Devouring Dragon Heir

A wave of realization passed through the chamber. The nobles had long known of the accusations against Kaiden, but few cared.

Most assumed it was the usual political struggle, another scapegoat sacrificed. But now, the timing was undeniable.

Another minister whispered in horror. "Then… the attacks were not random?"

The advisor's eyes swept across the chamber, cold and piercing. "No. It was deliberate. Revenge. Justice, perhaps. But not random."

The silence that followed was heavier than stone.

Finally, one of the generals spoke, his voice shaking. "Reports also confirm sightings of… death monsters, the same as seen in the death army of the messenger. The same that were seen in Riverdale.

The same that fought alongside the Messenger. Our men killed, only to rise again and serve him. Entire companies of the empire's armies were wiped out in hours."

He paused, his throat dry. "This is the work of Messenger's army. There can be no doubt."

The hall erupted.

"He dares attack the camps of the four empires?!"

"Impossible! Even he cannot be that bold!"

"Then how do you explain the bodies? The soldiers are missing? The fires?!"

Arguments flared. Some insisted it was impossible for the Messenger to act so directly against the combined might of the empires. Others pointed to the undeniable evidence.

The king raised his trembling hand.

"Silence!" His voice was weak, yet it carried just enough authority to quiet the chamber.

His face was pale, his lips dry. "Is it true then? That the Messenger himself came here? That he struck our allies' camps and slaughtered our nobles?"

The chief advisor bowed his head.

"Yes, Your Majesty. That is the only conclusion we can draw. The pattern, the timing, the method—it all points to him. No one else possesses such abilities."

The words made everyone in the hall silent.

A silent panic spread across the hall. Ministers whispered of the impending doom. Officers cursed under their breaths. The king sank deeper into his throne, beads of sweat rolling down his temple.

"This cannot remain secret," another minister said bitterly. "The fires were seen across the kingdom.

The common people already whisper of demons and divine punishment. If we hide the truth, their fear will only grow. The Messenger's name is already on every tongue.

We might as well use his name to unite the people and bring them on the same page as us; it will be good if we can show the actions of the messenger as pure evil."

Another officer slammed his fist on the table.

"The people are terrified! They say the wrath of the Messenger is upon Lionhart! If they believe we cannot protect them, riots will break out. Already markets are empty. Grain is hoarded. Various merchant families are already fleeing the kingdom."

The chamber filled with fear and uncertainty. For the first time, they were not discussing how to defeat Riverdale; they were discussing how to cover up the severe damage done by Riverdale.

The advisor raised his voice again, sharp as a blade.

"Do you not see? This is exactly what the Messenger desires. He has struck not only at our soldiers but also at our hearts.

He has shown us that he can strike anywhere, at any time, and we are powerless to stop him. He has turned the people against their own rulers."

A hush fell over the hall. His words were undeniable.

The king lowered his head, despair in his eyes. He had signed the pact with the great empires, believing it would save his throne.

But now he saw the truth: he had delivered his kingdom into chaos.

And the Messenger was coming.

Meanwhile, beyond the palace walls, fear spread like wildfire. Markets were empty, and food prices tripled overnight.

Mothers whispered prayers over their children; fathers sharpened old swords in vain hope of protection.

The fires of last night had not only destroyed noble estates; they had burned away the people's faith in their rulers.

Everywhere, the name of the Messenger spread. Not as a man, but as an inevitability. A shadow looming over the kingdom.

Lionhart had not yet fallen. But its heart had already begun to break.

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The hall was still in chaos when the doors slammed open.

A soldier rushed inside, his armor dented, his face streaked with sweat and dirt. He fell to his knees, gasping for breath, before forcing out the words that would strike terror into every soul present.

"The Prince… the Prince of the Falcon Empire…" His voice cracked.

"He's gone; he's disappeared into thin air."

The room froze.

For a moment, it was as though time itself had stopped. The king's eyes widened, his face drained of color. Ministers clutched their robes in panic. Officers stumbled backward as if struck.

A few hours of investigation followed; the commanders of the falcon army that came with the prince were called, and his room was investigated, where only a few blood stains were found.

A new horror crept up the spine of the Lionhart officials and ministers.

The Falcon Empire was one of the most powerful in the south. Their prince had come to Lionhart with tens of thousands of soldiers, a transcendent presence that alone carried more weight than the king himself.

