Light-years away from Earth...
Beneath the vaulted ceilings of a throne room gilded in celestial gold, a man slouched across a throne that gleamed like a miniature sun. Draped in imperial robes, chin resting on a closed fist, he exuded a singular, suffocating emotion—boredom.
This was Kael Von Steel, sole heir of the Imperial Steel Bloodline.
To the outer worlds, he was known for his decadence, his revelry, and a complete lack of etiquette that had made even his father's court groan in disdain. But one truth remained, unshaken across generations:
The blood of Steel carried monstrous strength.
From the time he could walk, he followed the Breathing Technique of the Radiant Sun, a divine cultivation art that forged flesh into steel and spirit into flame. The sun he nurtured in his belly burned hotter than any forge. If a problem arose, he simply incinerated it—until nothing remained.
But strength, for all its glory, proved woefully inadequate in the face of death.
When Emperor Kain Von Steel perished, the golden throne grew cold. And for the first time in Kael's life, the fire within could not warm the grief that gripped him. Unlike the hollow lineages of the imperial court, Kael's bond with his father had been real—raw, perhaps even rare.
So when the traitors came—the Successionists with their banners high and treason louder—Kael nearly let it all fall.
Nearly.
Because in that darkest hour… divine providence descended.
He remembered that moment clearly. His hands had trembled. Not from fear—but awe. The Divine had moved through him. He did not swing his blade. The Grandmaster did. He did not order his troops. The Grandmaster placed his pieces.
In the quiet after the storm, Kael found himself standing over the bloodied earth, victorious. The capital untouched. His losses minimal. His enemies shattered.
Even now, as he sat idle on his throne, the mere memory of that presence made his spine straighten and his gaze sharpen. He no longer slouched. He no longer lazed.
He had seen.
Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted.
A familiar shuffle of footsteps echoed through the marbled corridor, growing louder as an elderly man approached. Clad in the formal black of an Imperial Advisor, the old man walked with the aid of a polished wooden cane, his breathing shallow, but his eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—still burned with the clarity of a hawk.
He was once his father's most trusted advisor. And now, even as his bones grew brittle and his steps slow, he remained an unshakable pillar behind the throne. Kael had no illusions—this man's counsel had preserved the embers of Imperial authority in the days following the Emperor's death. Without him, Kael's own Radiant Sun might have dimmed beneath the weight of court politics and bloodstained rebellions.
Because the rats had returned.
They infested every corridor, every council meeting, every corner of the court. Greedy mouths hidden behind elegant masks, whispering schemes laced in honeyed words.
And the throne room—it was no longer a place of reverence. It had become a marketplace of ambition and deceit. A cacophony of robed ministers and scheming nobles all shouting over one another, not in service of the Empire, but in service of themselves.
"Your Majesty, may I suggest we reassign some of the Steelclad Order's elite to aid our struggle against the Successionists?" a portly minister crooned, voice oily and eyes darting with poorly concealed hunger. "Their forces remain intact, and their devotion to the Empire—"
Kael's fingers tightened around the armrest of his throne.
He didn't interrupt. Didn't speak. He simply looked. And inside, he scoffed.
Devotion? The Steelclad Order had the loyalty of wolves—bound not by honor, but by opportunity. If they were granted power within the Empire's walls, they would not leave. And once their blades had carved through the rebels, Kael's own head would be the next on their chopping block.
He didn't speak—not because he couldn't, but because he didn't want to.
Had this been the old him, the throne room would already be reduced to scorched marble, and one or two ministers would lie dead, faces frozen in horror, vaporized for the simple crime of breathing too close. He had never hidden his disdain for these leeches who draped themselves in silk and arrogance while bleeding the Empire dry. And yet—he remained seated. Still.
Because Kael Von Steel was waiting.
Not for a report. Not for a vote. Not even for the cowardly approval of his squabbling court.
No, he was waiting for Providence.
And then—
It fell.
Kael's golden eyes flicked upward, to the ornate walls of the Dawnspire throne room. Yet his gaze seemed to pierce through the stone, reaching for something unseen, untouchable. His breath hitched. His chest swelled. A tremor of joy, subtle but undeniable, rippled through his body.
It was here. The Divine had descended.
Once again, the unseen force moved through his flesh like wildfire guided by wisdom. With this power cloaked over him, Kael felt invincible. He could taste destiny in the air—thick, metallic, and red. Whatever he chose to do now would not fail. Could not fail.
His hand rose—not with haste, but with authority.
At once, the chaotic barking and squabbling among ministers ceased. Words died mid-spit. Accusations clung to the back of throats. One by one, they turned toward the throne. And one by one, they shrank beneath the Emperor's gaze.
Kael's golden eyes, sharpened by the light of the Radiant Sun, swept across the room like blades. Each minister he looked upon flinched, shoulders curling inward, as if exposed to something primal and terrible.
Then, a voice—aged, respectful, and heavy with understanding—broke the silence.
"Your Majesty… what will you do next?" the old advisor asked, bowing slightly.
Kael didn't need time to think. He already knew. The Divine within him demanded motion, and so he answered with a voice like cracking thunder.
"Karin. Ready the men. My blade hungers for blood."
A single sentence. A declaration of war.
Within moments, the entire capital of Dawnspire came alive—banners unfurling, horns blaring, soldiers scrambling to arms. The stillness of court had shattered, and in its place rose the howl of steel and flame.
Advisor Karin closed his eyes, a soft sigh escaping his lips. He had foreseen this the moment the Emperor sat the throne. The scent of blood had always lingered on Kael's reign.
But still, Karin's heart sank.
War would burn away the weak—but it would also draw wolves to their doorstep, and not all of them would wear a man's face. Their neighbors, both human and otherwise, had waited for this moment. They would not stand idle as the Empire tore itself open again.
And yet... Karin said nothing more.
Because there was no stopping Kael Von Steel.
He was too arrogant.Too stubborn.Too much like his father.
Karin said nothing.
...
Karin could say nothing.
Before him, the gates of Greystone stood wide open—not shattered, not broken, but willingly opened by the very citizens sworn to resist them. Kael's army marched through like a divine blade slicing through silk, every formation precise, every step unshaken. The sight chilled Karin far more than any rebellion ever had.
What is happening...?
The first time, when Kael had led a meager force of 700 against the Successionists, Karin had chalked their overwhelming victory to dumb luck and favorable terrain. Seventeen dead. Seventeen. The kind of loss ratio that didn't exist outside of divine tales.
But this—this was different.
Now, Karin looked out at an army a thousand strong, steamrolling through an entire province as though the enemy had lost the will to exist. And they had. From the 15th day of Dawnsreach(January)—the campaign's first blow—to the 1st of Blazewind, this bizzare campian lasted. After the 1st of Blazewind (February), the world knew not of a faction such as the "Successionists."
Not defeated.Erased.
Karin's old bones trembled at the thought. His gaze fell on Kael—calm, unreadable, unnervingly certain. The boy did not even look surprised.
Karin gulped and nodded slowly, not to Kael, but to himself.What madness have I sworn fealty to? Is this still my Emperor... or has something else claimed his body?
Because no mortal, no matter how blessed by birth or bloodline, could possibly conquer fate itself.And yet... Kael had.