The morning inside the Empire was colder than usual.
Clouds hung low over the black towers, scattering the sunlight into faint silver mist. The city below moved slowly, people opening shops, guards switching shifts, the air humming softly with life.
Dantero walked down one of the inner corridors with Rykaou following behind. Both carried the calm of travelers who had seen too much and slept too little.
Dantero: The Emperor's still asleep. We got time before he wakes up.
Rykaou: Then what now?
Dantero: You'll like this part. There's a place here that never sleeps either.
He led the way through an archway that opened into a vast hall.
The Library of the Empire.
It wasn't built like a normal building. It spiraled. Shelves bent upward and sideways, filled with books from thousands of worlds, their titles written in languages that no longer existed. Crystals floated above, giving off pale blue light that shimmered across the floors. The air smelled like old parchment and lightning.
Rykaou slowed down, eyes wide.
Rykaou: This place... it feels alive.
Dantero: It is. The Empire gathers everything. Every story, every record, every piece of history that refuses to die.
They stepped inside. The echoes of their boots vanished almost instantly, swallowed by the stillness.
And there he was.
Sereon Vaize.
He sat alone at a circular table near the center, surrounded by open tomes. His long silver-smoked hair fell freely down his back, catching the faint light like strands of moonlight. His skin was pale, smooth, unblemished. His eyes — parchment gold — moved slowly across a page, calm and steady.
He wore layered robes of black and dark gray, trimmed with subtle shifting symbols that moved across the fabric like reflections in water. He didn't look up when they entered. He just kept reading.
Dantero stopped beside him, crossing his arms.
Dantero: Guess we're not the only ones up early.
Sereon's voice was soft. Controlled. Almost too calm.
Sereon: Morning is when silence listens best.
Dantero smirked.
Dantero: Poetic. You write that yourself, or steal it from one of these books?
Sereon finally looked up. His gaze was light — not cold, not warm, just perfectly balanced.
Sereon: Words don't belong to anyone. They only choose who speaks them.
Rykaou frowned slightly.
Rykaou: You talk like someone who thinks too much.
Sereon: Thinking too little is worse.
Dantero chuckled and leaned against a nearby shelf.
Dantero: You from here?
Sereon: No. Passing through.
Dantero: Everyone says that before staying forever.
Sereon closed the book slowly, fingers brushing over the ancient cover.
Sereon: Perhaps. The Empire has that effect on people.
Rykaou stepped closer, curious.
Rykaou: What are you reading?
Sereon turned the cover for him to see.
It was one of the oldest records — Chronicles of the Shadow Emperor.
Dantero whistled quietly.
Dantero: You really picked the heavy stuff. Most people can't even read that language.
Sereon: Most people don't try.
Rykaou: Why are you studying him?
Sereon's eyes lingered on the page before answering.
Sereon: Curiosity. Power like his doesn't appear twice in existence. I want to know what makes it real.
Dantero: You sound like a fan.
Sereon: Fascination isn't worship.
Rykaou: Then what is it?
Sereon: Observation. Understanding. Testing the edges of what can't be explained.
Dantero grinned.
Dantero: That's a fancy way of saying you're obsessed.
Sereon: Maybe. But obsession built this Empire long before I arrived.
Rykaou studied him quietly.
Rykaou: You don't feel like anyone else here.
Sereon's expression didn't change.
Sereon: Maybe I'm not.
Dantero: You hiding something?
Sereon: Aren't we all?
Dantero laughed.
Dantero: Fair point.
Sereon stood, sliding the book shut with careful precision. He was taller than he looked sitting down — straight posture, slow movements, almost too perfect.
Sereon: The Emperor will wake soon. When he does, everything will start moving again.
Rykaou: You sound like you're waiting for it.
Sereon: Everyone is. They just lie differently about why.
Dantero: And why are you waiting?
Sereon met his gaze. Calm. Steady. No emotion.
Sereon: Because truth is only proven when power stirs.
He turned slightly, placing the book back on its shelf.
Dantero: You talk like you've already met him.
Sereon: Not yet. But I will.
Dantero: You sure about that?
Sereon: I've never been unsure of anything.
Rykaou frowned.
Rykaou: That's dangerous.
Sereon: So is ignorance.
The silence that followed was heavy, but not hostile. Just full — like the air before a storm.
Dantero stretched, breaking the tension.
Dantero: Alright, Philosopher. Enjoy your reading. We'll get out of your... deep thoughts.
Sereon nodded once.
Sereon: Do that. And tell the Emperor, when he wakes, that I was here.
Dantero paused.
Dantero: You expecting him to remember your name?
Sereon: He will. Eventually.
