With every blow, Josh Aratat's body contorted under the force, battered and broken—but never fully beaten. His ribs cracked, his armor dented, blood painted the earth beneath him, yet something deeper than pain kept him tethered. An unyielding fire—an undying will—burned within, keeping him just inches from the edge of death. He was close, but not conquered. Shattered, but not silent.
His left hand, limp and trembling, clawed against the blood-stained ground until the fingers stretched outward—summoning his kingly staff. At the same time, his right hand moved, subtle but deliberate. Two fingers crossed over each other—a silent command.
Don't move.
Don't sacrifice yourselves for me.
It was a gesture only his generals would understand, and they did—painfully so. They had already resolved amongst themselves to act. If Josh fell, they would strike—one after the other—until the last of them fell in a blaze of reckless defiance. But the signal stopped them cold. Even Lola, whose heart was already halfway to the battlefield, froze mid-step, fists clenched, eyes trembling.
Uriel Commes, the Scarlet Raven, noticed the movement. But he misunderstood it entirely.
A wide, vicious smile slithered across his face.
"Hahahahaha… So, even the Black Dragon begs," he sneered. "You're calling out to your pigs? Pathetic. They can do nothing but watch you die."
Pulssshhh
Paaaahh!
Pulllllssshhhhhh!
His fists rained down like meteors, each one blazing with fire, each one burying Josh deeper into the earth. With every word he spoke, another strike landed.
"You should've accepted the courtesy I offered at the beginning…"
Pulllllssssshhh
Purrrrrrshhh!
Paaaahh!!
"…but now you'll die—broken, alone, afraid."
He leaned in closer, voice like venom.
"And once I'm done with you… I'll carve through your loyal dogs one by one. I'll make sure they follow you—into the afterlife."
Paaaahhh!
The earth trembled. The flames roared.
But Josh Aratat… still breathed.
And his hand—was inching closer as he kept calling to his kingly staff.
Bloodied, shaking, but determined—His hand crept forward, inch by inch, as if his very soul called out for the rod that symbolized his will.
Suddenly, as if hearing the cry of its rightful master, the Kingly Staff responded.
With a sharp whoosh, it ripped through the air like a guided thunderbolt, streaking past the stunned spectators and enemies alike, before slamming with divine certainty into Josh Aratat's outstretched hand.
Snap.
The impact echoed like a war drum, and in that instant, time seemed to still.
"I... am... King."
The words were little more than a whisper, hoarse and battered, yet they roared across the battlefield like the pronouncement of fate itself.
Josh didn't rise—he was pulled up.
As though lifted by an unseen force older than the stars, his body levitated, then stood firm, rooted in might and destiny. That same force, as if angered by the Raven's offense, erupted outward.
BOOM!
A shockwave burst from Josh's form, invisible but undeniable. It smashed into the Scarlet Raven like the wrath of a god, hurling him backwards. Uriel Commes flew like a rag doll, colliding into a boulder with a thunderous crack, dust and rock exploding outward.
In Josh's mind, the voice of David Stormborn resounded, solemn and steady:
> "Congratulations. You've entered the Second Level of the 'I Am King' Protocol. You are now stronger."
And stronger he was.
Power surged through Josh Aratat's veins like a rising tide. His shattered form began to mend at unnatural speed. Bones realigned with crisp snaps. Torn muscles knitted back together. Scars sealed. Blood was reabsorbed. His teeth regrew. His dislocated joints twisted back into place.
Within seconds, the warrior who had been reduced to a heap of flesh stood tall once again—flawless, radiant, whole.
His cloak billowed behind him, scorched and torn but majestic. His mask, though cracked from the earlier onslaught, still clung to his face like a testament of defiance.
Josh Aratat was not just standing.
He was rising.
His aura changed. The battlefield felt it—like a crown had descended from the heavens and landed upon its rightful heir.
The generals could scarcely believe their eyes.
Conrad Stan froze, mouth slightly agape.
Lola's breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened, then misted—part fear, part awe.
Ralia Amia clenched her fists and threw one into the sky with fierce joy.
"That's what I'm talking about!"
Miko, Adino, and Eliphaz began to spin and chant in wild delight.
"The Black Dragon isn't just a myth! He's a legend! Our legend!"
Even the people of El'dan City—the same citizens who had once watched Josh Aratat with wary eyes and whispered behind closed doors—now stared in breathless reverence.
He had arrived at their gates hours ago, dragging behind him a legend and a storm. The guards on duty had raised their spears, ready to drive him away, unsure if his legend is true, terrified that his presence would summon war and ruin.
Back then, Captain Demos of the South Gate had shouted:
"Stop right there! If you so much as blink, I will paint the floor with your brain juice!"
But now, the same man had dropped to one knee, helmet under his arm, eyes shimmering as he muttered under his breath:
"My apologies for my past statements... You have my respects, and full support. The black dragon!"
Around him, gatekeepers and townsfolk huddled near the edge of the broken watchtower, watching the battle unfold. What had once been hostility was now hushed awe, melting into a quiet, desperate hope.
When Josh had been flung like a doll into the dirt—his chest caved, motionless—they had felt it in their bones. The silence had been absolute, and for a second, every heart in El'dan had whispered the same dread:
"We're next."
Old Maerin, the city's former healer, clutched her walking stick as tears welled in her cloudy eyes.
"I saw it, you know," she murmured, voice trembling. "I saw him in a vision when I was a girl. A man cloaked in fire and crowned in pain. They laughed at me. Called me a dreamer."
Beside her, a young boy no older than ten tugged her sleeve.
"But he's not dead, Miss Maerin. Look—he's getting up!"
And indeed he was.
Josh Aratat, broken beyond recognition moments before, now stood tall, a storm cloaked in flesh. His staff crackled with unseen power. His presence towered.
The crowd gasped. Then gasps turned into murmurs. And murmurs became cries.
"He's alive!"
"He's standing!"
"He healed—by the stars, he healed!"
"The prophecy! The old Black Dragon prophecy—he's the one!"
One of the younger gatekeepers, barely past his trials, turned to his captain.
"Sir Demos… do we fight with him?"
Captain Demos looked at the battlefield, at the Scarlet Raven now sprawled like a discarded puppet, and then at Josh, who stood like an avenging flame.
He nodded slowly.
"No, son. We don't fight with him."
He straightened his spine, eyes steely.
"We follow him."
Cheers erupted, quiet at first, like hesitant thunder. Then louder. Roaring.
From rooftops, balconies, and towers, the citizens of El'dan lifted their hands, their voices, and their hearts.
"Long live the King!"
"Black Dragon!"
"We stand with you, Our radiant Black dragon!"
And such was the fickleness of men. They turn easily depending on the situation.
And in the heart of it all, Josh didn't speak. He didn't turn. He didn't need to.
Because the fire in his eyes said it all:
He had come not to beg for their acceptance—but to earn it.
And now, the city—This city—was ready to burn the world if he asked them to.