Max's eyes moved across the dimly lit throne room, every shadow looked scary, every corner filled with something lurking. Gregorovitch stood before them like a ghoul, his sunken eyes hiding cruel knowledge.
"Max," Merlin said quietly, "stay close."
Max gave a small nod, his hand instinctively covering his nose.
"You Majesty," Merlin began, "what can you tell me about when this plague started?"
Gregorovitch's thin lips curled into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It came fast, like a vengeful storm. One day we were thriving, and the next, my people were drowning in death. No matter what we tried, no medicine, no magic, nothing could stop it. They die… so easily. Too easily," he stopped for a second, looking somewhere in the distance. "I've heard whispers in the streets," he continued, still looking out one of the tall, cracked windows. "They say it is a punishment. Some believe it is divine wrath." He laughed, the sound hollow and dry. "But I know better."
"And what is it you know?" Merlin asked.
"It is not divine. No, it is far worse. It is of our making, or should I say… theirs."
"Theirs?" Max said, unsure if he wanted the answer.
The king turned to them fully now. "The plague, you see, was no accident. It didn't arrive on the wings of rats, as some believe. No. This was delivered… by men. Dark men, men who serve forces beyond our comprehension. And they… they brought the disease to us, spreading it with a purpose."
"The Demon Lord's followers," Merlin muttered. "You knew this. Why didn't you summon us sooner?"
Gregorovitch chuckled, though the sound was far from pleasant. "Summon you? I needed you here at the right moment, Merlin. I've done my own work while this kingdom rotted from the inside. I needed you to see the full devastation, to witness the extent of their power."
The suffering in the streets, the bodies, the death—this was all orchestrated. Not by nature, but by human hands. Or worse, by demonic ones.
"The Demon Lord's followers..." Merlin repeated, his voice low. "They've weaponized the plague. This was never about conquest or power. This was about chaos."
"Yes," Gregorovitch whispered, stepping closer, his eyes wild. "Pure, unadulterated chaos. A kingdom in ruin, cities falling to rot and disease, people tearing each other apart, bodies piling up faster than the earth can bury them. It is beautiful, in its own way, isn't it?"
This man—this king—he wasn't just a victim of the plague. He was enthralled by it, intoxicated by the destruction around him.
"What do you gain from this, Gregorovitch?" Merlin asked.
The king's face darkened. "I gain nothing. But the Demon Lord... oh, he gains everything. His followers... they promised me power. They promised me life everlasting. All I had to do was let it happen. Let the plague sweep through my lands. Let the people die. And when the bodies stopped piling up, they told me... they would raise me above all kings."
Max's hands trembled. He wanted to scream and run away like a little girl.
"You're a fool," Merlin said, his voice cold and dangerous. "They used you. The Demon Lord doesn't raise kings; he destroys them."
Gregorovitch's smile faltered, but only for a moment. "Perhaps. But it's too late for them and too late for you. The plague will spread beyond the North. It will devour the entire continent, and I will stand at its epicenter. When the world is ash, I will remain."
"You're insane. Do you think this is going to make you some kind of god? You're just another pawn, another puppet for the Demon Lord."
"Perhaps. But what choice do I have? The plague is everywhere, and it will not stop."
"There's always a choice, Gregorovitch. You made the wrong one."
Suddenly, the doors to the throne room slammed open. The sound of marching boots echoed through the hall as a group of soldiers—Gregoryovitch's personal guard—poured in, their faces sickly pale, their eyes bloodshot, and their skin marred by the same black splotches that had consumed the townsfolk.
"Kill them," Gregorovitch commanded, his voice cold and final.
Merlin took a step forward.
"Why tell us all of this, Gregorovitch? Why reveal your hand? You could've kept silent and let us die here like the others."
"You think I fear you, Merlin? You and your boy? No. You're nothing but relics of an old world, sent here to clean up a mess that's already too far gone. The truth, Merlin, is that I want you to know. I want you to see what's coming. You think you can stop it? The plague is beyond your magic, beyond your potions and your so-called 'cures.' This... this is a plague of chaos, born from the deepest voids of the world, a weapon in the hands of those who serve the Demon Lord."
"If you truly believe we're powerless, why waste your breath?"
"Because I want you to suffer. I want you to see the faces of the people you couldn't save. The disease will spread beyond the North, and there's nothing you can do to stop it. Not even you. I've seen the future, Merlin. The Demon Lord's followers showed me. I will be a king, not just of the North, but of a land reborn in death. When the old world is swept away by plague and rot, I will rise. I will thrive in the ruins. And you... you'll be nothing but a witness to my triumph."
"You're nothing but a puppet, Gregorovitch. The Demon Lord's followers are using you, and when they're done, you'll be as disposable as the corpses in your streets."
"Perhaps. But I'll have my moment, Merlin. And that's more than enough."
"You're a fool. But even fools can be dangerous."
Gregorovitch's laughter echoed through the chamber. "We'll see, old man. We'll see. Now, kill them," he looked at his soldiers behind Merlin and Max.
The soldiers began walking towards them, their bodies barely holding themselves up. They moved like the dead, and the stench of rot filled the air.
Without a warning, Merlin flicked his wrist, and a shockwave of light erupted from his palm, sending the nearest soldiers crashing into the walls. Their bones snapped like dry twigs, but they kept moving, dragging their broken bodies toward the two of them.
"What the hell are they…?" Max looked in horror.
"They're beyond saving," Merlin said. "The plague has consumed them."
One of the soldiers lunged at Max, its decaying fingers reaching for his throat. Instinctively, Max thrust his staff forward, casting Ice Lance. The shard of ice tore through the soldier's chest, freezing the rot in place for a moment, but it wasn't enough. The soldier's hand still clawed at him, mindlessly driven by whatever dark force held it together.
"They won't stop!" Max shouted, panicking. "Merlin, what do we do?!"
"We stop playing defense."
With another flick of his hand, Merlin summoned a wall of fire, separating them from the soldiers. The heat made the sick stench of rot even worse.
Gregorovitch watched, unbothered. "Fire won't save you. It won't burn away the disease."
Merlin smiled. "No, but it will burn you."
He stepped forward, flames swirling around his hands, casting a fireball directly at Gregorovitch's throne. But Gregorovitch raised his hand, a dark shield absorbing the blow. His laughter echoed through the throne room, the sound as decayed as the rest of him.
"Is that all you've got, Merlin? Is that the power of the great hero?"
"Max," Merlin said without turning, "I need you to handle the soldiers."
"What?!"
"I'll deal with him. Focus on keeping them off us."
Merlin didn't wait for an answer, he just turned his back and ran towards Gregorovitch, leaving Max behind.
Max was afraid. The plague-ridden soldiers were too strong, too relentless. He couldn't keep this up.
One of the soldiers, a woman with half her face rotted away, jumped at him. Max barely had time to react. He cast Solar Flare, blinding the soldiers for a moment. It bought him a few precious seconds, but that was all.
"Merlin! I can't hold them!"
Merlin didn't look back. His focus was entirely on Gregorovitch, who was growing more manic by the second. "You don't need to. Just hold on."
"I hate this shitty world!" Max screamed he ran out of time, and the soldiers were once again making their way toward him. "How can I stop you?" he wondered, his time slowly running out.