Rykaou gave him one last look before walking out. There was something strange about the man, no energy, no presence, but a weight that couldn't be ignored.
Dantero glanced back over his shoulder as they reached the door.
Sereon was already seated again, reading quietly, eyes steady on the page.
Dantero: (quietly) That guy's gonna be trouble.
Rykaou: You think?
Dantero: I know.
Rykaou: (whispering) He reeks with a manipulator's smell.
Dantero: You can smell that too?
They stepped out. The doors closed.
The library went silent again.
Sereon read another line. His reflection in the glass of the candlelight shifted, smiling faintly though his face did not.
Sereon: Dark...
He turned the page.
Sereon glanced toward the door.
Sereon: (thinking) Gonna be a "trouble," huh? How fascinating.
He closed the book with quiet finality. The sound echoed through the endless library like a small crack in eternity. His movement was slow, deliberate. He stood, back straight, gaze unreadable.
A thin smile crept onto his lips — so faint it almost wasn't there.
He began walking toward the exit. Each step landed with silent precision, measured, rehearsed.
Sereon: (thinking) Twelve years. Another step closer.
He stopped beside a candle resting on a marble pillar. Its flame flickered when he looked at it, as if unsure whether to keep burning.
Sereon reached into his pocket and withdrew a small pair of silver-rimmed glasses. The glass caught the blue light and shimmered. He put them on slowly, the reflection hiding his eyes.
Sereon: (quietly) The Emperor sleeps, but his shadow still breathes. How poetic.
He smiled again — gentle, harmless, perfectly human.
Then he left the library.
The world shifted.
Inside Dark's mind, the silence was absolute.
He sat suspended in nothingness. The black floor beneath him was not solid — it was simply there. Four chains stretched from his wrists and ankles into the surrounding void, vanishing into the dark like whispers swallowed by an endless sea.
No light. No horizon. Just breathing.
Slow. Heavy.
Dark's head hung low, hair falling across his face.
Dark: ...
He exhaled. The sound broke the quiet.
Dark: Get up.
His voice was rough, quiet, almost detached.
Dark: Get the fuck up. Come on me... come on.
He pulled weakly at the chains. They rattled, faintly echoing in the void.
Dark: There are people waiting for me. People still counting on me.
The air rippled as a figure began to rise from the floor — massive, armored, head bowed.
Igor: My Emperor.
Dark raised his eyes.
Dark: Igor. I'm unconscious, aren't I?
Igor: You are.
Dark: Thought so.
He sat up slightly, the chains straining.
Dark: Listen to me carefully.
Igor bowed lower.
Dark: I need you to use your God Killer longsword... or whatever you call it, and pierce my heart.
Igor hesitated.
Igor: That would kill—
Dark: Silence. Don't worry about whether I die. There's someone I need to see, but I can't while I'm asleep. So I'll force death, skip it, and come back.
Igor: Understood.
He rose fully. The blade on his back gleamed as he drew it — the sound heavy, deep, almost metallic thunder.
As the weapon left its sheath, black and red energy rippled outward.
Even outside — in the real world — that power leaked through.
Inside the Empire, civilians looked up from their morning routines.
Merchant: Is Igor training again?
Guard: If that's training, I don't wanna see him fight.
The tremor passed through streets and towers like a heartbeat, then faded.
Back inside the void, Igor raised the sword.
Dark: Do it.
Steel met flesh.
A pulse burst outward — a single blinding flash that shattered the chains and sent Dark's form dissolving into dust.
Then everything inverted.
The Realm of the Dead opened before him.
Gray skies stretched endlessly. The ground glowed faintly beneath layers of mist. Souls drifted by like aimless dust, quiet and unknowing.
Dark stood there, brushing off his cloak as if shaking off sleep.
Dark: Right. Still hate this place.
He walked forward until a familiar voice broke through the fog.
Zyke: Dark? What the hell are you doing here? Did you die again?
Dark: Nah. Just visiting.
Zyke squinted.
Zyke: You killed yourself to visit me?
Dark: No. Igor stabbed me. I wrapped my heart in darkness, paused the dying process. Simple.
Zyke: You paused dying.
Dark: Pretty much.
Zyke rubbed the back of his neck.
Zyke: You're unbelievable.
Dark: I've been told.
Zyke: Alright then, what's this about?
Dark: You remember when I stopped the End — when Cosmic turned into that cursed form?
Zyke: Yeah. What about it?
Dark: I figured something out. Turns out I can take other people's Power Sources. Dead, alive — doesn't matter. If they're alive, they have to offer it.
Zyke blinked.
Zyke: You can take them?
Dark: Borrow. Temporarily. Maybe permanently. I don't know.
