Empire [Capital]
Inside a dim hall brimming with intricate paintings and ancient decorations, a man lounged atop a luxurious chair crafted from the remains of the rarest Danger Beasts.
Prime Minister Honest was in a jubilant mood, tearing into a roasted pig with savage abandon, his grease-slick fingers gleaming under the flickering candlelight.
When the last bone was picked clean, he leaned back, pulling out a toothpick.
He spoke casually, though his words carried an undeniable menace."How are the plans progressing? And how long before these pests are wiped out?"
The room seemed empty, save for the sound of Honest picking his teeth. But then, from the shadows, came a hoarse, rasping voice.
"Everything is proceeding as you commanded, my lord. However…" The voice hesitated, sensing Honest's growing impatience.
"The slums are becoming restless. Protests are spreading over the executions. They're not attacking the soldiers, but their defiance is eroding morale."
Honest chuckled, low and mirthless. His laughter echoed through the grand hall, filling the air with an ominous weight.
"Is that so?" His voice turned cold, his jovial façade melting away as he slammed a meaty fist onto the table.
Plates and goblets rattled from the impact, but Honest's gaze remained steady, as sharp and cruel as a knife.
"Then kill them. All of them. Let them understand their place. String the men up, heads on spikes for all to see. And their women…" He paused, savoring the power he wielded.
"Show them the true price of rebellion. As for the children, don't waste them. They'll make excellent test subjects."
The shadow in the corner shifted. "Yes, my lord," it said quietly, before vanishing as if it had never been there.
Honest reached for another platter of food, unconcerned by the carnage he'd just orchestrated. The chewing sounds resumed, grotesque in the silence of the hall.
Slums
The sun cast its last fiery rays over the slums, painting the crumbling shacks in hues of gold and blood.
The air reeked of damp wood and unwashed bodies, an oppressive weight clinging to the alleys like a second skin.
A young boy, barely three, toddled down the narrow streets.
'I'm late again,' thought Leo, his small face scrunching in irritation.
The playground had been unusually quiet. Something felt… wrong.
As he rounded the corner toward his home, his heart seized. The distant murmurs of unease had grown into agonized screams.
He froze as the sight before him unfolded like a nightmare, Imperial soldiers, their crimson armor catching the last of the sunlight, dragged women from their homes.
Their mothers, sisters, and daughters were shoved into the streets like livestock.
And among them was Liya.
Mom!"
His small legs carried him forward instinctively, but his mind screamed at him to stop. Fear warred with anger, but the anger won.
"HEY! YOU IDIOT!" Leo's childish voice cracked as he yelled, hoping to distract the soldier holding his mother. The soldier's helmeted head swiveled toward the boy, annoyance flickering in his eyes.
Liya's face turned pale. "Leo, no! Run! Run and hide!"
Her cries were ignored. Leo surged forward, desperation clouding his judgment.
Before he could close the distance, a heavy boot slammed into his temple.
The world spun. Pain blossomed in his skull like fire. He collapsed onto the dirt, blood trickling from his nose.
As his vision swam, the sound of shouting and gunfire ripped through the haze.
He forced himself to look up, his tiny frame trembling.
He saw his father.
Ron stood defiantly, his blacksmith's hammer held high, blood dripping from its edge.
The body of an imperial soldier lay crumpled at his feet.
"Stay back!" Ron growled, positioning himself between Liya and the soldiers.
But hope was short-lived. A deafening BANG echoed throughout the street.
Ron staggered, his hammer slipping from his grasp as a crimson stain spread across his stomach. He fell to his knees, his face contorted in agony.
"Dad!"
Leo's scream tore through his throat, but it was drowned out by the chaos.
He tried to crawl toward his father, but another boot smashed into his back, forcing him to the ground.
Through blurry eyes, Leo watched in helpless horror as the soldier raised his blade. Time slowed to a crawl.
"No…"
The blade came down in a brutal arc. Blood sprayed like a crimson fountain.
Leo's small body shook violently, though whether from pain or despair, even he didn't know.
His vision darkened, his ears filled with the relentless drum of his own heartbeat.
The last thing he heard was the sound of boots marching away, leaving only silence and the faint cries of the dying.