Arthur remained silent, his gaze unwavering, but the threat hung in the air between them, unspoken yet clear.
The green-haired general turned away, his eyes scanning the remaining survivors again before he mounted his horse once more. "I'll take my leave now," he said, his tone lighter once again. "After all, someone has to clean up this mess."
He gave a final look at Arthur, his dark eyes gleaming with unspoken challenge. "We'll see each other again soon, dear Arthur."
"You know better than to gravely accuse me of that, Harold," Arthur's voice was thick with restrained anger, not willing to let this die down, his aura flickering faintly around him like a storm held at bay. His eyes, cold and calculating, fixed on Harold, his lips curling into a snarl. "I have treated your men properly, until death. It was only unfortunate that a group of wyverns attacked my caravan so close to the kingdom itself. Don't you think so?"
Harold snorted and shifted beneath him, the man's dark eyes flashing with fury as he leaned forward in his saddle. "Oh, don't act innocent!" he spat, his voice sharp with venom. "My sighter caught the entire battle. You stood there, Arthur. You watched as they were slaughtered by mere wyverns!" His horse swayed beneath him, but Harold barely noticed, his focus locked on Arthur. The disdain in his voice was palpable, cutting through the tension like a blade. "You could have stepped in. Instead, you let them die like dogs!"
Arthur's eyes narrowed dangerously. Harold had always been a thorn in his side, with his holier-than-thou attitude and his penchant for moralizing. The man thought too highly of his men as if their deaths were some personal affront rather than the cost of doing battle. 'Mere wyverns?' Arthur could feel the blood boiling beneath his skin at Harold's condescension, he had never in his years of life met wyverns that malicious before.
Harold's gaze shifted briefly to the slaves standing nearby, their bodies bloodied but unbroken, the weight of the battle still hanging heavy over them. "I saw the proficiency of your new battle slaves," Harold continued, his tone growing more accusatory with each word. "Why didn't you just have them deal with the beasts as soon as possible?"
Arthur's lips twitched, a cold smile forming. "Well," he began, his voice low, almost mocking, "I'm glad you were recording the battle, after all." He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his aura growing darker, more oppressive. "You'll have quite the story to tell the council when you explain how you watched your fellow general—me—nearly die to these 'mere wyverns'."
Harold's face twisted with barely concealed anger, his mouth opening to retort, but no words came out. No matter how much he loathed Arthur, he couldn't deny what the council would see in that recording—Arthur standing amidst a sea of death, wyverns closing in, knights falling one after another. Any further accusations would crumble under scrutiny, and Harold's reputation could take a hit far worse than Arthur's.
Arthur, seeing the look of frustration on Harold's face, pressed on, his smile widening. "You see, Harold, what you fail to understand," his voice was now a dangerous purr, "is that sometimes, it's not about stepping in immediately. It's about knowing when to strike. Your men weren't prepared. The wyverns took them because of their weakness, not mine."
Harold's eyes flickered, his hands tightening around the reins of his horse as it shifted restlessly beneath him. The muscles in his jaw clenched, and for a moment, the two men stared each other down in silence, the air between them crackling with animosity.
"You've always been arrogant," Harold finally muttered, his voice low but thick with contempt. "One day, Arthur, that arrogance will be your downfall."
Arthur's smile faded, replaced by a cold, indifferent stare. "Perhaps," he said, his tone flat. "But that day is not today." He turned away, dismissing Harold with a flick of his wrist. "Now, if you have nothing more to accuse me of, I suggest you return to your men. I'll clean up this mess myself."
Harold glared at Arthur, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. His pride, bruised as it was, kept him silent He climbed his mount and tugged on the reins, forcefully pivoting it and signalling his soldiers to follow him. Without saying anything further, he galloped away, leaving Arthur standing amidst the ruins, a sneer on his face.
Rachael, who had been observing the conversation from the sidelines, eventually approached her father. "You never forget how to frustrate him," she said gently, her tone filled with respect and anxiety.
Arthur looked at her, his sneer melting into a contemplative expression. "Harold is a man full of bluster and pride. He needs to be reassured of his position now and again." His gaze swept the battlefield, which was littered with bodies of knights and wyverns. "But he is correct about one thing," he added slowly.
Rachael looked up at him, confused. "And what's that?"
Arthur's gaze darkened. "I should have had the slaves deal with it sooner." He paused, his voice lowering as he recalled the insane battle strength the slaves showed him. "Next time, there will be no room for mistakes."
Omen had watched the entire scene with an amused smile, 'so the generals switched some soldiers under them. It must be a rule of sorts. That guy Harold, he'll be a good piece in my plans. 'but still…how devious'
He turned his gaze to the true cause of the senseless deaths, Dahlia. Everyone was too engrossed in the battle including Arthur himself, with all his passive senses Omen had more awareness of the battlefield than all of them combined. He had seen Dahlia clawing at the knights across the chest, weakening them so that the wyverns could easily deal the finishing blow.
