Ch 88 - The Sovereign of Flames

A solitary figure cloaked in flowing linen robes moved swiftly through the shuddering halls of the palace. The figure was none other than Jericho Plat, the Prime Minister of the Zephinya Kingdom, who had vanished just before the chaos erupted in the council room. His form was concealed by an invisibility spell, allowing him to glide silently through the turmoil. Clutched tightly against his chest was a small, intricately designed cube—a relic long sealed away in the royal treasury, its purpose shrouded in mystery.

He remembered the king’s words as soon as the Virtue attacked the council: Retrieve the cube. Now! The king’s command had been swift and unyielding. Jericho donned his invisibility spell and slipped past the council room to retrieve the cube.

It didn’t take long for him to find it.

As he neared the ruined council chamber, a colossal beam from Pierre’s cannon suddenly tore through the palace. The blast rocked the very foundations beneath his feet, sending a violent tremor through the building. But Jericho did not falter. He was close now. With a final step, he dispelled his invisibility and materialized beside the king, pressing the cube into his waiting hands.

Harnold, standing guard nearby, flinched at the prime minister’s sudden appearance, but there was no time for explanations. The king’s focus was fixed entirely on the object now resting in his grasp.

The cube was a crystalline marvel, its smooth surface shimmering faintly in the flickering torchlight. But it was what lay within that sent a chill coursing through Harnold’s veins—a severed arm, small and frail as if it had once belonged to a child. It was perfectly preserved, suspended in time within the cube’s translucent walls.

Jericho swallowed hard, his gaze shifting to the battlefield beyond. Pierre’s devastating attack had struck true, leaving a smoldering crater where Belarus had stood moments before. The grandmasters, though visibly drained, exchanged uneasy glances.

“Did they… did they really kill him?” Jericho whispered, a flicker of hope in his voice.

That hope was extinguished in an instant.

A deep, rumbling laugh echoed through the ruins, dripping with amusement. “Not bad,” Belarus’s voice carried effortlessly through the wreckage, his tone mocking, almost playful. “But did you honestly think you could kill me with fire?”

A wave of scorching heat swept through the chamber. Smoke swirled, revealing a shadowy figure rising from the crater. As the dust settled, Belarus stepped forward, unharmed, his golden eyes glowing like molten suns. A cruel smirk twisted his lips. “I am the fire dragon, the sovereign of flames. And your grand plan to defeat me is... fire?” He let out a short, derisive snort. “This is almost laughable.”

Despair settled heavily over the room as the grandmasters staggered back, their faces etched with disbelief.

"A commendable effort, I'll admit," Belarus continued, his voice dripping with derision.
"But you’ll need far more than mere flames if you hope to stop me." His eyes blazed with an intensity that promised only destruction.

The king, however, remained composed. He exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping to the cube in his hands. Without a word, he placed it into a large, bloodstained magic circle carved into the stone floor. All this time, he had been stalling, preparing for the moment when the cube would finally arrive, allowing him to perform this particular spell.

With a steadying breath, he placed his hands on the circle and activated the magic. The runes flared to life for a brief moment, glowing with an eerie light before dimming just as swiftly.

The king’s brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of disbelief crossing his expression.

Jericho stiffened, his eyes scanning the room anxiously. Something was supposed to happen. But the silence stretched on.

An uneasy quiet fell over the chamber.

The king wasted no time. He took a step forward, locking eyes with Belarus. “Allow me to remind you,” the king said, his voice steady as he met the dragon’s fiery gaze, “you are not the true sovereign of the flames.”

The amusement drained from Belarus’s face in an instant. His smirk vanished, replaced by a dark, seething glare as his attention snapped toward the king. “What did you say?”

The air grew heavy, and oppressive, as Belarus’s bloodlust washed over the chamber like a tidal wave. The grandmasters, the king, and even Jericho were frozen in place, their bodies locked in place by an invisible force. It was as if time itself had stopped, leaving them helpless to do anything but watch as the Virtue of Valor loomed over them, his golden eyes blazing with fury.

Belarus flapped his wings once, sending a gust of scorching air through the room as he landed just a few feet in front of the king. His gaze bore into the monarch, and his voice was a low, dangerous growl.

