The throne of the Ninth Abyssal Seat was not carved of gold.
Nor iron.
Nor bone.
It was carved of authority.
Cold, unyielding, silent authority.
Simon sat upon it as though he had always been meant to—shoulders relaxed, expression blank, hands resting on the armrests. Not like a king hungry for power, nor a tyrant drunk on it.
But like someone who regarded a throne the same way he regarded a stone to sit on while sharpening a blade.
The castle hall was vast and hollow, a cathedral of old ruin and darker memory. Rib-like pillars stretched upward, shadows clung to corners like parasites, and a faint whisper of old souls trembled beneath the black marble floor.
The previous king's presence still lingered here like rot.
Eras stood a respectful distance before him—hands folded, head lowered, posture equal parts obedient and calculating.
Simon's voice broke the stillness, calm and matter-of-fact.
"Report."
Eras straightened slightly.
"Yes, my lord."
He gestured toward the hall's entrance.
In marched the soldiers of the Ninth Domain.
If they could be called soldiers.
Misshapen forms.
Bipedal only in the most generous definition of the word.
Hollow eyes.
Rotten claws.
Body shapes warped as if grown in pain rather than born.
Some dragged their feet like beasts broken by leash.
Others stared blankly as if nothing existed beyond this room.
They lined up in shambling rows—creatures of war without mind.
Simon's eyes remained still, cold.
He had seen monsters.
He had fought them, bled against them, learned from them.
But these… were not monsters.
They were leftovers.
"Is this all?" he asked quietly.
Eras' throat tightened.
He bowed low.
"Yes, my lord. These are the forces that remain under the banner of the Ninth Abyss."
A slow, unsettling silence settled like dust.
Simon didn't sigh.
Didn't show disappointment.
But there was a sharpness behind his eyes.
These soldiers were not warriors.
They were failures.
"Where are the intelligent ones?" he asked.
Eras hesitated.
Spine stiff.
His voice lowered, heavy with shame.
"…Lord Orba executed them."
Simon stared at him.
"All of them?"
"Yes."
There was something else in Eras' tone.
Guilt?
Resentment?
Or survival instinct twisted over decades?
Simon didn't need to guess.
He already knew the truth beneath it all:
Orba had been so afraid of being challenged… that he had cut out his own future to protect the present.
Weak kings hoard power by killing potential threats.
Real kings cultivate threats—then surpass them.
"…He feared losing the throne," Simon murmured.
Eras' head lowered further.
"He feared even shadows in empty rooms, my lord. He believed true safety only existed in solitude."
Simon tapped a finger on the throne arm—soft, rhythmic, thoughtful.
Solitude.
Fear.
Paranoia.
Orba had lived like prey masquerading as predator.
Pathetic.
"And you survived," Simon stated.
Eras froze.
He looked up cautiously—eyes searching for accusation, suspicion, judgment.
"I survived because… Orba saw me as harmless."
A confession.
Bare, vulnerable, threaded with bitterness swallowed over decades.
Simon studied him.
Eras had chosen humility over death.
Submission over ambition.
But submission was not loyalty.
It was adaptation.
"You feared him," Simon said.
Eras lowered his gaze again—not denying. Not daring.
"Yes, my lord."
Simon leaned forward slightly.
"Do you fear me?"
This time, Eras hesitated.
Not long—just a heartbeat.
But long enough to speak volumes.
"…I do not understand you, my lord. That is… frightening in its own way."
Honest.
Simon's lips twitched—almost amusement, but not quite.
He appreciated honesty.
It simplified calculations.
"You do not need to fear me," he said evenly.
"So long as you remain useful."
Eras bowed deep, relief and discipline intertwined.
"I will serve. This kingdom has waited too long for a ruler who looks forward, not backward."
Simon lifted his gaze toward the shambling soldiers once again.
The Ninth Domain… had been abandoned by its own king before Simon even arrived.
A dead kingdom.
Rotting from cowardice.
Reduced to beasts and ruins.
Good.
A kingdom broken could be rebuilt.
But only if it was first cleansed.
"Eras," Simon said, voice calm.
"Yes, my lord?"
"Dispose of the worthless."
Eras blinked—shock flickering too fast to hide.
"M-My lord?"
Simon didn't repeat himself.
He didn't need to.
These creatures had no thought.
No discipline.
No future.
They weren't soldiers.
They were liabilities.
And Simon did not build from rotten foundations.
Eras swallowed.
"By… what method shall they be disposed, my lord?"
Simon closed his eyes briefly.
Void pulsed faintly beneath his skin—cold, emotionless, precise.
His voice was quiet, deadly.
"Burn them. Bury the ashes beneath the castle."
A king rebuilds by removing rot.
Eras bowed deeply.
"As you command."
He did not question further.
He did not argue.
He had seen the difference between cruelty and necessity.
This was not cruelty.
This was beginning.
When the hall emptied, nothing remained but silence—and opportunity.
No advisors.
No generals.
No nobles.
No court.
Just Simon and a throne waiting to be filled with meaning again.
Eras returned, expression serious.
"My lord… the Ninth Domain has no structure. No chain of command. No council. The previous king ruled alone, trusting no one."
Simon nodded once.
"He failed."
Eras lowered his head in agreement.
"Yes."
Simon stood, cloak whispering like midnight fog.
"Then we build anew."
Eras' eyes widened—not in fear this time, but in quiet awe.
"What is your will, my lord?"
Simon spoke as he walked, steps steady, tone almost indifferent.
"One throne requires three pillars."
Eras listened intently.
"Strength."
"The ability to enforce rule."
"Mind."
"The ability to strategize and foresee."
"And loyalty."
"The foundation upon which trust is built."
Eras murmured under his breath, reverent.
"A triad… the structure of primordial thrones…"
Simon continued.
"I will rebuild forces.
Train new soldiers.
Construct a network."
Eras exhaled slowly.
"And the third pillar?"
Simon turned to him.
"I trusted Orba enough to stand near him."
Eras stiffened.
"And in the end… only one of us walked away."
Eras nodded once, solemn.
"The Ninth Domain will rise, my lord."
Simon's voice lowered, a whisper without warmth.
"It will."
---
Later, alone, Simon stood at a balcony overlooking the dead lands of the Ninth Domain.
Desolate.
Silent.
Forgotten.
He inhaled.
His heartbeat was slow, steady, unnervingly quiet.
He felt… nothing.
No thrill at his throne.
No pride.
No excitement.
Only purpose.
Power was not something he chased.
It was something he took, because it was necessary.
The abyss did not yet understand him.
But soon… it would.
He spoke softly to the empty air—words only the stones would witness.
"A king is not crowned by power. He is crowned by inevitability."