Steel and Mana

Chapter 336 – The Other Sides

The silence of the Imperial Palace was broken by the sound of the deafening shattering of glass. Then came the crack of wood, the splintering of something heavy. Then, another sharp noise, followed by the cluttering of metal. Inside Pascal's chambers, a pool of crimson liquid spread like a stain of spilled blood, gathering around the fragments of broken glass and the destroyed wine cabinet, reflecting the pure anger glowing in the old man's gaze. Finally, after giving way to his childish frustration, he felt his mind settle and his body straightened up. Even then, his rapid, heavy breathing echoed through the chamber, taking multiple minutes until it finally settled down.

Pascal stood at the center of his most recent uncontrollable tantrum, an outburst of anger, his hands trembling at his sides. The regrown, long strands of his hair were disheveled and wet, falling across his face, sticking to it and hiding half of the rage still visible on it. He realized that what he was experiencing wasn't normal. He knew it had to be the aftereffect of his body and its constant degeneration and rejuvenation through the centuries. Which was, in the past years, extensively tested and stretched to its limits thanks to all that was happening in his empire.

Somehow, it all came crashing down at once, making him lose control of his faculties, blank out, and wake up to pure destruction surrounding him—just like in life. He knew it: his mind was becoming unstable. He had to deal with all of the issues and return to his routine, which kept him whole. He had to preserve what was there until he finished completing the Emperor of Magic's legacy and, finally, be genuinely reincarnated.

Just thinking about it, his breathing, which was still ragged and unsteady, began calming down as he recovered the calmness and confidence that he had portrayed for centuries for those who knew he was still alive. Yet, it wouldn't convince those like Mirian, who could feel how the air around him felt heavy, charged with the instability of his rage simmering within him.

“They are already in the Central Region…” His voice came out as a whisper, each word dripping with venom, glancing towards the torn-apart bird in his window, the one that brought back the sudden news, sending him into a rage. “They march freely upon my lands... to MY city!”

After collecting himself and entering the throne room, he sent for people to confirm the news. He didn't need to wait for long, as only an hour later, the reports returned and were handed to a young man to bring to the Emperor, as no nobles or officers dared to be present when it happened. They still remembered how Kathrien Ishillia killed half of the dukes of the Empire in a fit of rage... and Pascal didn't look any better, not after the Geth Empire was still occupying the South, even a year later.

"My Emperor..." The poor servant spoke, trembling where he knelt, trying to look as small as possible as he pressed his forehead to the ground, his fingers digging into the cold marble. “Your Excellency. The reports confirm it. The traitor Mirian and her… her allies have cut through Duke Itelhad's lands with little to no resistance.”

“No resistance?!” Pascal’s voice cracked like a thunderclap, reverberating off the high ceilings of the room and sending a shudder through the young man's body. Hearing the report, Pascal clenched his fists, his long nails digging into his palms until they began leaving marks, almost drawing blood. He stopped at the last moment, not because it hurt, but because he knew shedding blood would just worsen his body's health. Even if he was siphoning off the vitality of the dying men in the Empire to freshen his mortal coil... It was temporary. The pain accompanying it was a distant thing, though, which was nothing besides what he felt within his soul. “Where is Kiva?! He should have reached me by now... I ordered him back weeks ago! Go, boy! Call in my Dukes... I want to hear it from them, not from a commoner!”

The young man didn't argue. It was his pardon, and he would rather face whatever came later than an enraged emperor. This time, those who swore loyalty to Pascal had no way of cheating out of meeting with their ruler. Even if they didn't want to, they were kneeling before the throne not even an hour later.

"Your Highness..." An older man, one of the older dukes present, swallowed hard before answering. He cursed his age because the others used it to push the responsibility of speaking onto him. Deciding that action was better than inaction, his voice was as measured as he could force it to be, but his hands betrayed him, fidgeting with the hem of his robe. “Your Excellency… the latest intelligence reports indicate that… that Kiva’s forces have been delayed in the East."

"Delayed? Explain!" Pascal snorted. He was about to make the connection with Kiva himself, but since the cut-off with Barth, his mind has somehow been afraid to reestablish a strong connection with his disciples. He was simply scared. Something he never realized. He didn't have the courage to acknowledge that he was afraid that there would be another attack, this time on Kiva, and if he died too... His soul or mind may not survive that shock.

"Yes..." The Duke muttered, licking his cracked lips, trying to moisten them, "He will not reach the Capital in time. The East had heard about what happened... somehow, and... the rebellious streak in them flared up again. We received news that Lord Kiva is still traveling, trimming his forces a little to make it back in time. Moving an army of 300,000 people is slow, My Emperor.”

Pascal’s breathing turned uneven at the news; each of his inhales was sharp and shallow, as though every moment of it would send little needles down his airways. He lurched forward, gripping the armrests of his throne, his magic automatically activating, slowly starting to form a black formation behind his back. At the same time, his knuckles turned white with the force of his hold on the furniture, and he could feel the world tilting around him, his vision darkening at the edges. For the first time in centuries, he felt trapped—a caged beast, cornered and desperate. He knew that this 'beast' was about to crash out once again and maybe kill all the dukes... No. He couldn't. That would be just like...! No. He was better. His chest rose and fell, using the thought of being better than Kathrien to control his rage. Instead, he directed it at someone else.

Mirian. That wretched traitor. She was about to return. She had the gall to claim what was never hers. He will kill her.

