Chương 131: Before the Empty Throne

Vaelthor did not leave Ivoryn in anger. Anger belonged to Drakhar. Vaelthor left his white citadels with something colder. An offense. From the highest towers of the High Bastion, he had felt Voragna die. He had felt Drakhar fall. He had felt Cassiel lose enough for Ghelkar to still be trembling. He had felt Morvessa refuse to move, Seryth hide behind her mirrors, and then Lyséa lower her head. Lyséa. The queen of the ancient dragons. The creature even the most arrogant Generals rarely named with contempt.

She had bowed her head before a human. Not before a king. Not before a demon born from the heights. A human. Vaelthor descended the steps of his palace without an escort. His vassals knelt as he passed. None dared lift their eyes. He was very tall, too upright, almost mineral. His long horns stretched backward like a broken crown. His immaculate armor carried veins of black gold. His face was superb, glacial, and every movement seemed to remind the world that there were beings made to be looked at from below.

A demonic duke dared to speak.

"My lord Vaelthor, should we prepare the army?" Vaelthor did not stop.

"No."

"But if the candidate reaches the Throne—" The duke's head hit the ground before he finished his sentence. Not severed. Forced. An invisible pressure crushed him to his knees, forehead against the white stone. Vaelthor barely turned his eyes toward him.

"The Throne will not be defiled by an army." The duke trembled.

"Yes, my lord." Vaelthor looked toward the center of the demon continent. Toward the Forbidden Realm. Toward the place where the Black Throne had waited for a thousand years.

"This error has walked far enough." His gaze hardened.

"I will remind him what it means to look up." The center of the demon kingdom had no city. That was the first thing that struck Elyra. All the other domains had a visible identity: the vaults of Ghelkar, the forges of Vhur, Voragna's gardens, the mirrors of Nhaless, the nocturnal palaces of Velmour. The Forbidden Realm, however, seemed to have refused to be inhabited. The land was black, bare, vitrified in places as if an ancient heat had licked it until it had stripped away all desire to carry life.

Broken pillars rose from the ground without any apparent order. The sky above was low, dark red, without sun, without moon. At the center, there was a road. Only one. Straight. Too straight. It led to a platform of black stone, in the middle of an immense circle where no wind dared enter. And there, at the top of seven steps, awaited the Black Throne. Empty. Zayn stopped before the circle. He did not speak. For once, even the fused scythe remained silent. The Throne was not large in the ordinary sense.

It did not dominate by size. It dominated because everything around it seemed to have been built to never forget its presence. Elyra felt her breathing grow difficult.

"So this is it…" Zayn did not answer. His right palm was burning. His left forearm still vibrated from the Fang of Vhur. His veins, calm since Velmour, gently warmed, as if Drakhar's blood recognized an arena older than all the forges. Lumeï, barely visible against Elyra's shoulder, murmured,"I don't want to look at that seat." The fused scythe finally spoke, lower than usual.

"Neither do I. And that annoys me." Zayn took a step forward. The Throne responded. Not with a voice. With an absence. The whole plain seemed to hold something back. The mark of Avarice in his palm opened. Wrath heated. Sloth along his spine turned cold. Gluttony weighed beneath his tongue. Envy at his collarbone pulsed softly. Five Downfalls. Five marks. And yet, before the Throne, Zayn felt that something was still missing. Not strength. Not a weapon. A height. Elyra noticed that he had stopped.

"Zayn?" He looked at the steps.

"Not yet."

"Why?" The answer came before him. A white light split the red sky. Not pure. Cold. Vertical. It fell before the Throne like a spear of judgment. The black stone covered itself in pale cracks. The air became heavy, rigid, almost noble despite itself. Vaelthor appeared in the middle of the light. Elyra stepped back at once. The pressure was different from Lyséa's. Lyséa was ancient. Vast. Royal. Vaelthor was a height that refused to recognize any other direction. The system appeared before Zayn.

[Demon General detected.] [Vaelthor — Pride.] [Estimated soul strength: 271.] Then a second line. [Zayn Veylor.] [Current soul strength: 247.] The gap was smaller than before. But it still existed. And with Vaelthor, every point seemed to carry a millennial certainty. The General of Pride set his eyes on Zayn. He did not first look at the scythe. Not the wings. Not the marks. Not the traces of Voragna, Drakhar, or Cassiel. He looked at his human face. And his contempt was immediate.