“I've played with you vermin for far too long,” he said, his tone dripping with contempt. “You’ve grown far too brazen, daring to challenge my dominion over the flames. If this is how you repay my patience, then I’ll reduce your precious kingdom to ash. Your subjects will burn, their screams a symphony to accompany your downfall.”

Despite the paralyzing force of Belarus’s bloodlust, the king managed to smile—a small, defiant smirk that only deepened the Virtue’s rage.

Belarus’s eyes slitted into razor-sharp lines, his lips peeling back to reveal a savage snarl.

"You dare mock me in the face of your annihilation?" His voice twisted into a low, thunderous growl before rising into a roar, each word trembling with fury. "Very well. If you crave oblivion, I shall grant it—meet your end, fool!"

He raised his hand, a massive magic circle forming above his palm. Flames gathered within it, swirling and condensing into a sphere of pure, destructive energy. The heat was unbearable, the air itself seeming to ignite as the spell grew in intensity.

The grandmasters, still frozen from the bloodlust, could only watch in horror as Belarus prepared to unleash his wrath. Jericho’s mind raced his thoughts a chaotic jumble of fear and desperation. This is it, he thought. This is how it ends.

However, something changed.

Belarus paused mid-cast, his spell faltering as his head jerked upward. His expression morphed from fury to frustration, his golden eyes narrowing as if he had sensed an unexpected presence—something—or someone—he hadn’t anticipated.

A heartbeat later, a streak of fire tore through the sky, hurtling toward the palace at an unimaginable speed. It resembled a meteor, wreathed in flames, its fiery trail lighting up the heavens as it plummeted toward the council room.

Belarus stopped his incantation, his full attention now fixated on the new arrival. The meteor crashed into the room, shaking the very foundations of the palace. The ground trembled, sending a shockwave that reverberated through the halls.

Dust and flames erupted, spilling across the room. Several of the grandmasters were thrown to the ground, immobilized as if they were ragdolls, frozen by the overwhelming force of the impact.

As the flames began to subside, a figure emerged from the wreckage. A towering armored warrior stood amidst the chaos, his form encased in intricately designed metal plates adorned with glowing runes. His head was an inferno, flames dancing around it, while two streaks of flickering light served as his eyes. The mouthpiece of his mask glowed faintly, and the very air around him shimmered with a terrifying aura of raw power and searing heat.

Belarus’s golden eyes narrowed, his irritation palpable as he locked onto the mysterious figure. “You…” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “What are you doing here, Valve?”

The fiery figure, known as Valve, took a deliberate step forward. His movements were unhurried, but each one seemed to crack the ground beneath him, blackening it in his wake. The sheer intensity of his presence made the air shimmer, and an overwhelming pressure seemed to hang in the room. He positioned himself between Belarus and the grandmasters, his fiery gaze fixed on the Virtue of Valor.

The grandmasters, still frozen in place, felt a palpable unease wash over them. Even in their immobile state, they could sense the immense power emanating from Valve. His presence was both awe-inspiring and terrifying, equal in magnitude to Belarus’s own aura.

“What is the meaning of this?” Belarus demanded, his voice laced with frustration and rising fury.

“I am here to protect them,” Valve replied calmly, his tone firm yet unwavering.

Belarus stepped forward, the heat radiating from his body clashing with Valve’s. The air between them seemed to ignite, creating a visible distortion. “I thought you severed your ties with them long ago,” Belarus said, his voice tinged with suspicion. “So what are you doing here?”

Valve remained silent for a moment, his fiery eyes flickering toward the king before returning to Belarus. “Just here to fulfill an old oath,” he replied, his tone calm and resolute.

Belarus followed Valve's gaze, his golden eyes narrowing as he turned his attention to the king. “Is that so?” he said, skepticism dripping from his words. “Very well, then. Prepare for battle, Valve. Today we’ll decide whose flames are mightier. We shall set this kingdom ablaze in our dance. How about that?”

Valve stood motionless, his expression unreadable beneath his fiery visage. He made no move to attack, no gesture of defiance. He simply locked eyes with Belarus, his silence speaking volumes.