And now he was gone.

"Impossible!" one minister shouted. "The Falcon prince is transcendent! Who could possibly "

The words died in his throat. Everyone knew the answer.

Only one name fit.

The Messenger.

While panic spread through the palace of Lionhart, far away in Riverdale, Klaus sat in the war room.

The chamber was dimly lit, its walls covered in maps and marked parchments. At the center stood a massive table with the layout of Lionhart and its surrounding territories. Pins, flags, and colored stones represented armies, supply lines, and strongholds.

Klaus leaned back in his chair, silent, his piercing eyes fixed on the map.

Around him stood his most trusted subordinates, Necrolord and Thunder Lord.

The atmosphere was heavy. They all knew what was coming.

The strike against the camps was only the beginning. The destruction of the noble houses was only a warning.

Now came the true test. The four empires had gathered their strength inside Lionhart. Four princes, all transcendents, commanded an army of more than one hundred thousand soldiers.

Klaus had less than half that number. But he had something they didn't: the Death Legion, the loyalty of Riverdale, and a will unshaken by fear.

He placed his hand on the map.

"The time has come," he said, his voice cold and absolute. "Lionhart will fall. And with it, the alliance of the southern empires will begin to crumble."

"Start a full-scale attack," Klaus said, giving the final orders.

"When? "My lord," the necrolord asked.

"When will the men be ready?"

The necrolord smiled as he replied, "We start now if you say so, my lord."

Klaus smiled back. "Then what are you waiting for? start the attack."

"As you wish, my lord," the necrolord bowed.

Klaus suddenly voiced out, "Oh, and take him with you."

The war room went still. Necrolord bowed low, waiting for the next command, while Thunder Lord stood silent.

Then the air shifted.

A shadow stepped forward from behind Klaus, solidifying into the figure of a young man exuding terrifying death energy and also wind element swirling around him. His robes were pristine white trimmed with silver, his long hair flowing like strands of wind itself.

His features were sharp and cunning, and his smile carried a sly confidence that made even seasoned warriors uneasy.

Necrolord and Thunder Lord exchanged glances. They both felt the aura spilling from the man—not just power, but a pressure sharp as cutting wind.

Klaus gestured with casual authority.

"This," he said, his voice echoing through the chamber, "is Wind Lord. Once, he was the fourth prince of the Falcon Empire. Now, he is my subordinate."

The figure bowed deeply, his sly smile never fading.

"I will heed your orders, my lord. My life, my blade, and my wind now belong to you."

Necrolord's hollow voice followed. "Another person to carry our banner. How fitting. The southern empires will soon regret sending their children here."

Klaus leaned back in his chair, his golden eyes glinting with satisfaction.

"With Wind Lord, the trifecta is complete. Three lords, twenty pseudo-transcendents, thirty-eight thousand death soldiers, and ten thousand men of Riverdale."

He tapped the map again, his finger pressing down on the symbol representing Lionhart.

"Start the march."

The night was torn apart by the sound of drums.

The death legion, thirty-eight thousand strong, began to move. Armor rattled, weapons clashed, and the hollow eyes of the dead gleamed faintly in the torchlight.

Their march was inhuman and precise, each step pounding against the earth like a war drum.

Behind them followed the human army of Riverdale, ten thousand strong. Unlike the death legion, they breathed heavily, faces set in grim determination.

But their morale did not falter; in fact, fighting alongside the Messenger had become a source of pride.

Above them, the sky shifted. Winds howled, thunder cracked, and the faint shimmer of spectral fire danced on the horizon.

Klaus stood at the forefront on a cliff overlooking the valley road to Lionhart. His cloak fluttered behind him, his hands resting on the hilt of his blade.

His eyes scanned the land that would soon become a battlefield.

Behind him, Wind Lord and the other two approached; Wind Lord's tone was playful. "My lord, should we start the assault without a declaration, or should we wait for things to go the normal way?"

"This time declare the war outright and attack with full force; there is no need to hide," Klaus said simply. His aura flared, commanding obedience.

"Necrolord, you and Thunder Lord lead the vanguard. Crush their outer defenses. You will scatter their scouts and shatter their cavalry lines."

"Try not to kill the soldiers who surrender; we need people to join the human army also."

The three bowed, voices in unison. "As you command."