Realm Lord
Chapter 118: The King (2)

Chapter 118: The King (2)

The massive doors groaned shut behind them with a resounding echo that seemed to reverberate through their very souls. Four figures stood at the threshold, their silhouettes dwarfed by the immense grandeur of the throne room that stretched before them like a cathedral of forgotten power.

They walked into the grand throne room side by side, weapons ready and minds steeled. Each footstep against the polished marble floor rang out like a death knell. The vaulted ceiling soared impossibly high above them, decorated with faded murals depicting scenes of glory and conquest.

Four chosen were about to take on an ancient abomination. The weight of this knowledge pressed down upon each of them. Their chances were low but not zero.

With every step they took, doubts were purged from their minds and confidence grew. It wasn’t simply because they chose to believe they would win, but because they had to believe they would win.

After reaching about the middle of the cavernous room, their footsteps finally ceased. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the steady rhythm of four hearts beating in unison against their ribs. It was then that the king finally moved, a slight shift that made the group freeze in place instantly. Every muscle in their bodies tensed as they gripped their weapons in preparation, knuckles white with the force of their determination.

The king’s movement was deliberate, almost casual in its display of supreme confidence. It leaned over the armrest of its throne with the languid grace of a predator that knew its prey had nowhere to run. What it grasped made their blood run cold—a large sword still nestled within its sheath, the scabbard covered in intricate gold patterns that seemed to writhe and shift in the roomsl light.

The king grabbed the weapon by its ornate sheath as it lazily stood to its feet, each movement flowing like liquid shadow given form. The ancient ruler’s height became apparent as it rose—towering above even the tallest among them, its presence filling the space with an aura of inevitable doom. It took a couple of slow steps forward, each footfall echoing through the chamber like the countdown to judgment day.

After taking about four measured steps forward, the king paused. With deliberate slowness that spoke of absolute confidence, it began to slide its blade from its sheath. The sound of metal against metal sang through the air—a pure, crystalline note that seemed to cut through reality itself. The king allowed the empty sheath to drop to the ground, where it landed with a hollow clatter that seemed obscenely loud in the tense silence.

The ancient weapon hung limp at the king’s side, its razor edge catching and reflecting the ambient light of the room. But it was not the sword that commanded their attention—it was the face, or rather, the mask that served as one. The sun mask was a masterwork of terrifying artistry, its golden surface polished to mirror brightness. The eyes carved into its surface seemed to burn with the fire of dying stars, and through those hollow sockets, something infinitely malevolent stared at them with the intensity of a thousand suns.

Gulps echoed through the silent room during the intense stare-off, the sound unnaturally amplified by the chamber’s acoustics. Both parties waited for the other to make the first move, like chess masters studying a board where every piece represented life and death. Moments that felt like hours dragged on in this intense and silent confrontation, the very air seeming to thicken with anticipation until it became almost difficult to breathe.

Then, finally, everything exploded into an orchestra of violence.

The king vanished—or at least it looked like it did, but he was just that impossibly fast. The ancient ruler exploded toward the group with speed that defied mortal comprehension, forcing them all to flinch into defensive positions. None of them could predict who would bear the brunt of the first assault, their formation scattering like leaves before a hurricane.

It ended up being Lara who got stuck with the first confrontation, her blades meeting the king’s in a clash that sent shockwaves through the air. Their weapons connected for only a moment, but the force behind the king’s strike sent her stumbling backward, her arms numb from the impact. Before she could recover her footing, the king vanished again, this time materializing before Aziel with the same terrifying speed.

Aziel might be the only person in the room who could hope to match the king’s supernatural velocity, and their exchange lasted a precious few seconds longer. He managed to swiftly parry and block the first couple of devastating swings. But the king was relentless, pressing his advantage with the patience of eternity itself.

When the king closed the final distance between them, disaster struck. An elbow shot forward like a battering ram, connecting with Aziel’s face and breaking his nose immediately. Blood sprayed across the marble floor as Aziel’s head snapped back, his vision exploding into stars and darkness. Stunned and reeling, he was defenseless against what came next.

The king had another attack coming—a downward slash that was bound to cleave Aziel in two from crown to groin. The ancient blade began its deadly arc, trailing shadows in its wake. But just as death seemed certain, Arthur managed to get between them,his shadow sword frim and strong. His shadow armor intensified his strength and speed, the dark power flowing through him like ice-cold fire.

The clash of their blades sent sparks cascading through the air. Arthur’s enhanced abilities allowed him to match the king’s overwhelming power for just a moment, bringing their deadly dance to a momentary stalemate. For a heartbeat, they stood locked together, neither giving ground, their weapons grinding against each other with the sound of thunder.

Then they pushed off from each other with explosive force, and the king retreated ten feet back. Arthur and the rest of the team used this precious respite to gather themselves, checking their weapons and preparing their hearts for the next wave of the battle.