Perfect King 2

The Perfect King had no throne, but he sat upon stone as if it were forged for him.
Villagers gathered like moths to firelight. They came not to worship, but to wonder. Children peeked through branches. Hunters watched from rooftops. Elders sat in silence. Even the birds dared not sing.
They had heard rumors—that the godless man who once cleaved the skies with his bare hands had returned.
He didn’t speak much. But sometimes, rarely, when the night was dark enough and the fire cracked just right—he answered questions.
This night, the fire flickered low. Someone dared to ask:
"O King without kingdom…if war came to your door again—who among the monsters would you fear?"
The Perfect King didn’t laugh.
He stood. And the silence grew cold.
Then, he spoke—his voice low, firm, scarred with a thousand regrets.
“Fear? No. But there are two I would not fight…not unless the world itself was ending.”
The villagers stirred.
“Who?” a young girl whispered, clutching her mother.
The Perfect King turned his gaze upward, as if seeing a distant battlefield still burning in his mind.
“The Lover from Hell.”
A murmur swept through the crowd.
“He’s not rage. He’s not madness.He’s grief. Weaponized.His blade doesn’t aim for your body—it aims for your soul.And if he ever stops holding back…not even the gods will recognize this world.”
The fire cracked louder.
“And the other?” a blacksmith asked.
He didn’t expect the pause. But the King waited. As if a name tasted bittersweet.
“Jack of No Trade.”
The wind howled softly.
“The Jester of Death,” he continued, “wears jokes like armor.But his laughter hides calculation.In chaos, he is sovereign.If he gets serious…no one walks away laughing.”
There was weight in his voice—not of fear, but of knowledge.He had seen glimpses of both.He had survived things no human should.
“Some monsters… are not made to be fought.Some are made to remind us that power doesn’t always look like strength.”
The fire dimmed again.
And as the villagers left, none called him king.They didn’t need to.He had spoken not like a ruler, but like a soldier who knew war—and the monsters who danced inside it.
The Perfect King stood alone beneath the stars, lightning whispering across his shoulders.He wasn’t preparing for battle.
He was waiting for them.
“Let them come,” he whispered to the dark. “But I know which ones I will not greet with a smile.”