The great hall of the Ghost Land palace loomed with eerie silence, its obsidian walls glistening under the dim glow of enchanted torches.
Yaron sat on his throne, his fingers curled into a tight fist against his temple, his expression dark and brooding. The weight of his failure sat heavily upon him, a shame that gnawed at his pride like a vulture tearing at carrion. His kingdom—his legacy—teetered on the edge of ruin, all because of that damned gunslinger.
(That boy… that worthless host of a mere rare-level beast… How did he best me?) Yaron's thoughts seethed with frustration, his teeth grinding behind his tight-lipped scowl. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Nebula—calm, calculating, defiant—standing above him in triumph. The very memory burned like acid in his soul.
But before he could wallow further in his humiliation, a sudden, violent disturbance outside the palace walls shattered his brooding. A commotion—shouts of alarm, the unmistakable clash of steel, and then—
Crash!
A bone-chilling gust of wind roared into the palace, scattering loose papers and extinguishing several enchanted torches. The heavy entrance doors groaned on their hinges as they buckled under the weight of an airborne figure—a palace guard—his body slamming into the marble floor with a sickening crunch. A final, despairing gasp escaped his lips before his body stilled forever, his guardian beast dissolving into lifeless ash beside him.
Yaron's eyes snapped toward the wreckage, his grip on his throne tightening. His heartbeat was steady, but his blood boiled.
"Who dares?"
And then, a figure emerged through the swirling frost that now lingered in the palace air. A broad-shouldered man with a chiseled, battle-scarred face. His graying beard framed a cruel smirk, and his piercing eyes gleamed with ruthless amusement. The heavy weight of his decorated military coat swayed slightly as he strode forward, flanked by two monstrous dire wolves—both of them twice the size of an ordinary beast, their pale eyes soulless, their snarling muzzles dripping with the remnants of their last kill.
Yaron's lips curled in disgust.
"Commander Marcus." He spat the name like venom, rising from his throne with slow, deliberate fury.
The seasoned officer came to a slow halt, his boots clicking against the polished marble as he glanced around, taking in the throne room like a conqueror surveying a defeated land.
"King Yaron," he finally spoke, his voice smooth yet edged with mockery. "It's been a while."
Yaron's muscles tensed, his aura simmering with restrained violence. "What brings you here?" he asked, his tone dangerously low. The air in the hall thickened with tension, the temperature seeming to drop further.
Marcus, unbothered by the king's simmering rage, merely smirked wider. "Oh, you know why I'm here," he said, the amusement in his voice like a dagger laced with poison. "But before we speak further…"
He turned toward the ruined entrance with an exaggerated bow, his voice ringing with an eerie reverence. "Pay your respects to Her Ladyship, Emissary Arugula."
At the utterance of that name, Yaron's scowl faltered. His breath hitched.
Cold sweat gathered on his brow as, from the icy threshold, she appeared.
Seductively poised but radiating an oppressive presence, Arugula walked forward with the measured grace of a predator indulging in a slow hunt. Her high-collared, exotic military coat was embroidered with golden insignias of the Gog Empire, billowing slightly with each step. Her hands rested calmly in her pockets, exuding an effortless confidence that spoke of absolute authority.
And behind her…
The four veiled priestesses of the Gog Empire glided in unison, their faces obscured but their voices eerily clear. A haunting hymn resonated through the chamber, an unnatural chorus that seeped into the very stone, vibrating through the walls like the whispers of vengeful spirits.
Arugula's piercing amber eyes burned like molten gold beneath the shadow of her military cap, locking onto Yaron with an intensity that sent an unspoken feeling of intimidation rippling through the air.
The Ghost Land king swallowed hard, his pride momentarily eclipsed by the sheer terror of the woman approaching him. For all his strength and ruthlessness, he had never felt so suffocated. So… powerless.
A sultry smirk curved Arugula's lips as she moved forward in a slow, sensual, deliberate stride, the sharp clicks of her black high-heeled boots resonating against the polished marble like the ticking of an executioner's clock.
Every step she took was an absolution of control, of power, of a fate already sealed.
Beside her, Marcus remained bowed, his smirk hidden, while the veiled priestesses behind them halted their eerie hymn in perfect synchrony. The sudden silence that followed was suffocating, the ghostly echoes of their chant still lingering in the air like an unshaken omen.
Then, without a shred of warmth, Arugula exhaled, her breath misting slightly in the unnatural cold that now clung to the chamber. She drank in the sight before her—the once-mighty king of the Ghost Land, gripping his axe as if it were his last tether to power.
"Kneel." She issued her command without so much as a hint of hesitation.
Her voice was soft, yet laced with an arrogance that suggested she did not request obedience. She expected it.
Yaron stiffened, his fingers clenching tightly around the handle of his battle axe. His pride was a rotting wound, and though fear crawled beneath his skin, his defiance burned hotter. The veins on his arms bulged as he gripped his weapon tighter, his knuckles turning white.
"I answer only to your lord, Aragus," he growled through gritted teeth. "Besides, I am still king—"
"—Not for long."
Arugula's interruption was smooth, effortless. She lifted a hand, brushing her gloved fingers against the edge of her military cap, adjusting it ever so slightly as if Yaron's words had barely registered in her mind. The smirk on her lips deepened, twisting into something more sinister.
A vein pulsed on Yaron's temple, his left eye twitching. "Tsk… What did you just say?" His voice had turned guttural, laced with barely contained fury.
