The next day, shocking scandals erupted around the ducal family of House Dawn—drug sales, slave trafficking, and tax evasion. The revelations sent waves through high society, leaving many bewildered.
Ren and Stella meticulously compiled their evidence and delivered it to someone eager to expose House Dawn's secrets.
Annabeth Dawn found herself at the centre of her family's outrage. They blamed her for the chaos, though she couldn't fathom how such accusations had surfaced. Seeking solace, she made her way to the White Dragon estate, hoping for clarity.
She was escorted to the dining room, where a handful of family members enjoyed breakfast. Amid the gentle clinking of silverware and murmured conversation, her gaze landed on a figure wearing a mask and hood.
How peculiar, she thought.
Stefan White Dragon greeted her with his usual warmth, smiling as she sat beside him.
"Hello, Annabeth. This is Prince Ren Black Dragon, a distant relative of ours. He's in England on business for a while."
Annabeth turned her attention to him. "Nice to meet you, Eternal Prince Ren. I've heard a great deal about you and your empire. Its history is unusual."
Ren inclined his head. "Call me Ren, please. And I must say, I've also heard quite a bit about you today. The scandal surrounding your family—it's rather dreadful. I wonder who leaked those secrets."
Annabeth exhaled softly, composing herself. "We're trying to uncover that ourselves. I'm fortunate the White Dragon family still welcomes me despite my current situation."
Priscilla smiled reassuringly. "You are always welcome here, Annabeth. My son enjoys your company very much."
Annabeth's lips curled into a playful grin. "Thank you, Priscilla. I enjoy Stefan's company, too. He'd make a wonderful husband if we married. I might have to start calling you 'mother-in-law' soon."
A ripple of reaction coursed through the table.
Scarlett's displeasure was palpable. Her mother concealed her irritation behind a sip of wine. Damon sighed, weariness lining his features. Ren, however, observed with amusement as Annabeth swept Stefan upstairs, her mischievous grin unshaken.
Stefan followed, oblivious to the ripple of unease left in their wake.
Ren picked up his phone, his expression unreadable. One by one, he contacted the nine generals.
"The time has come," he said, his voice steady. "Begin the assault on House Dawn."
After leaving the White Dragon estate, Ren stood outside, the crisp air carrying the scent of damp earth. He folded his arms, waiting for Nara's arrival.
When the car pulled up, he slid into the seat beside him.
"Did everything go well?" he asked.
Nara nodded. "Yes, Prince Ren. Everything went smoothly. Kai reported no complications."
"Good. Keep it that way."
Ren glanced out the window, watching the city blur past. "Attack the other bases independently. Make your own decisions—this is your responsibility. If mistakes happen, fix them."
The generals answered in unison, their voices resolute. "Understood, Prince Ren."
His gaze darkened. "Soon, the royal family will lose everything. The world will know that the United Kingdom has declared war. They acted against us first—we respond in kind. Had we done nothing, their conquests would have continued unchecked."
Nara hesitated. "Is that your plan for the future? To conquer the world?"
For a long moment, Ren said nothing. His fingers tapped idly against the door handle.
"My lord," Nara continued carefully, "the king and queen are stopping us."
Ren's hand stilled.
"Stop the car."
The vehicle came to a smooth halt.
Ren stepped out of the car, his posture unwavering. The air was thick with the metallic scent of plasma weaponry primed for battle.
"Everyone, stay inside," he commanded, his voice calm but resolute. His gaze swept across the scene, landing on the king and queen. "What do they hope to achieve? Preventing me from reaching my hotel room—with an army behind them?"
King Jaime staggered forward, his breath shallow, his frame weak. A violent cough wracked his body, sending black blood spilling onto the pavement. It pooled at his feet like ink, staining the ground beneath him.
"Might as well end this now, Prince Ren," Jaime rasped, his voice hoarse with lingering defiance. "Before I—and everyone else—lose everything to you. I would rather we claim victory in this war. There's no turning back. We should have struck first."
His fingers twitched as he raised his arm.
"Kill him first," Jaime ordered.
The plasma rifles fired instantly.
Bolts of searing energy tore through the air, aimed directly at Ren. The crackle of the plasma rounds echoed across the battlefield, bright streaks illuminating the moment of impact.
But Ren did not flinch.
The bullets dissipated against him, vanishing into nothing.
For a long, stunned moment, silence reigned.
The soldiers hesitated, their fingers still hovering over their triggers. Their disbelief was palpable—this was impossible. Ren should be dead.
