Solren stood still, his gaze locked onto Kevin's unmoving body sprawled across the barren ground. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest—subtle yet undeniable—proved that the man was still alive.
Solren moved closer.
"Wow, to think this bastard survived several consecutive thunderbolts," he said while kicking him slowly and carefully, making sure not to wake him somehow.
After all, his luck had proved to be quite bad today.
Solren felt an itch to finish this monster once and for all. But the thought of discovering the secrets behind his enigmatic power and explosive growth held him back.
SIGH.
He looked around before sighing, knowing that to get out of this desert, he would have to call for help.
"I hate situations like this," he murmured with an ugly expression.
Solren slipped his hand into the inner pocket of his pants and pulled out a slim, smartphone-like device, dialing a number saved with the emoticon of a middle finger.
The device was similar to the one Isla used to call for help—just far slimmer, more flexible, and significantly advanced.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
"Hmm," a voice came from the other side.
Solren took a deep breath.
"Hey, Alaric, you see—I need a very teeny, tiny favor from you,"
Solren said, trying to make his request sound as unimportant as possible.
SIGH.
A sigh came from the other side.
Solren knew exactly what was coming, so for his convenience, he moved the device slightly away from his ear.
And just as he had expected—
"You piece of sh#t, you dirty bit#h. Don't tell me you called me in the middle of the night to ask for permission to attack the neighboring border army again because they retaliated when you intentionally threw a fu#king grenade at their army base."
"Hey, I don't do that… anymore."
"SHUT UP."
"And listen carefully—if you ask me for a favor for anything similar, I swear I'm going to kick your as# so hard you won't be able to sit comfortably for several months."
"Do you understand?"
"....Yes."
"Good, now you can speak."
The moment Solren got the chance, he started explaining everything that had happened from beginning to end.
After listening to Solren's words, Alaric fell silent—but Solren knew his brother was contemplating the best possible solution, like he always does.
After a few seconds, Alaric's voice came again.
"I will send a squad from my personal army along with a group of doctors from Junior's subordinates."
Solren felt relieved upon hearing his brother's words.
After all, Alaric controlled all internal affairs of their empire, and his personal army was like a sword that kept all Keeper families in check.
"Thanks, brother."
"Meet me when you come back."
CUT.
A sudden chill ran down Solren's spine the moment the call was cut—but he ignored it, blaming it on the desert's temperature, which had dropped further after the rain stopped.
Solren looked at the unconscious Kevin, his expression filled with mockery.
"Just wait, you bastard. I'll show you the consequences of hurting me."
**CAPITAL OF THE RAGNAR EMPIRE**
In the heart of an empire that stretches across nearly one-third of the colossal continent, a kingdom built upon war, conquest, and supernatural dominion rises with an unwavering presence, dominating the lands beneath its shadow.
At its core, standing as an eternal testament to both its glorious past and its formidable future, is an imperial palace—a structure that seamlessly weaves together the legacies of antiquity and the marvels of technological innovation, forging a sanctuary where tradition and futurism exist in perfect harmony.
For over a century and a half, this sacred edifice has endured as the pulse of an empire whose origins were bathed in blood—its very foundation laid by warriors imbued with supernatural might, those who emerged from the fabled River of Crimson Blood and carved out a dynasty with relentless ambition and unparalleled strength.
The palace itself is a spectacle to behold, a magnificent paradox of architecture where the solemn, time-honored artistry of the ancients collides with the boundless potential of the future.
Its towering spires claw at the sky, daring to pierce the heavens, while vast stone arches, meticulously crafted by the deft hands of master artisans, whisper tales of an age before time.
These grand structures stand intertwined with modern technological wonders—delicate yet powerful LED tracings illuminate intricate carvings, dynamic holographic adornments shift and breathe with the energy of those who enter, and intelligent surfaces—imbued with imperial algorithms—alter their appearance, responding to the moods, commands, and silent wishes of the sovereign.
Within these sacred halls, murals, statues, and intricate reliefs immortalize the empire's most legendary battles and figures, their weathered charm seamlessly enhanced by digital projections that bring the essence of war, transformation, and triumph to life. Every painted stroke, every sculpted visage, tells a story—a raw, unfiltered glimpse into the centuries of conflict, victory, loss, and rebirth that have defined the Ragnar dynasty.
