Inside the palace courtroom, the air was thick with panic as the ministers desperately debated their next move. Never in their wildest nightmares had they anticipated that the elite royal guards could be slaughtered by a single man. Because the vast majority of the empire's military force had been deployed to the grueling borders, only a fraction remained behind to garrison the palace. After all, who could have predicted that one of their own decorated vanguard soldiers would ride back from the frontlines to hunt them down?
Ulric was like death incarnate. Everywhere his boots trod, he reaped the life of whoever stood in his path. His heavy broadsword dripped a steady, rhythmic trail of crimson across the polished palace floors. His armor was caked in layers of dried blood, sweat, and grime, yet the sheer weight of it did nothing to hamper his terrifyingly fluid movements.
He kept pushing forward.