Zyke: How many have you... borrowed?
Dark shrugged.
Dark: Sixteen? Seventeen? I don't count.
Zyke just stared at him.
Zyke: Sixteen Power Sources. You're an idiot.
Dark: You're not the first to say that.
Zyke sighed deeply.
Zyke: I'm calling Yenshin.
Dark: Oh great, the formal one.
Zyke: He's still mad you called him "Gandalf in depression."
Dark: It was accurate.
Zyke ignored him and closed his eyes. The air brightened. The gray mist split into light.
Footsteps echoed — slow, heavy, composed.
Yenshin emerged, his black robes trailing smoke that dissolved into gold at the edges. His eyes glowed faintly. His voice carried calm, but also weight.
Yenshin: Emperor Dark. It has been too long.
Dark nodded faintly.
Dark: Good to see you too, Yenshin.
Yenshin: Thou walkest once more where mortals are not meant to tread.
Dark turned to Zyke.
Dark: Translation.
Zyke: He said, "You weren't supposed to show up here again."
Dark: Got it.
Yenshin: Thy disregard for law is as vast as ever. Yet thy presence does not offend me.
Dark: That's your polite way of saying you missed me.
Yenshin's lips twitched. Almost a smile.
Yenshin: I see that humor persists even where death reigns.
Zyke: That's his survival mechanism.
Yenshin: So it would seem.
Yenshin took a slow step closer, his gaze piercing through Dark's shadowed aura. His brow furrowed slightly.
Yenshin: Sixteen... Power Sources reside within thee.
Dark shrugged.
Dark: Roughly.
Zyke: He means that's insane.
Yenshin: Indeed. Thou art a storm confined within a vessel of bone and will. It is unnatural.
Dark: Story of my life.
Before Yenshin could respond, the fog shifted again. The realm trembled.
A pulse — deep, low, distant — rolled across the horizon.
Yenshin straightened instantly.
Yenshin: He comes.
Dark: Who?
Zyke: You'll see.
From the haze, a figure approached — tall, silver-haired, eyes empty black. His movements were slow, graceful, like someone learning how to move inside a corpse.
Dark's expression changed.
Dark: That's Ijishi.
Zyke: Yeah. But not really.
Yenshin lowered his head slightly.
Yenshin: Father.
The voice that answered was layered and vast — Death speaking through flesh.
Death: I am no father to what still pretends to be alive.
The sound was heavy enough to warp the air. The fog bent inward around every word.
Death turned its gaze toward Dark.
Death: Mortal Emperor. The one who slew the End and still breathes.
Dark stayed silent. His eyes narrowed slightly.
Death: I have not seen a living being carry such contradiction. Sixteen lights. Sixteen hungers. Sixteen cores stitched into a single shell.
The realm began to flicker. The camera shifted — Death's vision, his perception.
To Death, the world looked nothing like fog. It was alive — throbbing, bleeding, painted in light. Souls burned like lanterns, fading one by one. And at the center of it all stood Dark.
He was unrecognizable.
His body was no longer shape or shadow — it was a storm of energy.
Sixteen Power Sources spun inside him, each one carved from a different reality. Crimson fire. Golden pulse. Blue frost. Black void. Green storm. Violet fracture. White flame.
Each beat at its own rhythm, yet all obeyed one heart.
Death: To hold sixteen and stand unbroken. Even the gods that birthed universes cracked beneath half that burden.
Dark: Guess I'm built different.
Zyke muttered under his breath.
Zyke: He actually said that to Death.
Yenshin kept his eyes down, but the corner of his mouth almost moved.
Death circled Dark slowly, his voice rumbling like collapsing stone.
Death: I see ruin bound by will. A creature stitched from defiance. Tell me, Emperor... do you even know what you've become?
Dark: Not really. Don't care either as long ad I achieve my dream, that's it.
Death paused.
Death: Then you are more dangerous than even.... Void.
For a moment, silence ruled again. The air itself seemed to hold its breath. Dark's eyebrow raised slightly.
Dark: V-Void?
Then Death smiled, faint, monstrous, human.
Death: Fascinating.
Dark stared back, calm, unmoved.
The Realm of the Dead stilled around them — not by choice, but by awe. Death's gaze lingered a moment longer, cold and curious, before fading into the mist. The echo of his voice lingered like thunder rolling past distant mountains.
Death: We will speak again, Emperor.
Dark didn't answer. He just turned, his figure dissolving into shadow. The fog folded in on itself until there was nothing left but silence.
And then, the light returned.
The world above stirred once more.