And yet, he remained standing.
Untouched.
Unscathed.
His gaze was cold, his presence an undeniable force.
The battle had already been decided.
Ren stood motionless on the bridge, his expression unreadable. Smoke curled from the charred pavement where plasma bullets had failed to harm him, leaving behind only the acrid scent of burned energy. The stunned silence had passed—panic had set in.
The King's voice rang out in desperation. "What's happening? Try again! Take whatever necessary steps!" His breath was ragged, frustration creeping into his tone. "How are you still alive? This is impossible!"
Soldiers hesitated before obeying, recalibrating their weapons, their movements tense with disbelief. Meanwhile, King Jaime shifted his focus, issuing a new directive.
"Evacuate the civilians! I want no casualties!"
The order spread through the ranks like wildfire. Officers barked commands, their urgency feeding into the growing hysteria. Crowds surged toward the exits, confusion in their eyes.
Ren watched it all unfold.
He observed the chaos—the hurried evacuation, the tremor in the King's voice, the soldiers scrambling for orders—with the same measured calm, as if he already knew how this would end.
"Place the order for the Air Force now!" Jaime shouted.
The wind picked up, carrying whispers of incoming aircraft. The distant roar of engines rumbled through the air, heralding the next phase of battle.
Yet Ren remained still.
Unmoved.
Unshaken.
The war had already begun.
The air rumbled with the roar of approaching fighter jets. In perfect synchronisation, the Air Force released plasma bombs, streaks of burning energy illuminating the sky before descending upon Ren with catastrophic force.
Yet, he did not move.
Standing amidst the chaos, he watched with cold indifference as the bombs struck—blinding flashes followed by deafening explosions. Smoke billowed into the air, flames licking at the edges of what remained of the bridge.
King Jaime and Queen Guinevere stood frozen, horror creeping down their spines. A suffocating sense of dread settled over them.
"Jaime, that was reckless," Guinevere murmured, her tone sharp yet laced with concern. "Your health—are you alright? Don't push yourself too far."
Jaime wiped the remnants of black blood from his lips, his eyes locked onto the destruction before them. "I don't know how he survived the plasma bullets… but the bombs—he couldn't have lived through that. No one could."
The king straightened, urgency returning to his voice. "We need to move quickly. Before the full force of the Eternal Empire arrives, we must defend our land—we must win this war for our people."
A voice cut through the air.
"You won't have to worry about that, King Jaime."
The hairs on the back of their necks stood.
The smoke parted—and there he stood.
Ren.
Unscathed.
Untouched.
He fixed them with a measured gaze, as if none of this had been worth his concern. "The full force of the Eternal Empire won't be necessary. I'll give you a head start again."
Silence.
A wave of dread passed over every face present.
Jaime's breath hitched. "How… how are you still alive?"
Jaime didn't hesitate.
His blade lashed out in a lethal arc, aimed directly at Ren's heart. Queen Guinevere flanked swiftly, her movements graceful yet brutal, seeking to carve through his defences.
Ren met them both.
Steel clashed—lightning split the heavens—battle cries roared through the battlefield. Gunfire rattled like a distant storm, and explosions sent tremors through the earth as the legions of the Nine Generals engaged the royal army.
Ren fought with precision, his strikes effortless yet unrelenting. He observed them as much as he battled, intrigued by Jaime's refusal to yield despite his failing body. Guinevere fought fiercely beside her husband, her blade weaving between attacks with deadly accuracy.
He was enjoying this.
Yuki Chibana intercepted the Queen, blocking her advance. Though she didn't know how Ren had survived the bombardment, she knew her duty—to protect him while the others waged war elsewhere.
Meanwhile, Stella stood guard over Nara. At Ren's telepathic command, she had been given a singular mission: eliminate any threat approaching his chauffeur.
Ren turned back to Jaime, his smirk unwavering.
"Come then, King Jaime. Let's see what you're truly capable of," he murmured, voice smooth, taunting. "I admire your strength—your love for your people. If only I could recruit you." His blade flicked upward, catching the storm's glare. "But you're dying. I'll end your suffering."
He struck first.
Holding back his true power, he moved with calculated restraint—he wanted this duel to last.
Jaime's blade met his own. Sparks ignited between them, swallowed instantly by the torrential downpour.
Thunder roared overhead.
Lightning carved the sky.
Jaime pivoted, executing a flawless roundhouse kick. Ren caught his leg mid-motion, gripping with unshakable force before tossing him backwards.
