"It… It can't be."
Amon muttered under a low, shaking voice that barely escaped his throat.
He stared at the dragon — his dragon — now bowing deeply before Indura like a loyal subject returning to its true sovereign. Amon's purple eyes were wide with raw, unfiltered terror. His mind refused to process what he was seeing.
He was gone… He disappeared… It's been three thousand years… How is he standing here as if no time has passed at all?
His entire body shook violently. His vision blurred, as cold sweat poured down his ashen face. The air felt heavier, suffocating, pressing down on him like an invisible mountain.
Every cell in his body screamed at him to run, to hide, to disappear into the sand — but his legs refused to obey. The fear was bone-deep, primal, the kind forged from centuries of absolute servitude and the vivid memory of what the Dragon King could do to those who displeased him.
Indura, on the other hand, remained completely unaware of the trembling figure ahead. He continued to look at the dragon before him with calm, majestic composure, one hand gently resting on its lowered head as if greeting an old friend.
Amon forced his body to rise. His legs shook uncontrollably as he staggered across the sand, nearly collapsing again despite being physically unharmed from the earlier fall. It wasn't the impact that weakened him — it was Indura's presence. The sheer, overwhelming presence of the Dragon King made his soul tremble, his heart pound so violently he could hear it thundering in his ears, and his mind spiral into pure panic.
He finally managed to stand, breathing ragged and shallow, sweat mixing with the blood at the corners of his mouth.
It's too late… I spoke the worst about him. I cursed his name. I called him a tyrant, a dead king…
Amon gritted his teeth so hard that fresh blood streamed from the corners of his mouth, dripping down his chin. His fists clenched until his nails drew blood from his palms, the pain barely registering through the overwhelming terror.
He's really here… The Dragon King... is standing right there. I was wrong. Everyone was wrong.
Pure, paralyzing fear flooded his system. His thoughts raced desperately, chaotic and frantic.
I must escape from here. I have to do anything and everything I can to escape. Even if it costs me this body… as long as my heart remains intact, I must survive by all means.
Amon suddenly let out a shaky, fear-filled chuckle.
Purple energy began surging violently from his body, crackling like dark lightning across his skin. His long black hair whipped wildly as the power built.
If I use my strongest attack… No — if I pour all my power into one strike, it might give me the slightest second to flee… But… can I even do it?
The energy exploded outward. The air around him slowly turned a deep, ominous purple, distorting the red sky above. Sand began to levitate around him as reality itself seemed to bend.
Yes… This is the only way. I will use it… the blessing of darkness that was given to me. Even if it drives me insane, it is still a chance.
The next moment, Amon unleashed all his aura in one desperate burst.
His body began to change. A single, sharp, round horn sprouted from the center of his forehead, glowing with malevolent purple light. Cracks of dark energy spread across his ashen skin like living veins. Three massive dark orbs materialized behind him, swirling with chaotic power, each one crackling with purple lightning and swallowing light around them.
Amon stood transformed — power radiating wildly off him, robes fluttering in the storm of his own energy. But something was bothering him even more.
Indura… wasn't even looking at him.
Amon knew he had already gone too far. There was no turning back now.
With slow, deliberate hand gestures, he brought the three dark orbs together, converging them into one. The orbs merged with a violent explosion of energy, becoming unstable and growing rapidly. The toll on Amon was immediate — blood trickled from his eyes and nose as the strain threatened to tear his body apart.
The final orb grew enormous, wind and dust coiling violently around it as space itself distorted, warping the air like a black hole. The sky above darkened as if night had fallen prematurely over the Silent Plains.
Amon raised the massive orb higher, arms trembling, ready to unleash it.
This is my blessing… the power bestowed upon me by the Disciple of Darkness.
He uttered the technique with gritted teeth:
"Pilgrim of the Forgotten World."
The orb surged upward, expanding until it dominated the entire sky — a colossal sphere of pure darkness and destruction that swallowed the red light, making it seem like true night had descended upon the desert.
Amon struggled to hold it, his body shaking violently on the edge of collapse.
Suddenly, Indura finally turned his eyes toward the massive orb.
