PLAYER NUMBER 2
—RAITH'S POINT OF VIEW—
Dark clouds churned above the Kingdom of Storms, thick with the scent of damp soil. Lightning danced beyond the mountains, carving silver veins across the sky. In the heart of the capital, Drakenspire, black and white stone towers stood defiantly against the relentless wind. Within the storm-forged fortress, a lone warrior stood in the training grounds, his blade resting in his grip as if it were an extension of himself.
Raith Stormrend, firstborn prince of the Storm Throne, stood beneath the crackling silver sky. His long silver hair clung to his damp skin, his ice-blue eyes locked onto the training dummies ahead. In his hands, Tempestfang pulsed with restrained energy—a relic forged from metal tempered by a hundred storms. The air around him vibrated with anticipation, the blade's edges humming as though hungry for battle. Every muscle in his body remained coiled, his stance effortless graceful yet sharpened by years of discipline.
The Kingdom of Storms did not favor the weak and did not abide weakness. From the moment he could walk, Raith had been trained to wield the power of the skies—to command the wind as easily as he breathed.
He had endured the rites of his ancestors,baptized in thunder and molded by hurricanes. Yet tonight, a different kind of storm raged within him—one of fate rather than nature.
He inhaled and exhaled, the cold night air curling around his breath. Then, with a single step, he vanished.
Lightning trailed his movement, and in the same heartbeat, he reappeared in front of his target. His blade sliced through wood and steel with ease, the air crackling in its wake. The training dummy fell apart in smoldering fragments, consumed by his power.
Raith stilled. The world trembled around him pulsing with raw energy, but something deeper stirred beneath his skin.
This sensation had haunted him for days—an unease that whispered of something unseen. And now, as he straightened, the mark on his forearm ignited.
A storm-wreathed sigil flared to life, glowing silver against his skin. Burning like a brand pressed into flesh.
Pain shot through him. His vision fractured.
For a fleeting moment, he was no longer in Drakenspire.
He saw figures like shadows, towering black pillars stretching into a void, a coliseum forged from shadow and stone. At its center, figures stood—warriors like him, yet unknown. And beyond them, upon an empty throne, a single weapon pulsed with energy so strong and dark.
The Soul Sword.
Then, his vision shattered.
Raith gasped, staggering as the sigil burned hotter, pulsing in sync with the storm overhead. Lightning etched words before his eyes, carved for pure energy.
" A throne awaits. A challenge begins. Will you claim your fate?"
He knew these words.
The Emperor's Game.
A trial that would decide the next ruler of the fractured empire. A brutal deadly war of heirs, where only one would survive.
Raith steadied his breath. Unlike others, he did not fear battle. He had been raised in it, forged by it. He was no politician, no pawn in the games of courts and councils. He was a weapon honed by the storm—a force meant to cut down anything in his path with no mercy.
His grip tightened around Tempestfang. If he won, he would not just be a prince. He would be an emperor.
Under his rule, the empire would no longer be divided. No more warring states, no more fragile peace held together by deception. He would bring true power. True unity.
He clenched his fits, his jaw tightening
" I, Raith Stormrend, accept the challenge. "
The sky roared. The world beneath him shattered.
Unlike teleportation's sharp pull, this felt like unraveling. His body did not vanish—it dispersed, dissolving into wind and thunder, merging with the storm. He raced beyond the kingdom at impossible speed, stretching across unseen lands. Voices echoed in the abyss between worlds—whispers of the past, echoes of battles yet to come.
For a fleeting moment, he felt every storm across the continent. The raging typhoons of the eastern seas. The rolling thunder over distant peaks. The unseen winds weaving through war-torn cities.
And then—impact.
The storm recoiled. The sky above vanished.
Raith hit the soild ground, arcs of electricity sparked off his skin. His boots scraped against obsidian stone as he steadied himself. The shift was undeniable. He was no longer in Drakenspire.
The air here was thick with raw power.
A vast coliseum stretched before him, ancient and unyielding. The ground beneath him pulsed with dormant energy, whispering of battles fought long before his arrival. Towering pillars loomed overhead, their inscriptions glowing faintly beneath a sky devoid of stars.
And before him—four others.
Raith scanned them, measuring their height, their weapons, their power. Each was a warrior, an heir, a challenger. And then—
His gaze landed onone in particular.
A figure cloaked in shadow and purple. A presence as ancient as the storm within him.
Vera Thorns.
Recognition flickered. The only heir of the Kingdom of Thorns. A swordswoman whose name carried both fear and reverence.
She stood with the same unwavering confidence as he did, her own blade resting comfortably against her shoulder, her eyes observing him just as he studied her.
A slow smirk curled Raith's lips.
This would be interesting.
His fingers tightened around Tempestfang. The air thickened around him, sinking into anticipation. The pillars surrounding him glowed with inscriptions yet to be revealed.
The game had begun. And the storm had arrived.
—END OF CHAPTER—
Woo~Our Raith is so handsome, I'm actually tearing up over here! QAQ seriously I can't wait to show you his official art—he's one of my absolute favorite characters!
I just know you're going to love him. As time goes on... Actually, scratch that—you're going to love all of them. It's only a matter of time ( Hehe, trust me~) But for now, please enjoy reading the chapters as much as I enjoy writing them!
Ehe~ I love you all! Now, do me a tiny, itsy-bitsy favor—add this to your library, leave a review, and drop a comment! Give me some sugar, okay T - T