Reincarnated with the Country System
Chapter 274 - 274: The Kingdom Beneath the Black Sky

Far away from the wars of men, beyond the great oceans and shattered empires, there lay a land forgotten by most of the world.

A land where the sun rarely shone.

A land ruled not by kings or councils, but by strength alone.

This was the Dark Civilization.

They did not call themselves that, of course. To them, the word "dark" was not an insult—it was truth. The sun brought weakness. Light exposed what was better left hidden. They were born of night and forged in shadow, and they were proud of it.

Their world was harsh. Endless plains of volcanic ash, jagged mountains that pierced the clouds, rivers of black water that hissed with acid. But beneath that bleak surface lay a vast and ancient empire—an empire that covered one-tenth of the planet's surface. A thousand cities. Countless strongholds.

Demonic clans ruled this land. Hundreds of them.

Each clan had its own customs, its own rites, and its own bloodline of monstrous power. Some were born with wings of ash and fire. Others had bodies made of iron, eyes that saw into the spirit world, or voices that shattered stone. And every generation, they sent their champions to compete for a single prize:

The throne of the Dark Monarch.

For centuries, the clans had fought, killed, and consumed each other in the name of power. But one warrior had ended that cycle.

His name was not spoken aloud. Only one title remained:

The Monarch.

He had claimed the throne not through politics, but by crushing all those who stood before him. He had fought twelve champions in a single day. He had broken mountains with his bare hands. He had pulled the ancient blade Nightbane from the Skull Pyre, something no ruler had done in two thousand years.

And since that day, the clans had obeyed.

For ten years, there had been peace—if one could call it that. The clans still fought among themselves. Blood still ran like rivers. But none dared rise against the Monarch.

Not until the sky changed.

On the thirteenth night of the blood moon, a strange sound echoed across the capital city of Varkhall.

A sound like a distant bell, tolling in a storm.

Then the stars above twisted.

It began as a flicker—just a whisper of movement in the sky. But then it grew.

Dark clouds that did not move with the wind. Lightning without thunder. A pressure in the air, like the breath of a sleeping god.

From the top of his fortress—the Tower of Chains—the Monarch watched it unfold.

He stood alone, arms crossed, bare-chested despite the freezing wind. His body was a map of scars and ancient tattoos, each one a story written in pain. His horns curved back like a crown of bone. And in his eyes burned a cold, patient fire.

One of his advisors approached, dressed in the bone-white robes of the Seer Clan.

"Your Majesty," she said, kneeling, "the heavens are shifting. The star-charts have cracked. Something is coming."

The Monarch didn't look at her. His voice was deep, quiet, but it echoed with power.

"War?"

She hesitated. "Perhaps. Or worse."

He turned at last. "Then gather the clan-lords."

The Seer blinked. "All of them? Even the Ash-Eaters? The Drowned? The Flesh-Speakers?"

"All of them," the Monarch said. "Ignite the war-fires. Let the Deep-Drums sound once more. We will awaken the Black Banner."

The next night, Varkhall shook with the roar of warbeasts and the drums of summoning. Each of the great clans answered the Monarch's call.

The sky filled with winged demons trailing chains of smoke. Massive beasts with obsidian armor dragged war caravans through rivers of molten rock. Towering champions marched with swords that screamed when drawn. The capital had not seen such a gathering since the War of Shattered Eyes—a war the world had long forgotten.

In the Grand Hall of Bone, beneath the chained skull of the first demon king, the clan leaders assembled.

Some looked like monsters from nightmares. Others appeared almost human, until they moved—and then the truth showed itself in the blink of a third eye or the hiss of shadow-tendrils. Yet they all knelt when the Monarch entered.

He stood at the top of the obsidian dais. Silence fell.

"I have seen the signs," he said. "I have felt the storm."

No one questioned what storm he meant. Every clan had felt it—through dreams, omens, or the sudden silence of nature.

"Something is stirring beyond the horizon. Not in our lands. Not yet. But it comes."

He looked down at them. "We do not know its name. We do not know its shape. But we will be ready."

One of the younger chieftains—a flame-skinned brute from the Forge Clans—stood. "Why should we care what happens in the lands of light?"

The Monarch descended the stairs.

"When the forest burns," he said slowly, "the fire does not ask if you live at the edge. It comes. It devours. It spreads."

He stopped in front of the challenger. "I do not care for the world. But I care for strength. And I will not let that strength be stolen by something we do not understand."

He raised his hand.

The doors of the Grand Hall opened.

A line of chained prisoners was dragged in. Scouts from the outer reaches. Some bore signs of battle—not from the clans, but something else. Their minds were shattered. Their tongues burned black. One had carved a strange symbol into his own chest—a star broken into shards.

The Monarch gestured to them.

"This," he said, "is what waits beyond the sea. Something that drives even demons to madness."

He turned to the assembled clans.

"We will prepare. We will forge new weapons. Strengthen old alliances. Awaken the Deep Courts beneath the stone. Call forth the Eaters of Names. And we will march, if we must."

A cold wind blew through the hall. Somewhere, far below, the chained skulls moaned.

The Monarch raised his hand.

"Let the world tear itself apart," he said. "We are the Dark. We endure."

And the clans roared in one voice:

"WE ARE THE DARK!"

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