The sky was ash.
Smoke curled upward in pale tendrils, drawn from the remains of the ancient citadel beneath them. The battlefield was a graveyard of stone and scale—molten metal, shattered bones, and the broken body of a beast that once ruled the skies.
The Black Dragon Monarch had fallen.
Its obsidian wings, vast as cities, were torn and lifeless. Claws that had razed kingdoms twitched in their death throes. And atop its ruined skull, where the last breath of fire had turned to smoke, stood a man with eyes like empty glass.
Evan Harrison.
Or rather—Evan, of Pantheon.
Around him, the elite members of Pantheon emerged from the wreckage like myths reborn. Each of them bore wounds, scars of the battle just ended, but not a single one looked afraid. They were monsters in child-shaped skins. Prodigies. Anomalies. Tyrants in training. They descended like vultures to his side, limbs bloodied, clothes torn, grinning like devils wearing halos.
"That was awesome!" cried Luci, no older than thirteen, her face smeared with soot and blood. She threw herself into Evan's side like a child seeking praise from a beloved teacher.
Beside her, Valen twirled a dagger still dripping with ichor. "You see how I blinded it with that last strike? Boom—right in the eye. Ten points to me."
"You nearly blinded me too," mumbled little Rue, trailing behind, clutching her cracked grimoire and pouting.
Evan said nothing at first. He stood among them, coat billowing in the wind, the ruined sky casting silver light upon the earth as if the gods themselves watched in silence.
He looked down at them, his Pantheon. His creation. His chaos. They looked like children. They were not.Each and every one of them had torn a path through monsters and men alike to stand at his side. The world would call them villains.
And Evan?
He would smile and agree.
With the back of his glove, he wiped dragon blood from his cheek and muttered under his breath, "Cute little tyrants." Then, louder, "Good work. We move before reinforcements—"
He froze.
A sudden shift in the air.
And then—a voice. Familiar. Shattered. Horrified.
"Evan?"
The name struck like a curse. He turned.
Down the slope of broken stone and blackened marble, bathed in moonlight and soot, stood Leonard Harrison.
Golden-haired. Eyes wide. Clad in imperial armor scorched by battle. Blood stained his gauntlets, but none of it was his.
He stared not at the dragon. Not at the broken tower.
But at him.
"You…" Leonard's voice cracked. "You're alive."
Evan's expression didn't change. He tucked the smoking barrel of his gun back into its holster and stepped down from the skull of the fallen monarch.
The silence between them dragged long and cold.
Leonard's lips moved, trembling. "You're the one behind Pantheon..."
"Correct," Evan said flatly.
"You orchestrated the collapse of the Eastern Duchies. The Crown's fleet. The Winter Purge."
"Also correct."
"You—" Leonard stepped forward, sword trembling in his grip. "You killed nobles. Gods. You unsealed forbidden systems. You—Evan—this is treason against the throne."
"No," Evan said softly. "This is treason against corruption."
But Leonard wasn't listening. His expression twisted, not in anger, but grief. "Why?"
Evan said nothing. His children behind him watched in silence, the air thick with tension.
Leonard's voice broke. "You were my brother."
That word.
Evan tilted his head. "And you were mine."
Leonard took another step forward—and his oath blazed.
Golden magic erupted around him in a circle, ancient and binding. Lines of light etched themselves into the air.
By blood and decree, it was the Executioner's Oath. A forgotten rite, activated only in times of internal treason.
And Leonard—chosen heir of the House Harrison—had invoked it.
"The throne has named you enemy," he whispered, eyes shining with tears. "And by blood, I am bound to pass judgment."
The magic surged like wildfire.
Evan looked down at the glowing circle under Leonard's feet, then up again.
"…Then judge me."
Leonard flinched.
A long pause.
Then Evan pulled his gun slowly from his coat. It gleamed black and cruel beneath the moonlight.
Leonard tensed.
The children watched, tense but unafraid. To them, this was no brotherly reunion.
It was war.
Evan raised the gun and pointed it at Leonard's heart. "Don't worry. It won't kill you."
"Evan—"
Evan's tone was quiet. "The Emperor is watching. He must see we are not allies."
And he pulled the trigger.
The gunshot rang like thunder, echoing across the ruins. Smoke curled from the barrel.
But the bullet never reached its target.
Leonard raised his hand—and the divine shield sprang to life.
The bullet shattered in midair.
When the smoke cleared, Evan was already gone.
Only his voice lingered, like a ghost on the wind.
"Tell them what you saw, Leonard.Tell them I am a traitor.That I turned my back on House Harrison.That I shot at my own brother."
A soft pause. Then—
"But know this: I am no longer yours to judge.I am no longer a Harrison."
Leonard stood frozen in the rubble, hand trembling, the light of the execution oath still burning under his feet.
His sword fell from his fingers.
Behind him, imperial forces began to arrive, too late to witness the confrontation—just in time to see the wreckage, the fallen dragon, and the branded traitor's mark that now scarred the earth where Evan had stood.
The Emperor's seers would read the magic.
The nobles would hear the tale.
The Empire would know:
Pantheon and House Harrison were enemies.
Just as planned.
Far from the ruins, high in the cliffs overlooking the battlefield, Evan walked alone. The children had gone ahead. The stars above blinked as if in mourning.
His coat whipped in the wind.
He lit a cigarette with a flick of divine spark and stared out into the night.
There was no joy in his face. No pain. Only cold calculation.
"Now they'll think we're enemies.""You can be the hero they want."
He took a drag and exhaled.
"And I can be the monster they fear."
Behind him, Rue watched from a distance, her small hand clutching her grimoire.
"You alright?" she asked quietly.
Evan didn't answer.
She looked up at him with solemn eyes. "You lied to him."
"I lie to everyone."
"But you hurt," she said. "When you looked at him."
Evan crushed the cigarette underfoot.
His voice was quiet.
"I'm used to it."
In the Empire of Svalden, monsters were born from blood and betrayal.
And somewhere, deep in its shadows, a liar with a silver tongue rebuilt the world one war at a time.
With one hand, he held back the tide.
With the other, he pointed the gun.
And behind his cold smile, a promise burned:
"I will destroy everything…So he never has to."