He looked at it with his usual casual expression — no wariness, no fear, just mild curiosity, as if observing a child's tantrum.
Amon stared at him, still unsure if this was the right thing to do.
Then… Indura slowly lowered his gaze and looked directly at Amon.
Their eyes met — golden and purple.
Amon's eyes widened in pure terror. He couldn't read anything in that gaze, yet it completely threw him off balance, as if Indura was silently asking: What could your attack possibly do to me?
His body grew still.
He stared at Indura, purple eyes filled with bitter, crushing realization.
Of course… This is nothing to a being like him.
The air around the massive orb grew deathly still. The violent energy dissipated in an instant, leaving the orb hollow, powerless, and floating harmlessly.
I... I cannot do it.
Amon withdrew his arms. His aura slowly reversed back into his body as his transformed form reverted to normal — the horn retracting, the cracks fading, leaving him pale and exhausted.
I cannot...
The next moment, the massive orb cracked. More fractures tore violently across its frame like breaking glass. Then… it shattered completely into countless purple sparks that rained down gently across the Silent Plains like dying stars. The sparks faded into nothingness, leaving only the soft sound of wind — until even that quieted down, returning the desert to its unnatural, oppressive silence.
I'm too weak.
With slow, almost mechanical movements, Amon's knees gently sank into the pale sand. His body moved on its own, driven by centuries of ingrained loyalty and overwhelming fear. He respectfully lowered himself completely, bowing until his forehead touched the sand in total, unconditional submission.
Amon… surrendered.
The Silent Plains returned to their unnatural silence.
Indura looked at the prostrated figure for a moment, golden eyes calm and slightly disappointed.
Suddenly, spatial tears ripped through the tower's structure with sharp, violent cuts. The living stone groaned in protest as entire sections were torn apart. From the swirling rifts, Sabrel and Vespera stepped out calmly onto the sand.
Sabrel's white eyes widened slightly in surprise at the sight of Amon completely prostrated before Indura. Vespera's golden eyes narrowed, a faint, almost amused smile touching her lips — both clearly expecting a fierce battle, not this immediate and total surrender.
Sabrel swiftly waved her hand. The spatial tears closed instantly with a sharp snap. The torn pieces of the tower snapped back into place with a low, grinding rumble, restoring the structure as if nothing had happened.
Sabrel and Vespera both turned toward Indura, both freezing at the sight of the massive dragon standing obediently beside him like a loyal guardian.
Vespera's golden eyes widened slightly in quiet shock.
That dragon… It's submitting to him so naturally. Just like the old days. But something feels… heavier now. Darker.
Sabrel stepped forward first, her white eyes filled with clear disappointment as she looked down at the prostrated Amon.
"Amon," she said, voice sharp with betrayal and hurt. "After everything we went through… You really pretended not to know me?"
Amon remained silent, forehead pressed firmly to the sand, his body trembling.
Vespera joined in, her tone cold and mocking, laced with disdain.
"How proud you were earlier in your tower. The great Master, speaking so boldly of freedom and new rulers. Look at you now — face down in the dirt the moment he appears. How quickly the mighty fall when the past comes knocking."
Amon's fists clenched tightly in the sand, but he didn't lift his head. His voice came out broken and barely audible.
"…I… I didn't know… I thought he was gone…"
Sabrel shook her head, visibly pained.
"You didn't know? Or you simply didn't want to know?"
Indura remained quiet throughout the exchange, watching with calm, regal interest. The dragon stood silently behind him like a living shadow.
Then he began walking forward, the massive dragon following closely with slow, heavy steps that made the ground tremble slightly. They stopped directly in front of the still-bowed Amon.
Sabrel spoke respectfully.
"This is the Silent Hand we came all this way to see... Well... what's left of him!"
Indura looked down at Amon, still quiet.
Vespera glanced at Indura — and for a brief moment, she saw something else in him. Her heart pounded violently. She immediately leaped backward several steps, breathing hard.
Sabrel turned quickly.
"Vespera? What's wrong?"
Vespera placed a hand firmly on her chest, trying to steady her racing heart.
Something is different about him… His presence… It's heavier... It's him...