"So," he said, "this is what made Lyséa lower her head." Zayn smiled.

"You came to check whether she had seen badly?" Vaelthor slowly descended the first invisible steps of his white light.

"I came to prevent an error from reaching a seat that does not belong to it." The scythe snickered.

"He starts strong. Very arrogant. Very hittable." Vaelthor did not spare it a glance.

"A talking weapon. A flesh stitched together from remains. A patched mask. Strength stolen from the dead greater than you." His eyes returned to Zayn.

"You are not an ascent. You are a heap." Elyra felt Zayn tense. Not much. Enough. Vaelthor continued:"You killed Voragna because she wanted to taste you. You killed Drakhar because he wanted to hear you scream. You humiliated Cassiel because he believed everything could be kept." He took a step. The stone beneath him whitened.

"But I, human, have never wanted to possess you, devour you, study you, or buy you." His gaze turned colder.

"I simply want to put you back below." Zayn raised the scythe.

"Come." Vaelthor did not move.

"Even your impatience is low." He slightly turned his head toward Elyra.

"And you. Princess of a kingdom that believed itself above corruption. You walk behind him?" Elyra tightened her blade of light. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

"I walk where I choose." Vaelthor looked at her as one looks at a stain on ancient marble.

"No. You confuse choice with descent." Zayn took a step in front of her. Vaelthor smiled. Not because he was amused. Because he had seen the movement.

"Ah. Enough instinct remains to protect a follower." Zayn spoke quietly:"Be careful with your next sentence."

"Why?" Vaelthor raised a hand. The pressure crashed down on Elyra. She fell to one knee. Lumeï cried out. Zayn moved at once, but a white barrier rose between them. Not just magical. Hierarchical. An authority of rank. As if the air itself were saying: you do not have the right to pass until the one above allows it. Vaelthor stared at Zayn.

"Look carefully. The beings who stand near you do not rise. They are dragged into the mud where you were born." The white light tightened around Elyra. She clenched her teeth, refusing to scream. Zayn struck the barrier with the scythe. The black edge slid. The white spectral edge cried out. The barrier held. Vaelthor smiled.

"Even your weapons must ask height to yield." Zayn placed his right palm on the barrier. Avarice opened.

"Right of Seizure." The black lines bit into the white light. The barrier resisted. It was not a thing. It was an assertion. Vaelthor slowly advanced.

"You cannot take what was never meant for you." Zayn clenched his teeth. His veins ignited. Drakhar's blood heated. Pain shot through his arms, chest, wings. The black edges of his membranes caught fire. Voragna's regeneration stitched back together what the heat tore apart. He struck again. The barrier cracked. Not enough. Vaelthor lowered two fingers. The pressure crushed Elyra harder. This time, she screamed. A single scream. Short. But real. The sound entered Zayn like a blade. It did not unlock anything.

Not yet. He simply hurled himself at the barrier with all his violence. The scythe screamed. Forge-blood exploded through his left arm. His right palm split to the bone. The barrier gave way. Zayn burst through the white light in a rain of shards. He did not reach Elyra. Vaelthor was already in front of him. The General's fist struck his face. The reforged mask split. Zayn flew several dozen meters and crashed against a black pillar before the Throne. Vaelthor appeared above him.

"That is what I wanted to see." He placed his foot on Zayn's chest. The pressure descended.

"You do not rise. You leap when someone waves a thing you refuse to lose. You are not a king. You are a reaction." Zayn grabbed his ankle. Time in Ruin. Vaelthor's white boot cracked slightly. Not his flesh. The General lowered his eyes.

"Interesting." Then he struck downward with his heel. Zayn's arm gave way. Freed from the pressure, Elyra tried to get up.

"Zayn!" Vaelthor turned his head toward her.

"Do you see, princess? He has killed two Generals, devoured pieces of monsters, stolen weapons, and borne marks. But when height descends upon him…" He crushed Zayn harder.

"He resumes his true position." The fused scythe trembled on the ground, out of reach.

"Get up," it growled.