The thought burned within him like wildfire, consuming everything, even drowning out the tiny little warning bell, trying to remind him of the fact that she had the Spear. His eyes suddenly refocused, and his trembling subsided. There was still one thing he could do.@@novelbin@@

Without another word, Pascal simply stood up, leaving the group there, finally letting them breathe a sigh of relief. They just watched as their Emperor stormed out of the grand hallway, his footsteps slowly dying away. Everyone Pascal passed, be it the guards or the maids, knew better than to speak. They pressed themselves against the walls whenever he walked by, lowering their heads, fearing that even a glance from him might incinerate them on the spot.

At the bottom of the palace, in his personal vaults, Pascal descended the stone steps, cutting through his library. He didn't stop to browse; to look, he headed straight to one item—one item only. The moment he was at the deepest part of it, his gaze was fixed on the center of the chamber, where a pedestal stood, with the silent, unmoving, inanimate skull of the last Vasa resting on it.

“You will all suffer,” Pascal whispered, a deranged smile curling on his lips as he reached out, touching it, slowly lifting it up from its two-thousand-year-old resting place. “Even if I must burn my own Empire to the ground, I will erase you all. Especially your descendant... that red-haired prick.”

As his hand pressed against the ancient skull, its surface trembled. The carvings on it flared to life, their glow intensifying until the chamber was bathed in an eerie, otherworldly reddish light. The ground beneath his feet shook, and a low, resonant hum filled the air, growing louder with each passing second as his own magic began appearing on the skull, in its empty eye sockets, two tiny flames igniting for a brief moment.

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The battlefield South of Ishillia’s Capital was a wasteland of corpses and a blood-soaked no-mans-land. Utter ruins. The once-fertile plains had been reduced to a desolate expanse of mud and ash, littered with the broken remains of siege engines and the thousands of bodies of the fallen grounded into fine ash by the spells both sides frequently utilized in the last moments of their stalemate. The air was no longer clear, constantly filled with death, thick with the stench of decay and the acrid tang of burned bones. For over a year, the Geth Empire had been battering the final obstacle, the last city’s defenses, launching assault after assault, only to be met with Lucca's relentless and calculated resistance.

On that gloomy, colorless, depressing morning, Emperor Kadosa of the Geth Empire stood at the edge of his war tent, his tired stare fixed on the horizon. His empire's once-proud banners were tattered, flapping weakly in the bitter wind, the white colors within them almost black, stained with soot and the ash of the fallen. His armor, just the same, was dented and stained with dried blood, a testament that he himself was taking to the battlefield by the end, leading his people, using his Medallion of Life to heal and keep his people alive and in the fight. To salvage their morale before they simply turned on him. His face was gaunt, the toll of the miscalculated campaign forever etched into every line and shadow he would carry until his death. Something that not even the godly artifact could heal.

This whole campaign had drained him. And his Empire. His men were exhausted, their morale barely holding, and yet his enemy, this Lucca, that damnable Ishillian, refused to break. What kept him and his people fighting?! He couldn't understand. But he knew of the old tales of the Ishillians... their resilience and their disposition for war... Could it be that? That bastard's forces, though outnumbered and outmatched, fought with a ferocity that bordered on madness, constantly pushing back just enough to thwart Kadosa's advances.

“How the hell is he able to hold us back with mere scraps of an army?!” one of his generals spat, pacing in frustration nearby as their midnight operation was thwarted. Again. His armor clinked with each step, the sound grating against Kadosa’s nerves, but he tried holding it together. “They are too few! They should have been overrun weeks ago!”

“Weeks? Months... Yet they still stand,” Kadosa muttered, rubbing his chin. His voice was almost a growl as he stared out at the battlefield. He could feel the increasing weight of his failures pressing on his shoulders, but now was not the time for regret. That will come when he withdraws and probably loses the throne. “Lucca has stalled us for far too long… We may have to...”

"Your Excellency!" a messenger yelled before he could utter the word 'retreat,' and they watched as a man rushed into the tent, nearly tripping over himself as he bowed. His face was pale, and his eyes were nervous, with urgency glowing in them. “My Emperor! Critical news from the north!”

"The north?" Kadosa turned sharply, his patience worn thin. They tried sneaking around Ishillia; he had sent agents away right at the start of his campaign. He thought they were lost, but after almost a year, was there really news coming back? Could it be real? “Speak.”

“It is about the Eternal Emperor, Your Majesty. Ishillia’s heartland is in chaos! The Rebel Empress has launched her attack, and her army… her army is marching upon the Capital! They will reach it and do it soon!”

Silence filled the tent, making it even heavier and suffocating. If that was possible. Finally, Kadosa exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing as he considered if it was a fluke or fake information... But, even if it was, it could allow him for a last push. A truly last one. If anything, it may make Lucca finally commit a mistake. Something that they can capitalize on. He turned to his present officers, and for the first time in a year, he saw something new in their eyes, too: opportunity.

“Even if it isn't true,” Kadosa murmured, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “We must use this... Make our troops feel something and, more importantly, make Lucca doubt! Maybe this would be what finally tips that bastard out of balance, and we can break through!”

His generals straightened, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten. The air in the tent seemed to shift, the tension giving way to a renewed sense of purpose. For one... last... time.

“Gather the men,” Kadosa commanded, his voice filled with grim determination. “We will launch our final assault on the city.”