In the grand plaza of the Obsidian Palace, beneath the watchful eyes of the gathered nobility and the wary murmurs of the common folk, Seo-Hwan stood, his expression unreadable. Before him, the High Priest of the Shadowed Order presented three artifacts, each one a symbol of absolute sovereignty.
First, the Obsidian Box—a glowing golden cube, its radiance pulsing like a heartbeat. It was a construct of three cubes nested within one another, each layer shifting and rotating in intricate patterns as if following some unseen rhythm of the universe. The patterns upon its surface shimmered with ancient sigils, whispering secrets that only the ruler could comprehend.
Next, the ring, an intricately crafted band of dark metal that shimmered with an eerie, pulsating light. A gift from the Forgotten Gods, it was said to conceal immense power, one that only the ruler could harness. Seo-Hwan slid it onto his finger and whispered, "Tenebris."
Finally, the book. Its pages were thick and gnarled, bound in the flesh of an ancient beast, its hide bearing the scars of a forgotten war. The symbols upon its cover twisted and writhed, as though alive, and the air around it grew heavy with an unnatural weight. Legends claimed that the book contained the forbidden knowledge of the first Black Seat.
With these artifacts bestowed upon him, Seo-Hwan was crowned as the new ruler of the Black Seat, and the kingdom bowed before him. Yet, the burdens of the throne made themselves known before the crown had even settled upon his head.
The royal high guards assembled before Seo-Hwan in the war chamber, their expressions grim. These were the most elite warriors of the kingdom, yet today, they stood not as defenders, but as bearers of grievances.
"Your Majesty," one guard began, his voice laced with frustration, "the eastern provinces are starving. The nobility hoards grain while the common folk rot in the streets."
"The taxes," another interjected, "are unbearable. Merchants are fleeing the capital, and those who remain sell their wares at prices only the wealthy can afford."
A third scoffed, "And let's not forget the bandits. Or should I say, our former soldiers who, after being unpaid for months, have taken to robbing the very people they once swore to protect."
"Then there's the Church," an older guard added bitterly. "They preach of loyalty and devotion while amassing wealth greater than the throne itself."
Seo-Hwan listened, his fingers idly tracing the surface of the obsidian box. His silence was unnerving. Then, with a slow, deliberate breath, he leaned forward. "It seems," he mused, "that my kingdom is already in ruins. How convenient for me. It means I cannot break what is already shattered."
The guards exchanged uneasy glances. Seo-Hwan smirked. "Tell me, gentlemen, is there a reason you've come to me with complaints instead of solutions?" His voice was soft, but the weight behind it was suffocating.
No one answered.
Later, in the quiet corridors of the palace, Seo-Hwan met with Arthur, the current leader of the eastern forces. The man leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed. His black hair framed sharp, piercing eyes that held no fear, no doubt—only amusement.
"Arthur," Seo-Hwan began, "I have decided. You will take my place as the leader of the East."
Arthur exhaled, shaking his head. "Ah. I see. And why, exactly, would I accept such a position?"
Seo-Hwan narrowed his eyes. "Because it is tradition."
Arthur smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Tradition, you say? Ah, yes. That old thing. You see, Your Majesty, I am quite fond of breaking traditions. It's almost a hobby at this point."
Seo-Hwan stepped closer. "You misunderstand, Arthur. It is not a request."
Arthur chuckled. "Oh, but that's where you misunderstand, my dear king. I do not take orders simply because they are given. I take orders when they amuse me, when they intrigue me, when they align with my grand design. But this? This is dull. I refuse."
Seo-Hwan's expression darkened. "Arthur."
Arthur met his gaze with unshaken confidence. "Yes, Your Majesty?"
Seo-Hwan lifted his hand, allowing the eerie glow of Tenebris to flicker through the air. The pressure in the corridor thickened, suffocating, undeniable. "It is not a choice, Arthur. It is a tradition."