But Arugula tilted her head slightly, amusement flashing across her face as she let his rage simmer, basking in the pleasure of his unraveling composure. She merely shifted her weight, resting one hand idly on the perfect curve of her waist as she spoke his name with exaggerated arrogance.
"Yaron Plague."
The deliberate use of his full name sent a cold chill racing down his spine.
"You failed to capture neither the Guardian Vessel nor the Guardianless Criminal," she continued, her voice now edged with a venomous condescension.
"I almost had them!" Yaron snapped defensively, but the moment the words left his mouth, he realized his mistake.
Arugula's smirk vanished.
Her expression sharpened, the playfulness shifting into something dark and cold. "Almost?" she repeated, her tone now lethal. "That is no answer befitting an emissary's expectations."
A heavy silence settled over the chamber.
Then, with a slow, fluid motion, she shifted, her entire posture morphing from passive superiority to something far more dangerous. A predator assessing its prey. A judge preparing to deliver a final sentence.
"From this moment forth," she declared, each word carrying the weight of an iron decree, "our prior negotiations are void. The Ghost Land will cease to be yours."
A tremor of realization ran through the guards stationed along the throne room walls. Eyes darted between the two figures—between the king whose reign now hung by a thread and the woman who held the blade poised to cut it.
Yaron's breath hitched, his composure cracking as pure, unfiltered rage took hold.
"Never!"
With a mad roar, he lunged forward, his muscles coiling with violent intent. His battle axe gleamed under the torchlight, its arc promising death.
Simultaneously, his guardian beast—Nakamui—erupted into existence behind him. The Minotaur's jagged horns bared, its eyes gleaming like blood-soaked rubies. A roar ripped from its throat as it lunged alongside its master, the floor beneath them splintering from sheer force.
But Arugula…
She did not flinch.
Instead, her lips curled once more—this time, into a smile of pure, unrestrained murder.
Then—
The moment was over before anyone, including Yaron himself, could comprehend what had happened.
One second ago, he was mid-lunge, his battle axe gleaming in a deadly arc—his guardian beast, Nakamui, roaring in sync with his fury. And the next second—
—nothing.
A sickening splurch! echoed through the grand throne room.
Then, without warning—shrrrkkk!
He was torn apart.
His entire body exploded mid-air as though unseen blades had sliced through his very existence. Flesh, bone, and sinew were ripped into grotesque shreds, his limbs scattering in different directions like discarded scraps of parchment. His axe clattered uselessly to the ground, now held by no hand. The once-proud king had been reduced to nothing more than a splattered rain of crimson, his blood misting across the palace walls, painting them in streaks of his failure.
The few remaining palace guards gawked in sheer horror, their faces drained of color, unable to even process the death of their king.
Only two individuals in the room remained unfazed.
Marcus stood there, arms crossed, watching the spectacle with an amused grin, his breath escaping in an awed chuckle. Then, he let out a delighted, cruel laugh.
"Hahaha! The Basilisk's Death Gaze…!" His voice was laced with twisted admiration. "I can never get used to witnessing such a beautiful ability."
His eyes flickered toward the massive Minotaur that had once stood as Yaron's guardian beast—now dissolving into lifeless ash, its monstrous form crumbling piece by piece.
"Alas," Marcus sighed, shaking his head in mock disappointment, "what a shame. A myth-level beast of such quality… wasted. If only I could've absorbed it before its master's fall."
Meanwhile, at the epicenter of the carnage, bathed in the warm spray of Yaron's lifeblood, stood Arugula.
Her pristine military coat, once immaculate, was now flecked with crimson splashes. Yet she remained unbothered. She exhaled softly, a whisper of disinterest crossing her face as she tilted her head slightly.
Her right eye, which had briefly burned with an unnatural green glow, dimmed once more, fading back into its usual amber hue. With a casual movement, she adjusted her military cap, then swept a strand of her blue hair to the side, her expression betraying nothing but boredom.
"Tch," she clicked her tongue in disappointment. "He fell too easily. What a waste of time."
She hadn't even needed to go all out.
Then, without another glance at the corpse-strewn palace, she turned on her heel, retreating from the bloodstained palace floor as though stepping away from an uninteresting painting.
"Marcus!" she called out.
The commander immediately straightened, his amusement momentarily replaced by obedient focus. "Your Emissary," he responded, bowing his head slightly.
Arugula's next words came without hesitation, her voice sharp as a blade.
"Mobilize the army. Round up every single Ghostlander. If any of them resist—cut them down where they stand."
A sick grin stretched across Marcus' face. "With pleasure, Your Emissary."
As Arugula strode out of the throne room, the four priestesses followed in perfect unison, their veiled forms gliding across the blood-soaked floor. Their haunting hymns resumed once more. The melody was neither cheerful nor sorrowful—it was an incantation of inevitability. A dirge for the fallen, a declaration of fate for the soon-to-be subjugated.
Just as Arugula reached the massive ruined palace doors, Marcus spoke up once more.
"And what of our escaped prizes—Princess Naritsa and the Guardianless Criminal?" he inquired, curiosity and amusement dancing in his voice.
Arugula continued walking, her boots clicking methodically against the blood-slicked floor. She did not pause. She did not look back.
Instead, a slow, menacing smile curled across her lips as she responded.
"Simple," she purred, her voice laced with dark amusement.
"We place irresistible bounties on their heads—including the heads of those who helped them escape this land."
Then, without another word, she disappeared into the crimson-stained dawn.