The throne room stands as the most sacred chamber within this imperial fortress—a sanctum where ancient power and advanced technology converge. Here, the seat of dominion is no mere throne but a construct steeped in mysticism, adorned with ancient sigils whose very essence thrums with an unseen force.
The throne itself is forged with nanotech-laced material, responding with an eerie sentience to its master's presence.
More than a palace, this structure stands as the living embodiment of the Ragnar legacy—a lineage defined by bloodshed, conquest, and absolute dominance.
Within one of the palace's most secure inner chambers—hidden behind layers of reinforced barriers, encrypted access protocols, and centuries-old enchantments—a man sits at the center of the dimly lit expanse, his posture exuding an air of effortless authority, his presence demanding reverence even in solitude.
He is Alaric Ragnar, the eldest son of the Emperor.
A smirk, faint yet undeniably amused, curves his lips as he considers the inevitable reaction his brother will display upon his humiliating defeat.
A man of pride, his brother will seethe, rage, and undoubtedly attempt to rationalize the disgrace of being bested by a mere nobody.
The thought of his frustration brings Alaric a fleeting moment of satisfaction, though his amusement is short-lived, overshadowed by colder, more calculated intentions.
Without shifting his gaze, he utters a single name—one that carries undeniable weight in the depths of the imperial hierarchy.
"Shadow."
A voice responds from the corner immediately, smooth and unwavering.
"Yes, Master."
Alaric's tone is measured, precise, and devoid of frivolous emotion as he gives his orders.
"Ensure that my brother returns home safe and sound. I want no harm to come to him."
The command hangs momentarily in the still air before Alaric adds, his voice dipped in an unyielding resolve.
"Eliminate anyone who may have survived. I refuse to allow rumors regarding my brother's injuries to circulate anywhere within the empire."
There is no need for further clarification. Shadow understands his master's wishes. Without hesitation, the presence withdraws, departing as seamlessly as it arrived.
The moment silence reclaims the chamber, Alaric shifts his focus, retrieving an object from the concealed depths of his worktable—a conical metallic construct pulsating with plasma energy, an artifact few have ever laid eyes upon and even fewer have had the privilege to wield.
Deliberately, he traces his fingers along its edges, following a systematic pattern ingrained into his memory through years of imperial teachings.
Then, with the precision of a man accustomed to ancient rituals, he presses his thumb against the object's sharpest vertex, allowing a single drop of blood to bead at the surface before speaking.
"Connect with Father."
The silence that follows is brief and expected. The plasma energy flickers, intensifying in response to his command. Seconds later, a voice—disembodied yet irrefutably authoritative—emerges from within.
"Blood signature and voice signature have been identified."
The object shudders, rising above the table, hovering with quiet precision. Alaric remains motionless, watching as the device releases low-frequency waves, scanning the chamber with meticulous accuracy, assessing its surroundings to determine the most appropriate focal point for interaction.
Predictably, it moves, adjusting course until it hovers in the absolute center of the room.
"Second verification in process. Please stand before me."
The voice asked, guided by the Imperial Assistant Technology Intelligence embedded within the device.
Alaric obeys without question, stepping forward until his presence dominates the space before the artifact.
"Verification of forced manipulation complete. Connection is being established."
This secondary verification is more than a formality—it is a safeguard against coercion, a security measure ensuring that none who wield this technology are forced into compliance.
These artifacts are rare, their existence bound by a stringent hierarchy of access.
Unlike Alaric, his father—the Emperor himself—would bypass this secondary verification entirely, unlocking unrestricted access to empire-wide surveillance, defense systems, and countless other classified functions.
As Alaric watches, the plasma energy within the device intensifies, and before his eyes, a three-dimensional hologram begins to materialize.
A figure—a man of indisputable presence—slowly comes into view, sharpening with every passing second, shifting from ethereal abstraction into breathtaking precision.
Just as the image nears completion, Alaric descends onto one knee, his voice steady and imbued with solemn reverence.
"I greet the founder of the Ragnar Empire—Father Emperor."