"I refuse to let this talking marble have the last line." Zayn spat blood. His body was rebuilding itself badly. Drakhar's heat burned him faster than Voragna's regeneration could repair him. Vaelthor raised his right arm. A long white blade formed in his hand, so pure it seemed carved from the summit of a mountain.

"Humans should have been swept away long ago." He looked at Zayn with calm contempt.

"Their kingdom does not stand through their worth. It stands because of one man. Maelor. A monstrous genius. An anomaly that forces even the heights to calculate." The white blade lowered slightly toward Zayn's throat.

"I waited for him. I waited for time to do what my armies could have done after his death. And now, before that human even disappears, another human dares to pollute our succession." Vaelthor tilted his head.

"Your race has a talent: producing just enough exceptions to delay its erasure." Zayn smiled through the blood.

"You are afraid of a human." Silence fell. Vaelthor stopped moving. Elyra felt the air grow heavier. Zayn laughed weakly.

"You can call it calculation. You can call it patience. You can put a white crown on the word. But you waited for Maelor to die because you did not want to find him standing before you." Vaelthor's face barely changed. But his eyes became so cold they burned.

"I do not fear humans." Zayn spat blood onto his boot.

"No. You wait for them to die naturally. That's very different. Very noble." Vaelthor struck. The white blade pierced Zayn's shoulder and pinned him to the stone. Zayn screamed. The empty Throne remained silent. Vaelthor leaned down.

"Insolence is not height." Zayn, trembling, replied:"And height that waits for an old man to move is not pride." He raised his broken right hand. Right of Seizure tried to seize the white blade. Rejection. Too pure. Too bound. Too high. Zayn's palm tore wider. Vaelthor slowly withdrew the blade. Then struck again. Zayn parried with his left forearm. Drakhar's heat exploded. The white blade and the red fire collided. This time, Zayn was not thrown back. He held. One second. Two.

Then Vaelthor drove his knee into Zayn's stomach. Zayn vomited blood. The General followed immediately. The duel truly began. Not like those against Voragna or Drakhar. Vaelthor wasted nothing. Every strike was beautiful. That was unbearable. His movements had the purity of something that had never doubted its own place. He cut in straight lines. Advanced without urgency. Punished every ugly angle, every desperate movement, every filthy repair of Zayn's body.

Zayn answered with everything he had stolen from the world. The fused scythe returned to his hand and cut through the white lines. Drakhar's blood set his blows ablaze. Voragna's regeneration closed his wounds just enough for them to be reopened. Avarice tried to take fragments of rhythm, space, weight. Sloth wore down the cracks in the immaculate armor. Gluttony sought a weakness in the General's mineral flesh. Envy swallowed the crumbs of strength that fell from his injuries. But Vaelthor remained above. Still.

Still. He opened Zayn's flank. He cut off part of his left wing. He smashed the scythe against the ground, forcing it to reform in a double cry. He cast Elyra aside with a simple white wave when she tried to intervene.

"Look at him," Vaelthor said to the princess without taking his eyes off Zayn.

"Look carefully at the being you follow. He is not a black star. He is not a king in the making. He is a staircase of corpses that believes height comes from the number of steps." Kneeling, Elyra answered in a trembling voice:"And you?" Vaelthor turned his eyes slightly toward her.

"What about me?"

"What are you without those who have to remain below so you can feel high?" The sentence struck. Zayn lifted his eyes. Vaelthor raised a hand toward Elyra. This time, not to crush her. To kill her. A white spear formed in the air. Zayn moved before he even thought. He beat his damaged wings, burning his own flesh with Drakhar's blood, and threw himself between the spear and Elyra. The spear pierced his chest. Clean. White. Perfect. Zayn remained standing.

The spear emerged from his back, between the bases of his wings. Elyra's breath caught.

"Zayn…" Vaelthor looked at him with an almost disdainful calm.

"You continue to confuse standing in front of someone with being above." Zayn placed his right hand on the spear piercing him. His burned palm trembled. He could not take it. It belonged too much to Vaelthor. So he let the forge-blood rise. His veins ignited. The white spear reddened beneath his hand. Voragna's regeneration tried to close the wound around the blade, trapping it inside his own flesh. Zayn smiled.

