I— Secrets in the Grand Hall
The grand hall of the palace felt colder than the spire I had just left, as if the walls themselves had absorbed the lingering mana of death from the arenas below. Every torch flickered against obsidian pillars, painting shadows that danced like predators stalking prey. I sank into a high-backed chair, making it appear casual—though each muscle in my body screamed alertness. The Princess and the King watched me like a ticking time bomb, eyes sharp, expressions neutral but impossibly calculating.
"Princess," I said, my voice slicing the silence like a dagger, "I'm not here for hospitality. I'm here for the truth—the messy, ugly kind. The secrets your history books conveniently skip."
The Princess blinked. Her fingers twitched over her gown, betraying nervous calculation. "Night… your aura… it's changed. Wind… I can feel it now. Forbidden even among the Seven Heroes. How… how is that possible?"
I smirked dryly, leaning back as my legs crossed like a sovereign indifferent to the room. "Let's just say… I bend the rules. Rules are for those who can't think outside the box."
Lyara shifted closer. Her pink aura shimmered softly, betraying her tension as she gripped my hand almost painfully tight. "Night… that creature—the one that melted my father… they call it a Demon Lord. Is it true? Is it… a god of death?"
I raised an eyebrow, suppressing a yawn. Demon Lord? If that's a Demon Lord, I'm apparently the King of Pop. Mentally, I poked Night. Listen to them, genius. They're treating a glorified bouncer like a god. Do we tell them the truth—or let them live happily in denial?
Night's low, guttural vibration echoed in my skull. "Brat, focus. Truth is heavy. You're not ready to carry it yet."
"Right… patience… sure," I muttered, rolling my eyes so hard I thought they might stay there.
The 50-Paise History Lesson
The Princess produced a tome, leather cracked and brittle with age. "The Zenith Chronicle," she said, voice reverent. "It recounts the Great War—when Goddesses summoned the Seven Heroes to save the world. It tells of Rank 4, who stands where the first royal blood was spilled."
Her words danced in lilting cadence as she recounted battles, heroics, and sacrifices. I tuned out instantly.
"Wait. Wait. Wait," I interrupted, waving my hand with exaggerated theatricality. "Princess, are you seriously reading me this? You actually believe this crap?"
The hall went silent. Even the guards froze, questioning whether I was insane—or worse, dangerously capable.
"This isn't history," I continued, voice dripping sarcastic venom. "This is pirated fanfiction. Plot holes you could drive a carriage through, pacing slower than a drunk snail, and characters with zero depth. Honestly? If this were a movie, I wouldn't give it fifty paise. Total flop."
Night groaned in my mind. Fifty paise? Movie? Brat… what language are you speaking?
"You just don't get it, fossil," I shot back mentally. They've been played. Someone deleted the truth, sold them a fairy tale, and here you are treating it as gospel."
I leaned forward, voice low and sharp, pointing at the Princess. "Your ancestors were… misled, Princess. Someone sold them a lie. And you're still paying the price."
Obsidian Surgery
Later, in a private study shrouded in shadows, I met with the High Minister and Lyara. Her pink aura glimmered, trembling with controlled intensity as she slid a parchment across the table—names of nobles and generals feeding secrets to the enemy.
I scanned the list, every name a dagger in the kingdom's flesh. I slammed the paper down. "This is the cancer eating your realm. I've done reconnaissance. Now you perform surgery. I don't want trials. I don't want excuses. By dawn, these names should be ink on a death register."
The Minister paled, lips quivering. "This… this is a bloodbath, Night. These men—powerful, influential—"
"Then find a bigger bucket," I interrupted, voice ice. "Better a messy court than corpses in the streets."
Lyara's grip tightened. Her pink aura pulsed with unspoken agreement. She was ready to fight beside me, bleed beside me, and die beside me if necessary.
The Final Choice
Stepping into the cool night air, I felt the weight of the Forbidden Desert pulling at me, whispering challenges I hadn't yet faced.
"First Kingdom?" I asked Night.
"No," he replied sharply. "The First Kingdom is a trap for the arrogant. We are not ready. Rank 4… she doesn't just fight—she reshapes the world to bury you."
Night's rare fear prickled the hairs on my neck. The legendary predator afraid of a girl. Silence pressed around me, heavier than the desert sands below.
I stared at the horizon. Shadows stretched across dunes, secrets hidden beneath the sand. And I realized: if the script of this world was a lie, I would write the ending myself. If it meant walking through a goddess of clay, through death, through darkness, I would. Even if it cost me more than fifty paise.
I smirked. "Let's see who's really writing the story now."