Jaime landed hard, but recovered quickly. He charged again, his sword a blur of merciless steel.
Then, the sky shattered.
Rain became a relentless force, hammering down like icy needles. The battlefield blurred beneath sheets of water, the chaos twisting into something raw and primal.
Jaime fought harder.
His blade found its mark.
Ren's mask split apart.
Gasps erupted across the battlefield.
Allies. Enemies. Guinevere herself froze.
He was young. No older than twenty.
Yet his gaze carried the weight of ages.
Jaime exhaled sharply. "Incredible… You are the original Black Dragon General. The first Emperor of the Eternal Empire."
His grip tightened around his sword. "Do you truly not care that the world knows your secret, Eternal Emperor Ren?"
Ren smiled.
"Why should I care?" His voice was quiet yet undeniably powerful. "There's nothing I can't do. I could erase this revelation from every mind here with a mere thought."
The weight of his words settled over the battlefield, heavy. Unshakable.
His blade flickered in the stormlight. "Now… let's continue."
With a fluid motion, he hurled his sword toward Jaime.
Jaime blocked—but the sheer force sent him reeling.
Ren closed the gap, retrieving his weapon before seizing the King by the throat.
Jaime struggled, his hands clawing at Ren's grip.
Then, desperation fueled him.
Steel flashed—Jaime struck.
Blood splattered.
Ren stilled.
He lifted a hand to his cheek, brushing his fingers against the fresh wound.
Then, he smiled.
Slowly, deliberately, he licked the blood from his fingertips.
"Good," Ren murmured, amusement curling through his words. "That's what I like to see."
Jaime's breath hitched.
It made no sense.
Yet Ren seemed… entertained. Thrilled.
His strikes intensified.
Faster.
Jaime barely held his ground.
But something shifted—Ren wasn't just toying with him anymore.
His power was rising.
And Jaime could feel it.
Rain lashed down in torrents, drowning the battlefield in unrelenting chaos.
Stella's voice cut through the storm. "King Jaime will lose soon."
Watching wide-eyed, Nara murmured, "How could he hurt Prince Ren? It makes no sense—I've never seen anything capable of scarring him."
Stella smirked. "It's simple. Ren allows the blade to harm him—because if he didn't, it wouldn't. He wants this battle to last. He wants Jaime to believe, if only for a moment, that he stands a chance. But eventually…" Her eyes darkened. "Ren will crush him."
Ren twisted his blade, deflecting Jaime's strikes with practised ease. He tilted his head slightly, watching Jaime with something close to amusement.
"I'm impressed, King Jaime. You've done well despite your age—hurting me like this."
Jaime exhaled heavily, gripping his sword tightly. Then, he moved.
Steel met flesh.
Jaime's blade slid deep into Ren's chest.
A hush spread across the battlefield.
"You have lost, Eternal Emperor Ren." Jaime's voice was hoarse, breathless. "I have won. I don't know how I managed it, but—I want you to know, I had a great time duelling with you. It's been so long since I felt alive."
Ren looked down at the blade embedded in his torso.
And he smiled.
His hand closed around Jaime's weapon.
Then, he pushed it deeper.
Blood poured from his lips, but his voice remained steady. "I'm glad you had fun."
Jaime's eyes widened.
Ren pulled the sword free and, in the same motion, drove his blade into Jaime's heart.
"Jaime!" Queen Guinevere's scream pierced through the rain.
She hurled her spear toward Ren. Before it could reach him, Ren shifted, pulling Jaime forward.
The spear impaled him.
Jaime's breath hitched. He stared at Ren, his gaze filled with shock, then turned slowly toward his wife. Black tears streaked his face.
The coughing came next—violent, uncontrollable. Black blood spilt from his lips, staining the battlefield as his knees buckled.
Ren had already turned away.
Jaime gazed up at his towering figure, detached, indifferent. "Jaime!" Guinevere screamed, rushing toward him, tears streaking down her face.
The battle stilled.
The rain poured heavier.
She cradled him, pressing his limp form close to her. "Guinevere, stop," Jaime murmured weakly. "I'm fine with this outcome. At least I fought with all my strength. For a moment, I felt healthy again. Fighting beside you was everything."
Tears spilt from her eyes. "Be quiet, Jaime! I can save you. Someone—please, save your king!" She choked on her sobs, desperation flooding her voice
But no one came.
It was already too late.
Jaime died in her arms—his expression serene, his final moments wrapped in the embrace of the woman he loved.
Then, the grief shattered into fury.
