The battlefield reeked of blood and smoke, the crimson-stained earth a testimony to the ferocity of the Virellian army's onslaught. The sun hung low on the horizon, casting a fiery glow over the chaos as swords clashed, arrows rained down, and the cries of the dying filled the air.
At the center of the carnage stood Kaelen Drakon, a mere boy of fifteen, yet already a figure of nightmares. His golden armor gleamed with streaks of blood, his sharp features set in a cold, merciless mask. Around him lay the corpses of warriors twice his age, felled by his sword—a monstrous blade too large for most men to wield, yet in his hands, it moved with deadly precision.
Kaelen's pale, silver eyes, unblinking and unfeeling, scanned the chaos as he cut down anyone who dared cross his path. His opponents faltered at the sight of him—a young boy with a face that could have been angelic, were it not for the blood splattered across his cheeks and the soulless glare that promised death.
The gates of Eldoria's castle loomed ahead, battered and broken by the Virellian siege engines. The defenders were in disarray, retreating in panic as Kaelen led the charge through the splintered remains. His soldiers followed him, emboldened by his presence, chanting his name as if he were a god.
The sounds of battle grew distant as Kaelen entered the throne room. The once-magnificent throne room was tarnished by signs of war: shattered windows, splintered furniture, and a thick layer of dust coating the air. At the far end, the King of Eldoria cowered. Once a proud ruler, he now trembled before the boy who had turned his kingdom into a graveyard.
Kaelen strode forward, his boots echoing on the stone floor, dragging his blood-drenched sword behind him. The king's guards hesitated, their hands quivering on their weapons. They had seen what had happened to those who opposed this demon in a prince's skin.
The king fell to his knees, pleading. "Please, spare me! I'll surrender the kingdom! Anything you want, it's yours!" He howled like a beggar, not an ounce of his royal dignity remaining.
Kaelen tilted his head, his lifeless eyes meeting the king's. For a moment, he said nothing, letting the silence stretch into something unbearable. Then, with deliberate calm, he sheathed his bloodied sword. "Sure," he murmured and turned to exit the room.
The king, stunned, watched as the boy walked away. But his heart clenched with fury as he remembered the devastation wrought upon his family and people. His eyes glinted with a twisted light as he tightened his hold on a hidden dagger in his robe.
He stealthily took steps forward and lunged at Kaelen like a tiger pouncing on its prey, the dagger mere inches from Kaelen's heart. The room held its breath. The Virellian soldiers raised their swords threateningly, blades glinting with murderous intent.
Kaelen, as if anticipating the attack, spun around, grabbing the king's wrist with a vice-like grip. The boy's lips curled chillingly, yet his eyes remained devoid of emotion, like a crystal-clear lake. "You've aimed wrong," he whispered. "Kaelen Drakon doesn't have a heart. A conqueror with a heart only finds death."
In one fluid motion, Kaelen flipped the king forward, unsheathing his sword. The blade gleamed viciously before it descended.
Ka-Cha!
The king's head rolled across the marble floor, leaving a smear of red in its wake. The king's trusted aides and guards froze, their spirits shattered, as Kaelen kicked the severed head toward them like a ragged ball.
Stepping over the lifeless body, Kaelen turned to his soldiers. His voice, cold and commanding, cut through the silence. "Let this serve as a message. To defy Virellian is to invite death. No mercy. No survivors."
The soldiers erupted in cheers, their cries echoing through the blood-soaked halls. Outside, the people of Eldoria screamed as the city burned, its once-proud walls crumbling under the weight of a ruthless conquest.
The throne room of Eldoria, now draped in the banners of Virellian, stood in stark contrast to the blood-soaked battlefield outside. The heavy air was thick with the scent of blood and iron.
Kaelen Drakon sat upon the conquered throne, his golden armor stained with the day's carnage, his youthful face marred by the icy calm of an experienced killer. His fingers drummed idly on the armrest, his mind a whirlpool of unspoken thoughts.
The grand doors creaked open, revealing General Darius Vael, his late father's most trusted confidant and the Commander-in-Chief of the Virellian Army. Clad in battle-worn armor, his presence was as imposing as ever.
"You've done well, Kaelen," Darius said, his voice a deep rumble. "The late King, your father, would be very proud of you in the heavens."
Kaelen's icy eyes lifted, meeting Darius's unwavering stare. "It's not enough," he murmured, his voice youthful yet laden with a dangerous edge. "They still live. They still breathe."
Darius nodded, a gleam of dark satisfaction in his eyes. "Yes, your father's killers remain. Their kingdoms thrive. We cannot rest until they are ash beneath your feet."
Kaelen's fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, knuckles white. "What's our next plan?"
Darius stepped closer, his hand resting heavily on Kaelen's shoulder, a fatherly weight that anchored Kaelen's sinking boat. "Trust me, Kaelen. As your father did. Together, we'll make them pay. But we must be cautious." He paused. "Our growing power will make neighboring kingdoms feel threatened. They'll form alliances to stop us."
Kaelen's eyes darkened, the gray in them deepening. Then, a cold, thin smile appeared on his lips. "I understand, Uncle. Lead the way."
Darius smiled, a mix of pride and something darker. "Then let's begin with our next target: Lytheria, Your Highness."
Kaelen rose from the throne, his silver eyes glowing with upcoming typhoon and heart pounding with a burning hunger for vengeance. "As you say, Uncle."
Kaelen Drakon was no longer a boy—a mere prince.
He had become a devil.
A devil who would stop at nothing to shape an empire for his revenge.
But fate had its own plans.
In the years to come, there would be someone as deadly as a blade, yet as delicate as a fleeting lotus petal. A force Kaelen could neither anticipate nor comprehend, yet one that would pierce his heart with the same precision he wielded his sword, leaving him torn between vengeance and temptation.