Soul Sword : The empire's last game

The sky above the Kingdom of Storms roiled with turbulent clouds, the constant aroma of rain heavy in the atmosphere. Lightning flickered beyond the mountain summits, creating jagged silver lines across the heavens. The capital, Drakenspire, remained resolute against the tempest, its black stone towers shimmering under the relentless wind. In its core, within the fortress shaped by the storm, a warrior stood still on the training grounds, his sword held in his hand like a natural extension of himself.

Raith Stormrend, the eldest prince of the Storm Throne, was beneath the crackling sky, his silver hair wet with moisture, his piercing, ice-blue eyes focused on the training dummies ahead of him. His blade, Tempestfang, a relic created from metal forged in a hundred storms, pulsed subtly with crackling energy, its edges vibrating as if the weapon itself craved combat. His muscles wound with restrained strength, his stance appeared effortless but was crafted through years of rigorous training.

The Kingdom of Storms did not support the feeble. From the time he could stand, he was taught to wield the power of the skies, to manipulate the wind to his desire, to control the storm as if it were a part of him. He had faced the demanding rites of his forebears, drenched in thunder and hardened in gales. Yet tonight, a tempest unlike any he had previously encountered roared within him—not of wind and rain, but of destiny.

Raith breathed out, his breath evident in the chilly night atmosphere. He adjusted his hold on his sword. The moment he moved, he transformed into lightning brought to life. With one step, he disappeared in a flash, reappearing in front of the training dummy in the same heartbeat. A crackling trail of electricity followed the path of his sword as it sliced through wood and metal like paper, leaving only smoldering remnants in its wake.

He paused, the air surrounding him crackling with energy. But even as the storm submitted to his command, a deeper force stirred inside him. He had sensed this sensation for days, this restless disquiet that writhed beneath his skin, hinting at something hidden. And now, as he straightened, the mark on his forearm flared to life—a sigil in the form of a crown wrapped in a storm, glowing with silver light.

The instant it sparked to life, Raith staggered, an alien presence invading his consciousness. The surroundings twisted.

For an instant, he was no longer in Drakenspire. He glimpsed flashes of something different—a coliseum of black stone, columns soaring high into a storm-free void. He saw figures standing at its center, warriors like him, yet unfamiliar. A challenge interwoven into the very atmosphere. And beyond them, on a vacant throne, a blade awaited, resting.

The Soul Sword.

Then, the vision fractured.

Raith inhaled sharply, his heart racing. The sigil blazed hotter, pulsing in sync with the tempest above. The moment he attempted to resist its power, words formed from pure lightning erupted before his gaze.

"A throne is waiting. A challenge is set in motion. Will you seize your destiny? "

He was familiar with the phrase. The Game of the Empire. The trial that decided the next leader of the divided empire. It was a conflict of heirs, a contest where only one could prevail.

Raith's heartbeat normalized. Unlike others, he was not afraid of combat. He had spent his whole life preparing for warfare. He was neither a politician nor a pawn in the games of court. He was a weapon honed by the tempest, a force intended to carve through anything obstructing his path.

He tightened his fist, his jaw tensing. If he triumphed, he would not simply be a prince. He would ascend to emperor. The Empire of Storms would rise, and under his command, there would be no more division, no more fractured kingdoms pretending at tranquility. He would bring genuine power, genuine unity.

His hold on Tempestfang intensified.

"I, Raith Stormrend, accept the challenge. "

The tempest above roared as the ground beneath him shattered.

Different from the quick jolt of teleportation, Raith's body unraveled. He did not disappear—he dissolved, as if his very essence became wind and thunder, merging into the sky. His consciousness stretched beyond the kingdom, riding the storm itself, moving at unimaginable speed across unseen lands. In the brief void between worlds, he heard murmurs—whispers of the past, echoes of battles yet to unfold.

For an instant, he sensed every storm across the continent. The furious typhoons of the eastern seas, the subdued thunder rolling over distant peaks, the invisible winds weaving through war-torn cities.

And then—collision.

The storm recoiled. The heavens above faded away.

Raith crashed onto solid ground, the impact rippling beneath him as arcs of electricity sparked across his skin. His boots scraped against obsidian stone, and he teetered only slightly before regaining his steadiness. His breath remained calm, but the transition was unmistakable. He was no longer in Drakenspire.

The atmosphere here was thick with energy.

The immense coliseum extended before him, ancient and unyielding. The ground beneath him throbbed with latent power, whispering of the countless battles waged before him. Pillars towered high, casting long shadows beneath a starless sky.

And in front of him—four others.

Raith's gaze moved over them, warriors, heirs, challengers. Each was stationed in their own area, their weapons unsheathed, their eyes glinting with recognition. He met each stare in succession, observing their silhouettes, assessing their strengths.

His storm-lashed eyes fixed on one in particular—a figure shrouded in shadow and silver, a presence that throbbed with something as ancient as the storm within him.

Vera Thorns.

Recognition ignited. He had heard of her. The exiled heir of the Kingdom of Thorns. A swordswoman whose name was uttered in both fear and respect.

She carried herself with the same assurance he did, her own blade resting comfortably against her shoulder. She did not flinch under his gaze. If anything, she scrutinized him just as he examined her.

A gradual smile tugged at Raith's mouth.

This should be intriguing.He adjusted his hold on Tempestfang, sensing the power flowing through the sword. The coliseum resonated, the columns illuminated with writings that were yet to be uncovered.

The game had begun

And the tempest had come.