The Shadow of the King

The battlefield was silent.

Dust floated lazily through fractured light as the remains of magic still shimmered in the air. The great hall of the banquet—once filled with laughter, nobles, and pride—now stood heavy with dread. The marble stage, cracked and torn by the clash between Noah and the First King’s clone, looked like a battlefield from legend.

Noah stood in the center, chest rising and falling. His blade trembled in his hand. The nine other participants lay defeated around him—groaning, broken, or unconscious.

The clone, however, was not defeated.

Its armor gleamed gold, marked with faint fissures where Noah’s blade had met it, yet the being still stood straight, unbowed. The echo of ancient power radiated from it—a power that seemed to mock the modern world.

The king rose from his throne, his tone low but steady.
“Enough. The demonstration has served its purpose. The First King’s clone—”

He stopped.

Because the clone suddenly turned its head.
Not toward Noah. Not toward the throne.

Toward the grand doors at the edge of the hall.

The doors creaked open.

A shadow entered—slow steps, calm and deliberate, echoing against the cracked marble. The air shifted. Even the lingering magic seemed to tremble.

He wore royal black, the kind used by highborns, but his face was hidden beneath a dark scarf that wrapped tightly from the bridge of his nose down to his collar. The dim light glinted against his eyes—deep crimson, cold and unreadable.

The nobles froze.
Who is that?
Is he a royal knight? An assassin?
Whispers spread, but no one dared move.

Even Noah felt it—the suffocating weight of that aura. His system flickered before his eyes again:

[Warning: Entity recognized – “Lone Survivor of the Twelve Fangs.”]
[Mission Trigger: Observe.]

Noah’s gaze sharpened. So this was him—the one the system warned about.

The clone’s golden eyes flared brighter, shaking faintly, and then—
It dropped to one knee.

The nobles gasped.
The king stood from his throne, disbelief clouding his face.
“W-what is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

The clone’s voice, rough and metallic, rasped out one word:

“…Master.”

The hall fell utterly silent.

The stranger didn’t move. Only the faint whisper of his scarf in the breeze. His eyes never left the clone.

He lifted a hand slightly—nothing dramatic, just a motion of quiet command. The clone froze mid-movement, its golden aura flickering like a candle before a storm.

Sir Cedric Valtor, the kingdom’s greatest swordsman, stepped forward, his blade drawn.
“Who are you?” he growled. “Only the royal family and their magi may command constructs of the First King!”

The masked man tilted his head slightly, his voice calm yet carrying a weight that silenced even Cedric’s anger.
“Names… are for those who need to be remembered,” he said softly. “Strength does not ask for introductions.”

The king’s frown deepened. “You dare speak arrogance before the throne? Guards—”

But his order died in his throat.

The masked man’s presence expanded—not physically, but spiritually. It felt like the air itself bent around him. The nobles gasped, clutching their chests as the weight pressed down upon them.

Noah’s hand trembled slightly, but his eyes glowed. He could feel it—this energy, this pattern.
That technique… It’s the same flow I felt in the clone’s attack! No… it’s purer. Older.

The clone rose, sword trembling in its hands, and in that trembling was reverence—not rebellion.

And for a fleeting instant, the two blades—Noah’s and the clone’s—resonated faintly with that same frequency.

Leo, beneath the scarf, allowed a small smirk to appear.

[System Notification: Mission Updated.]
[New Quest: Retrace the Twelve Fangs of Rome.]
[First Objective: Reclaim the Fang of Valor.]

He read it silently, the familiar burning letters fading into his mind.
So, the first piece shows itself.

The king, confused and frustrated, barked, “Enough! Whoever you are—remove that scarf! This is the court of the royal family. Show your face!”

Leo’s gaze finally shifted toward him.
That one look silenced the entire throne hall.

His tone was quiet—but it cut sharper than any blade.
“Even a throne should know when to stay silent before a shadow that predates it.”

The nobles whispered, terrified.

“He dares speak to His Majesty like that?”
“Is he one of the old cult remnants?”
“No… that pressure… it’s divine!”

Sir Cedric gritted his teeth, stepping closer. “If you will not reveal yourself, then you will reveal your strength!”

Leo chuckled under his breath. “As you wish.”

He took a single step forward. The ground cracked. A silent gale blew across the hall. Flames in the chandeliers flickered violently, and the air shimmered as if rejecting the existence of anything else but him.

The clone—the very symbol of the First King’s power—lowered its head.

“…Roman,” it whispered again, voice trembling like a prayer.

Only Noah and Leo heard it clearly.

Noah’s eyes widened. “Roman…?”

Leo said nothing. The wind carried his scarf slightly, revealing only the faint curve of his smirk.

“Hmph. Even now, you remember.”

He raised his hand slightly. The clone responded instantly, sheathing its sword and kneeling completely before him.

Gasps broke across the throne hall.

“What—why is it obeying him!?”
“This can’t be!”
“Did he control it with forbidden magic!?”

Leo ignored them all. His crimson gaze swept through the room once more, lingering briefly on Noah. For a second, Noah could swear he felt a whisper in his mind:

“You have potential. Don’t waste it.”

Then, turning away from the clone, Leo spoke softly, almost to himself:
“History… moves once more.”

With that, he turned his back to the king, the nobles, and the chaos he’d created.

The scarf fluttered behind him like a dying ember as he walked out of the hall, leaving behind silence so deep that even the guards forgot to breathe.