THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

The room was steeped in a suffocating tension as the

Monarch of Light

stood unmoving at the center of the grand hall, his form bathed in the silver glow of the moonlight streaming through the shattered ceiling.

The ethereal combination of darkness and light surrounding him made him appear more like an otherworldly king than a mortal being, his glowing magenta eyes burning with a predatory intensity that rooted everyone in place.

The silver-masked intruder, Number 3, took a cautious step back, his grip tightening on the metallic box weapon at his side as he stared at the enigmatic figure. He struggled to comprehend where such a being had emerged from. Wasn't the demon, Count Nicalo, their sole concern tonight, since they had failed to inform him of their new plans?

His thoughts raced as he looked at the hulking Number 4, the swordsman with the blue jagged mask, and then back at the Monarch, who exuded an aura of insurmountable power.

"This wasn't part of the plan," muttered the female masked intruder, her voice tinged with uncertainty. Turning to her silver-masked companion, she hissed, "Number 3, what do we do now?"

Number 3's mask tilted slightly toward her, his voice cool and calculated as he replied, "The plan remains unchanged, Number 8. Our goal remains the same. Trust in Number 4—he'll handle the so-called 'Monarch.' He's yet to meet an opponent that can stop him."

With a confident spin of his claymore, Number 4 stepped forward, his aura flaring around him like a living storm. His voice was a thunderous growl that echoed through the hall. "Monarch of Light, or whatever you claim to be, if you intend to interfere with the descent of chaos, then your fate is sealed. I'll cut you down where you stand!"

The air cracked with a deafening boom as Number 4 propelled himself forward with impossible speed, the floor beneath him trembling under the force of his dash. His massive claymore blurred as it arced toward the Monarch, promising utter destruction.

But the Monarch of Light merely raised his hand, calm and unflinching, his fingers twitching ever so slightly. The room erupted with another booming sound as blackened, razor-sharp obsidian threads materialized out of thin air, snaring Number 4 mid-strike.

The threads wrapped tightly around him, glowing faintly as if drinking in his mana. The obsidian threads erupted in flames, inflicting searing pain on Number 4 as his aura struggled against their binding

Number 4 let out a thunderous roar that was equal parts pain and exhilaration as he stomped his foot down, shattering the threads in a surge of power that rippled through the hall like an earthquake. "You think this will stop me?" he bellowed, his voice a declaration of defiance. "Nothing will stop the descent of chaos!"

The Monarch's eyes narrowed, his aura intensifying. A voice, feminine and familiar, whispered within his mind.

"You should've let me help from the beginning," came Luna's dry remark.

The Monarch chuckled softly, his voice low and edged with amusement. "Alright, Luna. Let's see what you can do."

The shadows around him gathered, taking shape with alarming speed. In an instant, they coalesced into the form of massive, jagged jaws, snapping shut with a deafening crash just as Number 4 closed the final distance between them.

The hulking intruder's claymore descended with deadly force, its trajectory aimed squarely for the Monarch's head, but the Jaws of Death clamped down, their razor-sharp teeth catching Number 4's weapon mere inches from its target.

The hall filled with the sound of grinding metal and enraged howls as Number 4 strained against the crushing force of the shadowy construct. The Monarch's voice echoed, both regal and taunting.

"Impressive," he said, his magenta eyes glowing brighter. "But you'll need more than brute strength to challenge me."

The room hung heavy with tension, the flames from the obsidian threads flickering faintly before vanishing entirely. Number 4, instead of recoiling in frustration, burst into a booming laugh that echoed through the hall like a crack of thunder. His voice was filled with a manic glee, the tone of a warrior finally finding an adversary worth his mettle.

"You're good, Monarch," he said, his jagged mask tilted slightly as he regarded David with newfound respect. "I should've known better than to underestimate you."

David stood unmoving, his magenta eyes studying the swordsman carefully. He could feel it—something was wrong. A subtle shift in the atmosphere, an undercurrent of malice that spoke of brewing chaos. He didn't respond to Number 4's words, instead narrowing his gaze as if to discern the root of the disturbance.

Off to the side, Number 3's metallic box weapon gleamed faintly as he leaned slightly toward Number 8. "Watch him closely," he murmured, his voice calm and deliberate. "He's about to use the skill granted to him by chaos itself."

Number 8 gasped audibly, her excitement barely contained as her fists clenched in anticipation. "A blessing from chaos?" she whispered, her voice trembling with envy. "I've yet to receive mine. I can't believe I get to witness it firsthand."

Inside David's mind, Luna's voice echoed with urgency. "David, this doesn't look good. Something big is coming."

David's jaw tightened. "I know," he replied inwardly, his tone grim. "But it's too late to stop it now."

Number 4 dropped his massive claymore with a resounding clang that seemed to reverberate through the entire castle. The weapon began to disintegrate as if dissolving into dust, and then, with a strange fluidity, his entire body followed suit. It melted, shifting and swirling as though he had plunged into an invisible pool of water, his voice rising with a triumphant cry.

"Realm Manifestation: The King of Steel!"

The hall around David began to dissolve in an instant, the once-familiar space fracturing into shards of light and shadow. Luna screamed in his mind, her voice filled with alarm. "David! Watch out!"

But it was too late.

The Monarch of Light found himself standing on a vast, open plain, the terrain barren and cold beneath his feet. The sky above was no longer the tranquil night sky of the castle but an expanse of twisted steel, a canopy of countless greatswords suspended ominously overhead. They shimmered with an unnatural brilliance, each blade etched with runes that pulsed faintly with the energy of chaos.

In the distance, Number 4 stood tall, his jagged mask catching the faint light of his conjured realm. His hand was raised high, his aura brimming with pride and devotion.

"Good luck, Monarch," he sneered, his voice dripping with satisfaction. With a slow, deliberate motion, he lowered his hand.

The sky above trembled as the swords began their descent, a storm of steel raining death down upon David.