Belarus’s wings flared wide as he levitated into the air, his crimson scales gleaming in the light of the flames. “Today, we’ll prove who the true Sovereign of Flames is,” he declared, his voice carrying the weight of supreme confidence.

But Valve remained still, his fiery eyes unwavering, exuding a quiet strength. He didn’t seem one bit afraid to face the dragon.

Belarus’s smirk faltered for a moment as he noticed Valve’s complete lack of response. “Should I make the first move, then?” he asked, his voice mocking as he raised his arm, a spell forming in his palm.

A magic circle materialized before his hand, and intense flames began to gather in a single point. The air around them began to burn as mana swirled and focused before Belarus. A wide grin spread across his face, eager to unleash the attack.

“Bel,” Valve said suddenly, his voice soft but carrying an undeniable weight.

“For old friendship’s sake, leave them be.”

Belarus’s eyes widened in surprise, his arm lowering slightly as he stared at Valve in disbelief. “Recalling a favor from our old friendship?” he said, incredulous. “That’s not very like you, Valve.”

But Valve remained silent, his fiery gaze unwavering as he stood his ground.

Belarus slowly dispelled the spell, and the flames vanished.

He let out a low, rumbling chuckle, lowering his arm completely. “Hmm, fine,” he said, his tone begrudging. “I’ll allow it this time, my old friend. But remember—the friendship between us ended long ago. You and I are something more than these paltry creatures.”

Valve said nothing, his silence a quiet acknowledgment of Belarus’s words.

“I’ll spare this kingdom for now,” Belarus continued, his voice more restrained. “But don’t think I do this because of our old friendship. I do this because, among the other Virtues, I respect you as my equal. Unlike those younglings, the two of us have seen more of the world than anyone else. The next time this kingdom catches my ire, I’ll bury it—along with you, if you dare to stand in my way.”

Valve nodded slightly, a gesture of respect. “I heed your agreement, old friend,” he said, his voice calm yet resolute.

Belarus’s smirk returned, though it held a hint of bitterness. “Stop acting like old buddies,” he said, his tone sharp. “Your code of Liberality is what I hate most about you. It’s been a shackle on your kindness that you haven’t controlled yet. Anyway, I’m done here.”

With that, Belarus flapped his wings, his form swelling and shifting into a massive, grotesque red dragon. His golden eyes gleamed with an otherworldly light as he rose into the sky, his wings sending waves of scorching air through the ruined palace.

“Are you heading back to the base?” Valve called out, his voice cutting through the roar of the flames.

Belarus glanced back, his expression unreadable. “I don’t see why you care,” he muttered before turning and flying off into the distance, his massive form quickly vanishing beyond the horizon.

The chamber fell silent, the tension slowly dissipating as Valve turned to face the grandmasters and the king. The flames around him dimmed, and his presence lost some of its overwhelming intensity.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, as the last remnants of Belarus’s bloodlust faded, the grandmasters found themselves able to move again. They exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions a mixture of relief and lingering fear.

Valve remained motionless, his fierce expression unreadable as he extended his hand toward the king. “Now, hand me the arm,” he stated, his voice calm yet firm, cutting through the heavy silence that had settled over the ruined chamber.

Inyake Radiz, the king, nodded solemnly. With careful precision, he retrieved the crystal cube from the bloodstained magic circle, wiping away the blood with the sleeve of his robe as he moved toward Valve. But before he could take more than a few steps, Gunther and Biswaq stepped forward, blocking his path.

“Your Majesty?!” Gunther’s voice was tight with concern.

Valve’s expression remained unchanged, his outstretched hand unwavering. His fiery eyes flickered slightly, but he made no move to defend himself or explain his actions.

The king raised a hand, his voice steady but commanding. “Stand aside,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. “This is not a request.”

Reluctantly, Gunther and Biswaq stepped back, though their wariness never left them. Their eyes remained fixed on Valve, clearly on edge. The king continued his approach, the cube cradled carefully in his hands. He placed it gently into Valve’s waiting palm, the tiny severed arm inside glowing faintly in the firelight.