Sabrel looked at Indura with growing concern.
"Indura?"
Indura, still looking down at Amon, slowly lifted his gaze toward Vespera.
And smiled.
It was a calm, regal, and chilling smile — filled with ancient authority, quiet recognition, and something deeper, something that made the air feel heavier.
His voice carried immense weight as he spoke, low, steady, and commanding:
"It has been a long time… Crimson Princess."
The air itself seemed to still at his words.
Sabrel suddenly went completely still. She knew exactly who was speaking. She didn't even need to think about it.
The aura around Indura had changed.
It was quieter now. Deeper. A heavy, ancient stillness that made the world feel small beneath it. His golden eyes held no rage, only a calm, profound disappointment that seemed to weigh on everything around him.
This was the True Self.
Indura turned his gaze back to Amon. The silence grew thicker, as if the Silent Plains themselves were ashamed.
"Amon," he said softly.
He took one slow step forward.
"How far has this world fallen while I was gone?"
Amon remained pressed to the sand, trembling, unable to lift his head.
Indura continued, his voice low and measured, carrying the weight of centuries.
"I expected many things… but not this. My own Silent Hands, once the proud guardians of these lands, now cowering behind foreign powers. Bowing. Hiding."
He paused, looking down at the broken figure before him with quiet, crushing disappointment.
"And you… Amon. You who once stood at my side. You who swore yourself to me. The moment you felt my presence, you chose to strike first rather than face me. Is that what I have become to you? A ghost to be erased?"
The air itself seemed to mourn with him. The red sky dimmed. The dragon behind Indura lowered its head, as if sharing in the sorrow of its former master.
Indura's voice remained calm, yet it carried the full depth of his disillusionment.
"Look at what my world has become in my absence. Rot. Weakness. I wonder... have my generals also betrayed me?"
He exhaled slowly, the sound heavy with regret.
"I am… disappointed, Amon. Deeply disappointed."
Indura turned his gaze back to Vespera.
She was already on her knees, head bowed in fear, her crimson hair falling forward like a curtain. Her breathing was shallow, one hand pressed tightly against her chest as she fought to steady herself.
He then turned to Sabrel.
She stood a short distance away, face focused downward on the sand, fingers tightly gripping the fabric of her clothes as she tried to anchor herself against the overwhelming pressure.
Indura turned back to Amon, still prostrated before him.
"I will not kill you," he said calmly, voice carrying quiet finality. "Not yet."
He continued, each word measured and absolute.
"First, you will tell me everything I want to know. What happened after I disappeared? Where exactly my Legion is now."
Indura's golden eyes narrowed slightly.
"You do not have to worry about your own death. That was already certain the moment you chose to bite my hand."
A deep red aura surged outward from Indura, compressing itself on the sand with a low, resonant hum. It rose and solidified into a majestic throne of crimson energy and dark stone, ancient runes flickering across its surface. Indura calmly leaned back, sitting upon it with effortless regal authority. He rested his face on his knuckles, looking down at Amon like a king holding court over a traitor.
"Speak."
Amon swallowed hard, his throat painfully dry. He forced his voice out, the sound shaking and broken.
"Yes… Your Highness."
He continued, still face-down in the sand, voice barely above a whisper.
"After you disappeared… the world was covered in darkness.
---------------
The battlefield was a graveyard of broken dreams.
Thick ash and smoke choked the air, carrying the acrid stench of charred flesh, spilled blood, and scorched earth. The ground was torn apart — deep craters filled with shattered armor and broken weapons, rivers of dark blood soaking into the cracked soil. What few banners still stood were torn and burned, fluttering weakly in the toxic wind like dying ghosts.
Above, the sky was a deep, sickly purple, swirling with unnatural storm clouds. Beings of pure darkness flooded the heavens — formless shadows with glowing white eyes, massive winged horrors, and writhing tendrils that blotted out what little light remained. Their distant screeches echoed like laughter from the abyss.
Below, the remnants of the Dragon King's forces stood in small, battered clusters.