Arthur's smirk did not waver, but for the briefest moment, his fingers twitched. "Ah," he exhaled. "How troublesome."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Very well, then. If the script is already written, I suppose I shall play my part. But do not expect me to be anything other than what I am."
Seo-Hwan turned, satisfied. "Good. Then it is settled. Welcome to your new post, Leader of the East."
Arthur let out a dry laugh, his voice echoing through the dimly lit halls. "Oh, this will be entertaining indeed."
Arthur stormed into his quarters, his jaw clenched and his mood fouler than ever. The dim candlelight flickered as he paced, his mind a whirlwind of frustration. The weight of tradition, the arrogance of the throne, the chains of duty—it was all suffocating.
With a sharp turn, he abandoned his room and slipped through a hidden passageway, one that no soul in the palace had ever known existed. He stepped into the chamber beyond—a vast, dimly lit room, its walls lined with towering shelves of old manuscripts and half-finished blueprints. The scent of burning chemicals and rusted metal mixed with something far more putrid—the stench of decaying flesh.
Arthur strode to the far end of the room, where a large cage stood, veiled beneath a tattered white sheet. He gripped the fabric and yanked it away, revealing the grotesque figure within. The creature was bloated and misshapen, its flesh stretched taut over unnatural bulges. Its skin, mottled with deep bruises and veins as black as ink, pulsed faintly as if something inside still stirred.
Leaning against a nearby worktable, Arthur exhaled, tapping his fingers on the cold steel. "Now, what am I to do with you?" he murmured, his voice laced with both amusement and contemplation.
His gaze drifted to the massive note board on the wall, a chaotic masterpiece of obsession. Sketches of ancient artifacts filled its surface—rings, relics, forbidden tomes. At the center was a detailed drawing of the very ring his father, Seo-Hwan, now possessed. The delicate lines traced its eerie glow, annotated with speculations, theories, and incantations scribbled in the margins.
Arthur pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from an open book and stared at the monstrous form once more. A slow smirk crept onto his face. "Let's see if this attempt yields better results," he mused.
Extending his hand, a surge of violet electricity crackled to life, dancing between his fingertips. Threads of energy slithered like living veins, pulsing with a sinister rhythm. As they snaked toward the corpse, the air in the room thickened, humming with an unseen force.
"Stabilization threshold… within acceptable limits," Arthur muttered, his voice taking on an analytical, almost scientific tone. "Initiating reconstruction."
The tendrils of purple energy wove tighter, binding the swollen flesh. A thick, black smoke poured from the body, swirling violently before condensing. Then—
A cascade of golden hair spilled forth from the inky abyss, each silken strand catching the dim candlelight like liquid sunlight. The grotesque form shrank and shifted, the monstrous features dissolving into something eerily perfect.
Porcelain skin emerged beneath the receding darkness, smooth and luminous as if untouched by time. Her features sharpened—high cheekbones, a delicate nose, and full lips with a natural tint like the first bloom of spring. Long lashes framed piercing eyes that flickered open, their color shifting between gold and violet as they adjusted to the light.
She exhaled, taking her first breath as a reborn soul, only for her expression to twist in disgust. Wrinkling her nose, she instinctively raised a hand to cover it, recoiling slightly from the putrid air still clinging to the chamber.
Arthur, however, remained unfazed. A deep, inky substance slithered from his body, moving with an unnatural fluidity. The black mass coiled around his arms, expanding and reshaping itself into a flowing garment—dark as the void, yet streaked with intricate golden patterns that shimmered like celestial constellations. It was a garment woven not from cloth, but from something far more arcane.
His smirk deepened as he looked at his creation. "Well, now," he mused, watching the woman's reaction with keen interest. "It seems the process was a success. Fascinating."
The woman lowered her hand slightly, her gaze flicking from Arthur's attire to her own form, as if still processing her very existence.
Arthur took a slow step closer, tilting his head. "Tell me," he murmured, "how do you feel?"