"You know what?" Vaelthor narrowed his eyes. Zayn slowly raised his head. His mask was broken on one side. Blood ran down his chin. His wings burned. His right hand was split to the wrist. But his eyes no longer looked at Vaelthor from below. They no longer searched for the Throne. They no longer searched for the steps. They fixed on the General as if height had ceased to be a place.

"You're the General of Pride, right?" Vaelthor did not answer. Zayn smiled. A monstrous smile.

"Then let me be above you." The system appeared. Not like a window. Like a fracture in the air. [Extreme existential condition detected.] [Imposed hierarchy: rejected.] [Superior gaze: refused.] [Personal sovereignty: affirmed.] Vaelthor stepped back half a pace.

"Impossible." Zayn gripped the white spear inside his own body.

"That word again." A new mark opened. It appeared around the back of his neck, beneath the edge of the half-mask, like a broken collar turned into an inverted crown. Black lines rose toward his jaw, then disappeared under his skin. [Downfall recognized.] [PRIDE.] The white spear exploded inside his chest. Zayn screamed. Not only from pain. From birth. The Black Throne beat behind them. The system displayed: [Derived skill awakened.] [Territory Extension.] [Description: When one stands above others, there is no need for an audience to prove power.] [Effect: isolates a target in a one-on-one confrontation within a random restricted environment.] Vaelthor raised his blade.

"You do not have the right to—" Zayn took a step.

"I no longer need the right." The world folded. Elyra cried out his name. The Throne disappeared. The Forbidden Realm disappeared. The black plain disappeared. Zayn and Vaelthor were torn away from everyone's sight. They appeared on a white platform suspended above a black void. No vassals. No princesses. No Throne. No citadels. No steps. Only the two of them. Vaelthor looked around him. For the first time, his face showed something other than contempt.

Zayn stood opposite him, a shattered white spear in his chest, black wings aflame, fused scythe in his left hand, open right palm, blood running beneath the mask, the new mark of Pride burning around his neck.

"You wanted to look down on me," said Zayn. He raised the scythe.

"Fine." His smile turned monstrous.

"Now there is no up." Vaelthor drew a second white blade, longer, purer, more violent. His armor opened like a crown of mineral plates behind him.

"Miserable heap of remains. You think an empty space makes you my equal?" Zayn spat blood. The hole in his chest was slowly closing, burning around the white fragments.

"No." He raised his right palm.

"I think an empty space keeps you from hiding behind everything that told you you were superior." Vaelthor charged. The fight changed in nature. On the white platform, every blow rang out like a bell in the void. Vaelthor struck faster than before. Deprived of an audience, he did not grow weaker. He grew purer. His pride no longer needed scenery. It had become an entire blade. His attacks chained together like a vertical dance, every movement seeking to place Zayn beneath him again. Zayn parried the first blow.

The second opened his thigh. The third sheared off part of his wing. He answered with Drakhar's fire. His left fist struck the white armor. A red burst exploded. Zayn's own skin burned instantly to the bone. Voragna's regeneration stitched it back. He struck again. Vaelthor retreated one step. Not enough. The white blade pierced his shoulder. Zayn blocked the guard with his right palm. Avarice. He tried to take the weapon's rhythm. Vaelthor smiled.

"You want to take from Pride?" Zayn smiled too.

"No." He pressed his forehead against the General's.

"I want to force you to share the space." Then he headbutted him. The broken mask struck Vaelthor's perfect face. A splinter of white blood fell. Silence. Vaelthor touched his lip. One drop. Tiny. But real. His gaze changed. Zayn murmured:"There. Now you bleed at the same height as me." Vaelthor roared. Not with raw anger. With wounded pride. The white platform cracked beneath his feet. His soul strength fully deployed. [Vaelthor — Estimated soul strength: 271 → 276.] He was rising. Not by external magic.

By refusal. His body answered humiliation like a citadel raising its walls. Vaelthor lifted his blade.

"I will carve into your body the distance you forgot." Zayn raised the scythe. His own soul strength trembled under the pressure of the newly opened Pride. [Zayn Veylor — Current soul strength: 247.] Then another line appeared. [Downfall of Pride: stabilization in progress.] He smiled.

