The throne room was dead silent.
Lucas and Herald stepped through the shattered archway, boots crunching over rubble and blood. Behind them, a small unit of elite knights followed—blades still drawn, eyes wary.
But there was nothing left to fight.
The battle was over.
The throne of bones lay in ruin, split down the middle. The walls—what remained—were scorched and cracked. Black smoke drifted through the gaping wounds in the ceiling, where once a roof stood. And at the center, amid the carnage and silence…
Stood Isla.
Still. Calm. Covered in blood.
His sword hung loosely in his hand, its void-dark edge now dim. At his feet lay the head of the Beast King, a pool of blackened blood spreading like ink.
Beside him, trembling, stood Targan—the Beast King's right hand. His claws twitched. His body shook. He dared not move. Dared not breathe.
Isla didn't look at him.
Didn't even glance his way.
Instead, he turned—slow, precise—and met Herald's eyes.
His voice was cold and razor-sharp.
"He is yours."
Then he turned again, this time toward Lucas. Their eyes met only briefly—no words exchanged. No warmth. Just understanding.
The Emperor walked past.
Outside, the battlefield still smoldered. Bodies littered the ground. The wounded cried out. Crows circled above. Without pause, Isla raised his voice in absolute command.
"Clean this up. Leave no one alive."
There was no hesitation. No question. The soldiers moved.
Screams resumed. The fire roared again.
The purge began.
Isla said nothing more. He reached for the Beast King's severed head, hoisted it by the matted mane, and began walking—toward the horizon. Toward somewhere only he knew.
Behind him, the Beast Kingdom died.
Over the course of seven days, the empire's will was carried out. Villages were razed. Towns burned. Cities silenced.
Men. Women. Children.
None were spared.
Not even the smallest whisper of resistance was left behind. The Beastfolk were erased—not conquered. Erased.
Lucas remained for three days.
On the fourth
He left, saying nothing. Not to Isla. Not to Herald.
Herald and Arman took command.
They were the ones who saw it through to the end. Who executed the final orders. Who buried the last corpses and salted the earth.
Targan was the only one spared.
He was dragged to a prison beneath the ruins—shackled, beaten, silenced. The last of his kind. Soon, he would face what the Empire deemed justice—a slow unraveling of his mind and body under the hands of imperial torturers.
He would not die quickly.
He would not die cleanly.
He would serve as a message.
A reminder.
Of what happens when you challenge the Empire.
And of what it means to stand before Isla the Emperor.
Capital – Imperial Underground Prison
Cell 09. Depth Level Three.
The cell had grown colder. The lantern's flame now danced over the darkened stone like a ghostly shadowplay. Blood crusted in layers beneath Targan's body, pooling where it dripped from his fingers, his jaw, his feet. Bruises bloomed across his ribs like ink beneath the skin. Muscles spasmed involuntarily—pain too deep for him to control.
He no longer hung in rage, but in exhaustion. Barely awake. Barely sane.
Footsteps echoed again.
They were back.
Herald entered with deliberate steps, his eyes sharp and emotionless. He said nothing. Just stood in the doorway, staring like a warden before a final sentence. Beside him, Claire's husband.He carried no tools this time. Only a cloth to wipe blood from his hands.
Targan lifted his head weakly.
"Wait…" he croaked, voice torn and cracked. "I'll tell you. I'll talk…"
No response.
"I know who betrayed the Empire… the merchant from Velgar… the noble from—"
Herald punched him. One clean blow to the gut that made Targan retch blood. He coughed, struggling against the chains, teeth stained red.
"You think we care?" Herald said, voice like ice. "You think we want names?"
Targan blinked, confused. Hurt.
"You... you're not here to find out who—?"
Claire's husband stepped forward.
"We know," he said softly. "We know everything."
Targan's eyes widened.
"Then why—?"
A scalpel flashed.
This time, they cut not to interrogate, but to erase. Slowly, precisely. Not to find answers—but to make him feel everything Claire must have felt when she was torn apart. They didn't scream. They didn't taunt
They didn't even hate him anymore.
They were past hatred.
This was ritual.
Each hour that passed wasn't a question—it was a sentence. Justice, as seen by men who had lost too much and still walked.
Targan pleaded. Wept. Promised to name more.
Herald just stood there, arms crossed, watching as the torturer began again—this time with the branding iron.
"You killed her," Herald said finally, when the brand hissed against fur and skin. "That's all we need to know."
Targan's voice cracked into a scream, a sound that echoed through the stone like a dying animal.
No one came to stop them.
No one came to listen.
Because in the deepest cell of the Empire's dungeon, Targan's words meant nothing anymore.
Only his suffering did.
Drosmere Palace – Royal Garden, Dawn
The chirping of birds stopped suddenly.
Then—
A scream pierced the early morning calm.
Knights stationed along the garden paths sprang into action, weapons half-drawn as they rushed toward the sound.
By the fountain stood a maid, pale and trembling, her hands stained from where she had touched something behind the hedges. Her breath came in shallow gasps, eyes wide with horror.
"What happened?!" one knight demanded, sword glinting under the rising sun.
The maid could barely point, her voice cracking—
"Th-there… that…"
The knight took a cautious step forward, parting the vines that crawled around the marble statue.
There, resting in the bed of white roses, was a head. Covered by a dark, bloodstained cloth.
The knight approached, heart pounding, fingers trembling as he peeled the cloth back—
A face stared up. Cold. Muzzled. Beastly.
The crown of bone still clung to the skull.
It was the Beast King.
Gasps erupted. A second knight fell to one knee, muttering a prayer. Someone turned and vomited in the hedge. Silence seized the air again—heavier this time. Dread settled over the palace like fog.
It wasn't just the death of a monarch. It was a message.
And it spread like wildfire.
By noon, whispers turned to confirmed reports.
The Beast Kingdom was gone.
Every city, village, fortress—ash.
Men, women, children—all slaughtered.
No survivors.
No mercy.
The Empire had cleansed an entire nation.