Among them were the Silent Hand — elite shadow operatives in cracked silver masks and torn black armor, their numbers severely reduced. Beside them stood the Ironscale Legion, heavily armored draconic warriors with broken scales and shattered spears.
The Crimson Blades, elite swordsmen whose once-vibrant red cloaks were now stained black with blood.
The Abyssal Knights, heavy cavalry whose mounts had all been slain. And the Obsidian Shields, the last line of defense, their massive tower shields cracked but still raised.
All of them — battle-worn, exhausted, and gravely injured — stood together in a final, defiant circle.
One of the leaders, Valthor of the Ironscale Legion, stepped forward. His massive frame was covered in deep wounds, one arm hanging uselessly at his side.
"It is over," he said, voice heavy with defeat. "The Dragon King is gone. We all felt it the moment he vanished. There is no coming back from this."
Another, Liriel of the Crimson Blades, gripped her broken sword tighter, eyes burning with defiance.
"We continue standing because it is all we have left. If we fall here, we fall with honor. What else is there to protect now but the memory of what we once were?"
A third, Thalor of the Void Watchers, coughed blood before speaking.
"Look around you. We have lost too much. The Legion was captured. Our greatest generals have already turned. Without the King… we are nothing but broken remnants waiting to be swept away."
Then Amon, still young but already a powerful leader of the Silent Hand, stepped forward. His silver mask was cracked, his body covered in wounds.
"There is nothing left to fight for," he said, voice steady but exhausted. "If surrendering to the darkness means we survive, then perhaps that is the only path left. We have bled enough."
The others turned on him immediately.
"Loyalty does not die with convenience!" one of the Crimson Blades snarled.
"You would throw away everything we stood for?" another from the Obsidian Shields growled.
Amon raised his hands, trying to reason with them.
"We have been running for months. Hunted across the continent by forces we cannot even comprehend. The enemy that made the Dragon King disappear… they are beyond anything we have ever faced. Continuing this fight is not bravery. It is suicide. We are broken. Our King is gone. What honor is there in dying for a ghost?"
A tall figure from the Stormcallers stepped forward, lightning faintly crackling around his broken staff.
"You fool. You call yourself Silent Hand, and yet you speak of surrender so easily? We swore our lives to the Dragon King. If he is truly gone, then we die with his name on our lips, not on our knees!"
Amon snapped.
"Look around you!" he shouted, voice cracking with raw exhaustion and frustration. "There is nothing left but death! We—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
A powerful fist slammed into his face with brutal force, sending him crashing violently into a shattered boulder. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he slid down the rock, vision spinning.
The leader of the Abyssal Knights, Korrath the Unyielding, stepped forward. His massive frame was covered in cracked black plate armor, a broken horn protruding from his helmet. His voice was deep, cold, and filled with contempt.
"That is exactly why you were ranked so low, Amon. Beings like you will forever cower in the shadows. Pathetic."
Amon gritted his teeth, wiping blood from his split lip as he forced himself back to his feet. Anger burned across his face.
"Do you not understand what we're facing?!" he shouted, voice rising. "They are not from this world! We do not understand their power! What hope do we have of holding any line? Many of us are already dead! We are down to ten factions!"
Korrath walked up to him, towering over Amon like a mountain of steel and fury.
"You are not worthy of standing among us. Your very words stain the Dragon King's honor in the dirt. It is beneath our purpose."
Amon looked him dead in the eye, breathing heavily.
"What purpose?"
Suddenly, the air grew impossibly heavy.
Everyone — warriors, mystics, and knights alike — were slammed violently into the ground as an overwhelming pressure descended upon them. It was alive. Ancient. Suffocating. The purple sky seemed to press lower, and even the dark beings above grew unnaturally still, as if afraid.
Amon forced his face up from the dirt, heart pounding in his ears.
We've been caught…
A woman's voice echoed across the ruined battlefield, carrying immense weight and undeniable power.
"Death to those who ignore the truth… and Life to those who acknowledge it."
The words pressed down on everyone like a mountain, forcing even the strongest to their knees. The ground trembled faintly beneath the weight of her voice.
The voice continued, cold, absolute, and filled with terrifying authority:
"Remnants of the Dragon King… what is your choice?"