"Hurry up." Vaelthor charged. This time, Zayn did not try to outmatch him in speed. He stayed there. At the center. When the white blade descended, he caught it with his right hand. Avarice in his palm burned. The Locks of Ghelkar screamed. His fingers split open. But the blade slowed. Just enough. Zayn drove his scythe into Vaelthor's armor at the shoulder. The white spectral edge entered the lines of rank. The black edge opened the matter. Time in Ruin wore down the purity. Forge-blood exploded through the shaft.

Vaelthor drove his knee into Zayn's stomach. Zayn vomited blood. But did not let go.

"You want to be above?" Vaelthor growled.

"Then bear the weight of those who fall when you climb." Zayn answered:"I already bear them." He twisted the scythe. Vaelthor's shoulder split. [Vaelthor — Estimated soul strength: 276 → 263.] The General stepped back at last. Truly. Zayn nearly dropped to his knees, but caught himself. He laughed. Low. Broken.

"There." Vaelthor slowly lifted his eyes. Zayn continued:"You're not looking down at me anymore." Vaelthor wiped the white blood from his mouth.

"No." He raised his broken blade.

"Now I look at you as something that must be put down before the world learns to raise its eyes toward an error." Zayn smiled.

"Too late." The white platform trembled. Territory Extension began to crack. The duel was not over. But the outside world was pressing at the edges. The Throne wanted to see the rest. Zayn felt it. Vaelthor did too. They hurled themselves at each other one last time in the isolated space. The white blade pierced Zayn's right wing. The fused scythe entered Vaelthor's side. Zayn's burning fist struck his sternum. Vaelthor's knee broke Zayn's leg. Both fell. Both rose. Again. Again.

At the end, Zayn planted his right palm on Vaelthor's open chest.

"Right of Seizure." Vaelthor grabbed his wrist.

"You will not take my Pride." Zayn looked him in the eyes.

"No." The mark around his neck burned.

"I'm taking the distance." The white world shattered. They reappeared before the Black Throne. Vaelthor fell to his knees. Not willingly. The black stone cracked beneath him. Zayn landed standing, then nearly collapsed, planting his scythe into the ground to stay upright. Panting, Elyra saw them return. Her eyes widened. Vaelthor was kneeling before Zayn. The General of Pride slowly raised his head. His armor was broken. His perfect face was bleeding. One of his horns was cracked. His soul strength trembled.

[Vaelthor — Estimated soul strength: 263 → 231.] Zayn was barely standing. But standing. Vaelthor looked at him. For a long time. Then he laughed. A weak laugh. Cruel. Defeated.

"I understand…" Zayn raised the scythe. Vaelthor continued:"You did not climb up to us." He spat white blood.

"You brought height down." The Black Throne beat. Once. Zayn brought the blade near his throat. Vaelthor lifted his eyes to him. No more simple contempt. No tender respect. But a horrible recognition. Ripped free. Bloodied.

"The Throne did not make a mistake." Zayn cut him down. Vaelthor's head fell before the steps of the Throne. His body collapsed to its knees, then onto its side. The silence that followed was immense. The system appeared. [Demon General defeated.] [Vaelthor — Pride: dead.] [Recognition of sovereignty forcibly taken.] [Downfall of Pride stabilized.] Zayn remained standing for a few seconds. Then he dropped to one knee. His soul strength received part of Vaelthor's fall. Too heavy. Too pure.

Impossible to absorb completely. [Downfall of Envy: exceptional absorption.] [Partial absorption imposed.] [Soul strength absorbed: +34.] [Current soul strength: 247 → 281.] Elyra slowly approached.

"Zayn…" He did not answer. He was looking at the Throne. The empty Throne. The Throne that had waited through the entire battle. The Throne that now no longer seemed empty at all. The fused scythe murmured:"We should probably leave." Zayn rose. His body was a standing ruin. His burned wings hung behind him. His right palm was open. The mark of Pride circled his neck like a black crown turned inside out. His blood still smoked. He climbed the first step. Elyra extended her hand.

"Wait." He did not stop. Second step. Third. Fourth. The Black Throne beat like a forgotten heart. Fifth. Sixth. Seventh. Zayn reached the seat. He stood there. For a second. Then he smiled. Not with joy. Not with victory. With mutual recognition between two things broken for far too long. And he sat down. The world remembered.