The Empire's sky pulsed faintly with morning heat, clouds scattering over the colossal towers. The hum of life was steady, rhythmic, alive — yet something felt heavier, as if the ground itself knew its Emperor's heart had just started beating again.
Far from the citadel, deep within the inner districts, lay the Grand Arena of Shadows — a circular expanse larger than entire cities, carved from black stone and threaded with faint gold veins that glowed like living magma.
The arena was no ordinary structure. It floated within its own dimensional pocket, suspended above the Empire's capital, enclosed by barriers of pure energy strong enough to hold back a god's strike. Magic circles shimmered in the air, woven together by the Empire's Archmages to contain anything short of the Emperor himself.
Crowds gathered along the upper terraces — soldiers, merchants, scholars, travelers — all drawn by the sound that thundered through the air.
The sound of battle.
Dantero moved first.
He slid across the polished obsidian floor, boots sparking with friction. His coat flared as he twisted, dodging a streak of silver energy that cracked the air beside him.
Rykaou stood across from him, breathing steady, eyes sharp. His hair flicked with each movement, beast-like reflexes keeping his body balanced, calm, predatory.
Dantero: Not bad, kid. You're finally learning to aim.
Rykaou: I'm aiming at your head.
Dantero grinned.
Dantero: Then you missed.
He lunged forward, blade flashing into existence — a curved, dark-steel weapon lined with faint crimson light. It hummed as it cut through the air.
Rykaou blocked with his forearm, the impact sending a shockwave across the floor. Dust lifted, magic rippled through the barrier walls. The watching crowd flinched as the containment runes glowed brighter.
Observer: They'll break the seal at this rate!
Mage: Impossible. The Emperor himself reinforced it.
The air thickened again. Rykaou's aura flared — dark-green energy twisting like storms trapped inside his veins. His pupils thinned, beast instincts bleeding through.
Rykaou: Don't hold back.
Dantero smirked, brushing a hand across his weapon.
Dantero: You say that like I ever do.
He vanished.
One heartbeat.
Then, a sudden collision.
A burst of light tore across the field as both struck simultaneously. The impact shook the entire arena, the protective barriers rippling like waves. From above, the sky reflected their movements — two streaks of color clashing, spinning, breaking apart.
A young soldier leaned forward on the balcony.
Soldier: Are they training or trying to kill each other?
Old Guard: With Dantero? Same thing.
The audience laughed softly, tension easing for a moment, even in this empire built on gods and monsters, seeing such raw power used in sport was something worth watching.
Dantero landed first, skidding back, boots dragging sparks.
Dantero: You've gotten faster.
Rykaou: You've gotten louder.
Dantero laughed.
Dantero: That's my charm.
Rykaou: It's a curse.
Dantero raised his blade, grin widening.
Dantero: Then pray I never lift it.
He charged again.
This time, Rykaou met him head-on. Claws burst from his fingertips, lined with glowing marks that pulsed with primal mana. The floor cracked beneath their steps as they collided once more, steel against beast, precision against instinct.
The energy blast rolled across the field, hitting the barrier like a tidal wave. The runes flared white, keeping the destruction inside. Spectators shielded their eyes from the glow.
Dantero leaped backward, landing lightly, spinning his sword in one hand.
Dantero: Alright. That's enough for round one.
Rykaou straightened, claws fading back into flesh.
Rykaou: You giving up?
Dantero: I'm pacing myself. The Emperor's heartbeat just flared again. You feel that?
Rykaou paused. His senses sharpened instantly.
He closed his eyes. Beneath the roar of the crowd, beneath the hum of magic, there it was — faint but real. The pulse. The echo of Dark's energy spreading across the Empire.
Rykaou: He's awake.
Dantero: Told you. Could feel it in the air.
The crowd didn't know it yet, but the ground itself did. The Empire's towers hummed faintly, as if bowing to something unseen.
Dantero sheathed his sword, resting it over his shoulder.
Dantero: Alright, rookie. Time to wrap this up.
Rykaou: You want a rematch already?
Dantero: Later. Right now, we've got company.
Rykaou tilted his head.
Rykaou: Who?
Dantero turned toward the gates at the far end of the arena, massive doors of black metal slowly opening.
Light spilled through the gap, bright and sharp. A figure walked through the glow, coat swaying, hair still untamed, expression unreadable.
Dantero's grin returned immediately.
Dantero: Guess who's back from his nap.
The crowd hushed. Every sound, every movement, stopped.
Rykaou felt it before he even saw him, the pressure, the cold weight of recognition. The Emperor's presence.
Dark walked into the arena, calm as silence itself.
The light bent slightly around him.
Every soul in the Empire felt it, the pulse that followed.
The Emperor had returned.
To Be Continued.
End Of Chapter 7.