"You bastard!" Guinevere screamed, her voice raw with rage.
She seized Jaime's blade and her spear, charging at Ren.
He dodged effortlessly, kicking her backwards. Her weapons flew from her grasp, and he threw them, impaling her hands.
She howled, unrelenting in her suffering. Her vision blurred with agony, her gaze locked on her husband's lifeless form.
"I should have listened to you," she whispered, her strength fading. "I'm a fool…"
Darkness took her.
She woke in a quiet room.
The sheets beneath her were soft, her body bandaged. The air smelled of incense—clean, unfamiliar.
But none of it mattered.
Jaime was gone.
Her fingers curled against the fabric, grief pressing into her chest. She thought of his last words.
How could she ever be happy again?
She sensed a presence.
She turned.
Hatred filled her gaze.
Ren stood there.
Their eyes met, and he could feel the rawness of her emotions. He smiled slightly, amusement flickering in his expression.
"Why did you spare me?" Her voice was hoarse, bitter. "You should have killed me. It would have been better for both of us."
"You think so?" Ren mused. "Interesting. I spared the useful ones—killed the ones who would have been a hassle. You're one of the lucky ones."
She scoffed.
Then, she noticed them.
Eight figures stood nearby, their auras suffocating. Power radiated from them, but Ren's was the strongest.
She felt the weight of the universe press against her chest, crushing her, threatening to erase her from existence.
Then, the pressure eased.
She caught her breath and finally recognised them—the previous generals of the Eternal Empire.
"Lucky," she muttered under her breath. She wished she could murder Ren.
Even if it was pointless.
She would make his life tiresome.
"You remind me of someone," Azekeiel mused. "A proud duchess from your homeland—Anastacia BlackSwan. A friend of yours, I presume?"
Her body tensed. "What did you do to her?"
"If you harmed her—"
She coughed violently.
Azekeiel watched her impassively. "Be cautious. You're not fully healed yet."
He leaned back, almost casually. "By the way—she's fine. Like you, she's recovering."
Guinevere swallowed hard. Then, her voice steadied. "What happened to my home? How long have I been asleep?"
Lucis finally spoke.
"You have been asleep for five days."
Guinevere's Isolation
"Just leave me alone. I want to be by myself," she said, her voice raw with sorrow.
No one argued.
They left, and when the door shut, grief consumed her.
She cried until exhaustion took over, until time itself blurred into endless days of mourning.
Three Months Later—The Empress's Throne Room
The grand chamber buzzed with murmurs, the hushed voices of courtiers and nobles mingling like static beneath the vaulted ceilings.
Guinevere was led forward, the steady rhythm of her footsteps swallowed by the anticipation pressing thick in the air.
Then, she stopped.
Her breath hitched.
There, standing beside Ren, was her.
Duchess Stella.
Guinevere's fists clenched. A slow burn of fury coiled deep in her chest, an emotion too raw, too heavy to suppress.
The cunning queen—the woman who had once married King Richard IV, Jaime's ancestor.
Like the others, she was immortal.
Like the others, she had played a part in shaping the Eternal Empire's dark legacy.
But Stella's cruelty ran deeper.
In vengeance, she had cursed the three-eyed Blackraven bloodline, exacting retribution for the sins of her ex-husband and his treacherous family.
Guinevere had learned everything from Anastacia.
The truth. The deception. The empire that had carved itself into history with blood and shadows.
And only a select few were allowed to remember.
Anastacia. Guinevere. Others deemed "useful."
The knowledge sat heavily upon them, a burden that bred anxiety, doubt, and relentless wariness.
But for Guinevere?
It bred hatred.
Hatred for Ren.
Hatred for Stella.
Hatred for them all.
The Conversation of Ren's Wives
Talia's voice rang through the chamber, smooth and composed.
"I believe welcoming a new handmaiden into our lives could bring a fresh vibrancy to our daily routines. What's your take on this, Mariko?"
Mariko smiled, her gaze languid. "Well, Sister Talia, I welcome new handmaidens with open arms. Do you prefer Guinevere or Anastacia?"
Talia's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Guinevere."
She smirked, tilting her head slightly. "She carries so much hatred in her eyes—it'll be fun to tease. And drinking her blood will be even more enjoyable."
Mariko chuckled. "Of course, Sister. She's entirely in your hands now."
She turned toward Anastacia. "Though I must admit, she is… intriguing."
Talia mused, tapping a finger against her lips. "Yes, she is. Her blood will be delicious too, now that I think about it."