“Thank you, Sir Virtue Valve of Liberality,” the king said, his voice sincere, filled with genuine gratitude. “Had you not intervened, this kingdom would have—”

“Your thanks are not needed,” Valve interrupted, his tone flat and emotionless. “I am here only to fulfill an old oath. Remember well that I am not your ally.”

The king fell silent, his expression turning more somber as he met Valve’s fiery gaze.

Valve’s voice grew sterner, his eyes never leaving the cube. “It won’t be long before I can fulfill my oath,” he continued, then turned his gaze to the grandmasters. “Afterward, I will eradicate this kingdom with my own two hands.”

Before anyone could react, flames erupted from the gaps in Valve’s armor, enveloping him in a blazing inferno. The heat was so intense that the grandmasters and the king were forced to stumble back, shielding their faces from the searing flames.

The king, though visibly shaken, managed to speak. “Lord Valve,” he said, his voice trembling slightly, “this place… it is still your home.”

Valve paused, his fiery gaze softening for the briefest of moments. He glanced over his shoulder at the king, his voice heavy with regret. “I already buried my home in the flames.”

With that, Valve’s form dissolved into a streak of fire, shooting into the sky like a comet. In an instant, he vanished into the horizon, leaving behind only the faint scent of smoke and the lingering heat of his presence.

The king, his body trembling with exhaustion and relief, finally collapsed to his knees. Gunther and Harnold rushed to his side, their faces a mixture of concern and admiration for the king’s resilience.

Around them, the grandmasters were in no better shape. Casia had fallen unconscious, her mana completely drained from maintaining the protective barriers and healing spells. Messindra knelt beside her, her hands glowing faintly as she worked to stabilize her.

The others sat amidst the wreckage, their faces drawn with exhaustion and frustration. The grandmasters had been utterly outmatched in this battle, and it was only the king’s quick thinking that had saved them from complete annihilation.

Although they had many questions about the king’s deal with Virtue Valve, no one dared to voice them. The atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension, and the grandmasters knew better than to provoke more uncertainty.

Pierre, leaning against a broken pillar, stared up at the sky, his voice barely above a whisper. “How the hell did a group of nobodies manage to take down a monstrosity like them?”

Before anyone could respond, the ground beneath them shook again. The palace trembled as something—someone—was rapidly approaching. The grandmasters stiffened, their fatigue forgotten in an instant as they braced for another attack.

But then, a familiar voice boomed through the ruins.

“Where are you?!” The massive silhouette of Ajax appeared against the crumbling palace walls. He was carrying a huge pillar over his shoulder like a club, his eyes blazing with fury. The handprint of the Virtue still marred his stomach, a scar from the earlier confrontation.

Pierre let out an exasperated sigh, shaking his head. “Ajax, he’s already gone. Put that pillar down before you destroy what’s left of the palace.”

Ajax blinked in confusion, looking around as the realization hit him that the battle had ended. With a frustrated grunt, he lowered the pillar, his expression shifting from anger to disappointment. “I was ready to fight,” he muttered, though the usual bravado in his voice was absent.

The king, aided by Gunther and Harnold, finally rose to his feet. Despite his weariness, his voice carried the weight of authority as he addressed the grandmasters.

“Gather your men,” he said, his tone brokering no argument. “We are still in the midst of a crisis. Lord Valve will deal with the Church for now, but the rest of the problems fall to us. There is no time to waste. Take potions, rest for a day, and then move out to your jurisdictions. The threats on our borders still loom, and it will take time to stabilize the situation. And let us not forget—we must find those responsible for slaying Sir Lux.”

The grandmasters nodded, their expressions hardening with resolve. Though battered and exhausted, they knew their work was far from over. The battle with Belarus had served as a brutal reminder of the dangers they faced, but it had also proven the strength of their unity in the face of overwhelming odds.

As the king surveyed the ruins of his palace, his mind raced with plans and strategies. The road ahead would be long and fraught with peril, but for now, at least, the kingdom had been granted a brief reprieve.

In the distance, the faint glow of Valve’s flames still flickered in the sky, a silent reminder of the debt that remained—one that would eventually need to be paid.