He wasn't going to spill this out even to her unless it benefited him in a way, besides he had respect for her. She got her revenge against the knights that defiled her, now her last rapist was the general himself, and that was a medium he could use.
'Look at me using my brains deviously', If Omen was at full strength all he had to do was just kill everyone here, steal their powers and be on his merry way, but alas, the universe always had cruel ways of limiting his potential. Still, if he adhered to his plans, nothing would prevent him from escaping within three months.
A few moments later, the sharp clip of hooves against stone echoed through the streets as the caravan hastened its pace. Omen sat stiffly in the carriage, his eyes scanning the vibrant surroundings through the small, barred window. The sheer magnitude of the capital astounded him—thousands of citizens bustling through the streets, vendors shouting their wares, children running freely, and nobles dressed in fine silks strolling with their heads held high.
" Milord, order from the king," the knight at the front said calmly with an authoritative voice, not even looking back as his horse trotted ahead, "I'm here to escort you back to the palace. The king has returned early and wants to meet with all five generals. We've been waiting for you."
Arthur gave a quick, curt nod, signalling the group to follow. The whole caravan moved as one, their pace quickening as they navigated the crowded streets. The atmosphere here felt almost alien to Omen—a place so alive, so untouched by the death and chaos he had endured. It was strange, hearing the cheers and hails directed at them, as if the people knew nothing of the horrors that waited beyond their walls. 'and there was a war going on', this alone spoke of the five general's strength. Coming from a realm destroyed by war himself he knew that within these three months, he had to use his brains more than ever. Luckily, like all nobles before him, he was capable of high-scale scheming.
The carriage jostled as it passed over uneven cobblestones, pulling him from his thoughts.
'They don't know,' he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else in the carriage. His eyes lingered on a young child waving enthusiastically, unaware of the darkness Omen carried within him. 'They have no idea I'll come for them all.'
Slavery was an abolished concept back at Tenebris, the rest of the world viewed the dark realm as its name implied— dark! But even though Omen had only been to two of the nine realms, he doubted there was any realm as human as his. These citizens took pride in battleslaves, forcing the enemy to fight against themselves, afterall slaves compared to citizens were completely meaningless.
The rest of the voyage was spent in uncomfortable silence. The sole sounds were the distant buzz of the town and the constant clanging of the horses' hooves. As they approached the palace, the streets became quieter, and the clamour of the capital faded into the background. The air shifted—the lively, chaotic energy of the city gave way to an oppressive stillness as they approached the palace gates. The people here were more refined, more poised, their movements more deliberate. They wore formal attire, their expressions far more reserved.
The palace grounds were immaculate, a sharp contrast to the cluttered streets of the city. Perfectly trimmed gardens lined the stone paths, and towering marble statues of past kings and generals watched over them like silent sentinels. The group slowed as they approached the grand entrance, where dozens of guards stood at attention, their armour gleaming in the sunlight.
As the caravan came to a halt, Arthur dismounted swiftly, he turned to his children, Rachael and Richard, who followed him closely, their faces calm and unreadable. The slaves, battle-worn but obedient, stepped down next, their eyes cast downward, awaiting further instruction.
Omen barely had a moment to process before he and the other battle slaves, Virgo and Dahlia, were separated and directed elsewhere. The Colonel herself personally led them, her silence heavy with authority.
They rounded the palace, following her through a series of winding paths, until they reached a massive structure shaped like an arena. The air here was different—quieter, but not peaceful. Only a few slaves roamed the grounds, their faces downcast, their bodies worn but hardened.
Omen's mind raced as they ascended a long, spiralling stairway. He took a quick glance, and his gaze briefly met Virgo. She appeared to be insanely curious as well, fascinating.' Was she planning to escape as well?', he mused inwardly. Every step seemed to echo louder than the last, the weight of their surroundings pressing down on him. 'What kind of place is this?' His eyes scanned every detail.
Finally, they arrived at an office—fully furnished but filled with trophies of violence. Beast heads from boars to even wyverns lined the walls, their glassy eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight, as though watching with an eerie, eternal vigilance. Each head seemed to tell a story of conquest, of domination, of brutality. The room reeked of sweat and blood, the very atmosphere oppressive.
The Colonel gestured sharply to a man standing at the far end of the room. Lieutenant Kristen. He was an intimidating figure. Tall, with lean but powerful muscles, his presence was commanding even in silence. A long, jagged scar ran from his forehead down to his left cheek, blinding one eye. His face, marred by burns, was a horrifying mask of pain and survival. There was something deeply unsettling about him—his gaze cold and unyielding, as if he could see straight through their flesh and into their souls.