Then—casually—"Well, she's yours to do with as you like, little sister."
The Appointment of Damon Whitedragon
The grand throne room, adorned with towering obsidian pillars and golden banners, was thick with anticipation. Nobles whispered among themselves, voices like distant murmurs rolling through the gilded chamber.
At the centre of it all, Empress Bai sat on her throne, unmoving, unreadable.
She lifted a hand, her presence commanding the silence.
"Call forth the illustrious White Dragon noble family! I seek an audience with them."
The handmaiden bowed deeply, her tone reverent. "Indeed, Your Eternal Imperial Majesty."
Moments later, Damon Whitedragon entered, his steps measured, his expression composed. He bowed, his voice steady as he spoke.
"You have called upon us, Your Everlasting Imperial Majesty."
Bai's golden eyes flickered with unreadable intent.
"Damon Whitedragon," she declared, her voice smooth but absolute, "it is time for me to appoint you King of the United Kingdom."
A hush fell over the chamber.
"You will govern it under our rule," Bai continued. Then, after a pause, "Prince Ren speaks highly of you. Do not disappoint him."
Damon placed a fist over his heart in solemn pledge.
"Eternal Imperial Majesty! I embrace this honour wholeheartedly and pledge my dedication in the spirit of my ancestor, Duchess Cristina—the noble White Dragon sister of the revered Black Dragon Emperor."
The moment stretched.
Then, whispers surged.
A secret revealed. A lineage acknowledged.
Guinevere listened, her mind a storm of racing thoughts.
Ren's homeland. The Eternal Nine.
The Black Dragon and White Dragon—so closely tied, too closely tied.
The convenience of it all nagged at her.
How had Ren gained immortality?
Was it inherited? Stolen? Or something far worse?
She wouldn't let this go.
She was mortal—but that meant nothing.
She would find her opportunity.
And when she did, Ren would regret ever allowing her to live.
The Next Day—Guinevere's Inquiry
Guinevere moved with deliberate grace, every step measured, controlled. The weight of expectation clung to her as she approached Talia, lowering herself into a bow.
She carefully presented the porcelain cup, steam curling gently from its surface.
"Your tea, Your Eternal Royal Highness," she said, voice steady despite the undercurrent of tension beneath it. "Might there be anything else you desire?"
Talia's gaze flickered with amusement, lips curving into a slow smirk.
"Unless you're willing to offer your blood," she mused, her voice smooth and mocking. That will be all."
A sharp breath hitched in Guinevere's throat—but she recovered swiftly.
Her expression hardened. "I would never offer it to you." A measured pause. "Good day."
Talia chuckled under her breath, the sound light, unbothered. "I was just teasing."
Guinevere ignored her entirely.
Instead, she straightened, gaze steady, tone cold.
"Tell me where I can find the history archives of the Eternal Nine."
Talia gestured lazily toward a waiting archivist. "Follow them."
She did.
The Archives
The chamber swallowed her whole.
Towering shelves stretched endlessly, lined with ancient scrolls and bound volumes that seemed to pulse with the weight of centuries.
So much knowledge. So many secrets.
Her fingers ghosted over a carved inscription embedded into the stone—a text long worn with age, but still legible.
She could feel history pressing down on her, woven into every artefact and document surrounding her.
The archivist, watching her closely, finally spoke.
"It's magnificent, isn't it?" They sighed, nostalgia heavy in their voice. "I remember the day I first entered this place. It was built long ago, shortly after the establishment of the Eternal Empire."
They stepped forward, their eyes flickering with something unreadable.
"The war nearly escalated into World War III. Instead, it became a struggle between the Eternal Empire and all of Asia."
Guinevere's grip tightened on the parchment she had picked up.
She spoke carefully. "The Eternal War?"
The archivist chuckled, shaking their head.
"Asia was so fearful of the Eternal Empire that, despite their divisions, they united—solely to prevent the Nine Eternal Generals from taking over the continent."
She stared at them, the words settling like lead in her mind.
"And how long did this war last?"
A smirk curled at the archivist's lips.
"Only six months."
Guinevere exhaled slowly.
A silence stretched between them.
Then—she asked, voice quiet, deliberate.
"Do you believe the rumours?"
The words felt almost dangerous hanging in the air.
"That the generals are still alive today?"
The archivist waved dismissively.
"Of course not. Immortality is nothing more than silly superstition."
Guinevere said nothing.
But the unease in her chest grew sharper.
She would find the truth.
No matter what it took.
.