The Final Procession emerged in breathtaking splendour, a colossal caravan stretching farther than the eye could follow. At its forefront rolled a massive royal purple charriot, drawn by twelve white stallions adorned in crimson and silver harnesses. Upon it sat Empress Lola, her expectant form draped in flowing silks of emerald and pearl, her face serene yet commanding, the embodiment of grace and strength.
Behind her thundered the march of power—the twelve generals, each astride an armoured warhorse, their steel gleaming like mirrors of the sun. Rank upon rank of soldiers followed, their armour clashing like waves of iron, a living sea of heads and banners, surging into the capital streets with the force of a bursting dam. The ground itself quivered under their advance, the cobblestones rattling as though bowing in reverence to their emperor.
The crowds roared. Thousands of voices rose in fevered unison, cheers rolling like stormwinds across the city. Excitement grew so fierce that the very air seemed to vibrate. Yet, even amidst this euphoria, one question rose above all others—an anxious murmur threading through the shouting throngs:
"Where is the Emperor?"
The people strained their eyes, searching, longing for the one man whose presence defined the empire itself. Then, as if the procession itself had heard their yearning, movement rippled through the grand caravan.
With perfect synchronicity, the soldiers halted. The massive columns split down the middle, parting like curtains drawn aside for a sacred revelation. A corridor of anticipation opened, long and radiant with expectation.
And then he appeared.
A solitary rider emerged at the far end, astride a midnight-black steed whose hooves struck sparks against the stones. His crown—crafted of diamond and obsidian—caught the light, blazing brighter than a hundred torches. Yet it was not the crown that made him king in the eyes of his people, but the resplendent glow that clung to him, a light born not of riches or indulgence, but of an inborn majesty, the undeniable weight of destiny itself.
A hush fell. Some who had been shouting found their voices strangled in their throats, their cries collapsing into tears. Others lifted their arms as if reaching for him, but no sound escaped their lips, their awe too great, their throats too raw. It was as though the very soul of the empire had taken shape before them.
The Emperor had come.
"The chants swelled, thunderous and unrelenting—
"The black dragon! The black dragon! The black dragon!"
The words rolled like waves across the packed streets, crashing into one another until the roar became a living storm. The sheer force of their devotion rattled windows, shook banners, and drowned out every other sound.
Josh stood there, momentarily stunned. His heart, always armoured in restraint, trembled under the weight of that devotion. He had never expected this kind of love—raw, unrestrained, all-consuming. For a fleeting moment, he was glad he had come. Glad he hadn't hidden himself away, as he so often did.
Yet, amid the ocean of voices and the blinding heat of reverence, there lingered a shadow. It clung to him like an unseen veil, silent and unnoticed by all save the keen-eyed soldiers flanking him. Somewhere in that unseen current moved Naze—the blind swordsman. He was there, and yet not there, standing hidden in plain sight as though reality itself bent to keep him unseen. To most, he was a quiet relic, a forgotten man. To Josh, he was the silent dagger no one could anticipate.
The air shifted.
Without warning, the sky tore with a whistle. Thirteen arrows screamed forward, bursting from the treeline with violent explosions, their trails streaking with fire and smoke as they descended toward the emperor like judgment.
Gasps tore through the crowd. Mothers dragged children to the ground, men raised their arms in futility, but no one was quick enough. For a heartbeat, it seemed doom had arrived.
But Naze had already moved.
Though blind, he saw more clearly than any eye could. His aura flared—silent, immense, yet unseen by mortals. His blade flashed, and in that instant, time bent around him. He severed the arrows as if they were no more than stalks of grass beneath a farmer's sickle. Sparks and fragments scattered like fireflies before vanishing into smoke.
And then he was gone.
The people blinked, confused, their minds struggling to grasp what had happened. To them, it looked as if steel itself had leapt from the air, cut apart death, and vanished back into nothingness. They trembled, whispering, wondering if a god had intervened.
But far in the bushes, the assassins panicked.
One. Two. Three. Four. They had expected chaos, not a trap. Their blood chilled as soldiers burst forth from the undergrowth, blades gleaming, circling them with merciless precision. It was too fast. Too perfect. The assassins exchanged glances heavy with disbelief. Someone must have betrayed them, leaked their plans to the emperor. How else could the soldiers have been waiting for them so precisely?
But no betrayal had occurred.
The truth lay far above their understanding. The Great Archmage, Amber Nois, had already whispered of this danger to Emperor Josh Aratat. It was by his counsel that Josh chose this grand procession—not to bask in glory, as many had assumed, but to bait the shadows into action. While the people cheered, soldiers crept unseen, encircling the hidden assassins, ready to spring the moment their fangs were bared.
Now, caught in their own trap, the hunters had become the hunted.
"Halt, and surrender, and you may yet live. Resist…" The captain's voice carried like iron striking stone, sharp and unyielding. He didn't shout, yet every syllable rang across the hushed grove. "…and that will be the last act you ever commit."
His tone was so steady, so certain, that one would wonder if he wasn't standing before assassins at all, but unruly children. The soldiers flanking him tightened their formation, shields half-raised, blades gleaming in the fractured sunlight filtering through the leaves.
"One", the leading assassins—scarred across the cheek, lips twisted into a perpetual sneer—laughed harshly. "Ha! Just a band of farm-fed bumpkins. Do you really think you can cage us? We're trained assassins!" His hand went to the hilt of his dagger, ready to strike.
But the moment he lunged, his body betrayed him. His legs refused to move. A cold numbness seized his limbs, rooting him to the earth. Confusion flickered in his eyes—then dawning horror.
Mages.
There were mages in their ranks.
He had been so focused on the soldiers that he hadn't noticed the subtle circle etched in the soil, glowing faintly with sigils of binding. The realization came too late. His mouth opened to cry a warning, but the sound never left his throat.
The captain moved.
It was a single step, a blur of steel, and then silence. The assassin's head fell cleanly, rolling into the grass as his body crumpled like a puppet with its strings severed. The captain flicked the blood from his blade with practiced ease and sheathed it in one fluid motion, his face as calm as if he had merely trimmed a branch.
A collective shudder rippled through the other three assassins. Whatever pride or defiance they had melted under the sheer weight of what they had just seen. Their daggers slipped from trembling fingers, clattering uselessly to the ground. Slowly, almost desperately, they dropped to their knees and raised their hands in surrender.
The captain's eyes swept over them, cold and impassive. "Your choice," he said simply, as though their submission had already been carved into fate.
Soldiers surged forward, swift and disciplined, binding the assassins in enchanted chains and hauling them toward the emperor's procession.
The crowd, which had held its breath through the confrontation, now erupted like thunder. Awe and exhilaration poured from every throat.
"He cut him down as if he had eyes in the back of his head!" one shouted.
"Our emperor didn't even lift a finger," another gasped, nearly bouncing on his toes. "Did you see how calm he was? Not even a twitch of fear!"
"He knew they'd fail before they even tried!" cried a third, voice shrill with excitement. "And some fools still claim he hides in fear? Hah! It's because he's too powerful to waste his strength!"
Rumours, exaggerations, and praises cascaded through the air like wildfire. The legend of Emperor Josh Aratat, the Black Dragon, only grew taller in that moment.