In the heart of the Heretic's hidden base, the King of the Heretics sat on his throne, casually plucking a fruit from the plate held by a trembling servant in front of him. The grand hall was silent, save for the faint crackling of torches along the stone walls. The throne itself was immense, covered in black obsidian, sharp, and foreboding, a fitting symbol of the man who ruled with fear. As he bit into the fruit, its juice dribbled slightly down his chin, but he was unbothered. With an air of calm, he asked, "Any word from the Anbu we sent?"
The servant bowed his head lower, almost shaking, "Yes, Your Majesty. The Anbu sent word; he said it will be done tonight."
