't wait.
He raised his hand —
every drop of magic he had stored since his release surged into a single motion.
No chant.
No name.
No scream.
Only a single word, whispered with a flick of his wrist:
"Cut."
The Knight's right hand… flew off.
It hit the ground — still clenching its blade.
The Knight froze. He did not cry out.
But in his eyes flickered something ancient: realization.
That this being… could match him.
Azeriel stepped forward, picked up the hand as if it were a flower,
then turned, walking calmly back toward the fallen King.
He knelt, lifting Isaac's unconscious body into his arms,
and whispered:
"I wasn't late."
Two steps forward — his back now fully to the Knight.
And without turning his body, only his neck twisted backward.
His voice was soft…
but it carried steel:
"I know you didn't mean to hurt him.
You were only trying to help —
in your own cruel way."
He paused.
Then smiled — a smile without category.
"But I do not forgive… insects."
The Knight looked to his severed hand — already starting to regenerate —
and muttered with faint awe:
"Truly, Blue Sovereign…
you weren't wrong when you said the monsters of this world are… different."
He turned.
The gateway opened behind him.
And as he took his step into departure, he spoke again — with ironic grace:
"And Sovereign…
when your King awakens,
don't forget to ask him how his Second Breath truly works…"
"Because clearly… you don't know."
"And we… are still watching."