NOVEL NEXT Chapter 289: Vernoso
The next day, the capital of the Empire rises in the morning haze, its golden spires gleaming above the layered walls. Merchants and soldiers throng the avenues, but all noise falters as shadows fall across the city.
Eight figures descend together from the clouds, their peak Tier 6 auras spilling out like an ocean tide. The air buckles under the pressure. Windows crack, beasts howl, and ordinary citizens collapse to their knees gasping for breath.
And yet, the eight restrain themselves. Their power lingers like a storm on the horizon, enough to remind all who see that these are no common petitioners.
Hovering above the imperial plaza, Vask cups his hands to his mouth, voice rolling like thunder.
"Emperor Varnen! Please grant us an audience! We come only to discuss matters of survival!"
The plea carries across the city. Silence answers. The gates of the palace remain shut, the banners unmoving. The leaders exchange tense glances.
The Frostpine matriarch whispers, "Why is there no response?"
Adro tightens his jaw, his voice low. "This is dangerous… too dangerous. If the Empire views us as aggressors—"
But then, a sound.
A deep rumble trembles from the heart of the palace, like mountains groaning awake. The next instant, an aura erupts outward. It crashes over them like an avalanche, crushing, suffocating—so vast that their own peak Tier 6 presences shatter against it like brittle glass.
Every heartbeat screams of death. Their bodies lock, every instinct telling them that this is not power to be measured—it is power to be survived.
Then comes the voice. Cold. Unfamiliar. Each word pounds directly into their souls.
"Who are you people? Why do you make a scene in my friend's city?"
The eight freeze. Even Vask, boldest among them, stammers through a dry throat.
"Si–sir, we… we are His Majesty's subjects. We only wish for guidance."
No answer. Only silence and that suffocating presence weighing down the air.
And then, suddenly—reality itself buckles. Their vision blurs. The plaza, the sky, the city—it all twists like ink in water.
In the blink of an eye, they stand on polished obsidian stone, beneath a vaulted dome studded with constellations wrought of crystal. The throne room of the Empire.
Before them, towering at the far end, is the great throne itself. Shadows curl along its base, light bends strangely around it, and the pressure of that earlier aura lingers still, heavy and unrelenting.
The eight leaders drop instinctively into guarded stances, breaths shallow, hearts pounding. None dare speak first.
Vask's gaze lifts—and freezes.
His eyes widen. "...What?"
It isn't Emperor Varnen who sits on the throne. Instead, a broad-shouldered man lounges there like a drunk at a tavern, one leg hanging over the armrest, a smirk playing at his lips. His hair is wild, his coat undone, his presence utterly unbefitting the throne. And yet the weight of his aura makes the air quake.
At his side, standing not as ruler but as attendant, is Emperor Varnen himself.
The stranger waves a hand lazily. His voice is mocking, casual, like a knife hidden in laughter.
"What do you lot want? You storm into my friend's city, flaring your little lights like you're about to start a war."
Vask's throat works. He forces his head down, his voice trembling but polite.
"N-no, sir. We only came to request reinforcement from His Majesty… nothing more."
The man quirks an eyebrow, tilting his head toward Varnen.
"Oh? Reinforcements. Is this about those monsters, the ones crawling over from other continent?"
Varnen bows his head slightly, his tone subdued, almost deferential.
"Yes, sir Vernoso. They are the very ones I requested your aid against."
Vernoso clicks his tongue, leaning back deeper into the throne.
"Tier 6 pests, isn't it? Hmph. To me, a Tier 7, that's nothing but swatting flies. And honestly, it's distasteful—me lowering myself to bully insects." He yawns, then stretches, before his eyes sharpen with sudden cruelty.
"But… if you give me five more peak Tier 6 today, I'll take care of it tomorrow."
The eight leaders freeze. Confusion twists through their faces, but beneath it, a cold dread blooms.
Varnen's voice cuts like a whip.
"Then choose from among these eight here."
Vask jerks, his claws scraping air. His voice cracks with disbelief.
"Varnen… what do you mean by this?"
Vernoso leans forward, resting his chin on his fist. His grin is wolfish, predatory.
"Don't panic. Don't you all want to kill those monsters? Then think of it as a noble cause. Your sacrifices won't be in vain."
He points a lazy finger across the room, sweeping past Vask and another two.
"And don't worry. I won't pick you three. Just these other five—trash who barely clawed their way to peak Tier 6."
The five leaders he singles out stiffen. Horror breaks across their faces.
The air turns heavy, like the ceiling itself is pressing down.
The Duskwatch lord snarls, trying to force a step back, but his legs betray him, rooted to the floor. "Y-you can't be serious… We came here for aid, not execution!"
The Frostpine matriarch's voice shakes, her icy composure shattering. "Varnen, you would let this… this stranger feed on us like cattle? After we stood as your Empire's shield for centuries?"
Varnen doesn't look at her. His gaze stays low, fixed on the ground beside Vernoso's throne, as if he dares not meet their eyes.
Adro of Kareth grits his teeth, his fists trembling at his side. "This is betrayal… nothing less. We bled for the Empire. My bloodline died for the Empire. And now—now you offer us up like coins to pay this man?"
The five marked leaders strain, sweat running cold down their backs. One tries to summon his weapon, but his fingers refuse to move. Another gasps as her knees buckle.
"Please!" The Frostpine matriarch's voice breaks. "Vask, do something!"
The throne room tastes of cold metal and old incense. Vernoso watches them with an amused tilt to his mouth, as if peering at ants arguing over crumbs.
The three—Vask of Nighthorn, King Adro of Kareth, and the Stormveil master—say nothing. Their auras flare reflexively, but Vernoso's presence swallows the light like a cloth over a flame.
Vernoso sighs, bored. "Very well." He inclines his head toward the five he's singled out. His fingers braid a motion in the air—no heralding thunder, no flash—just a pressure that moves through the room like wind through reeds.
One by one the five leaders leave their feet. They hover, bodies limp, weapons tumbling from slack hands. Panic tears across their faces, but their limbs will not answer. The air around them hums; even their words get caught like fish in a net.
Vernoso looks to Varnen with a lazy smile that never reaches his eyes. "I'll be in my lab," he says casually. "Do not let anyone disturb me. If anyone tries to interfere—" He lets the threat hang, effortless and absolute. "—you will learn what it means to be useful and dead."
Varnen bows until his forehead almost kisses the floor. His voice is barely a whisper, hollow with something like shame. "Yes… sir. I will keep the palace sealed."
Vernoso pushes himself up from the throne in a fluid motion, oversized coat flaring. He leans near the five floating leaders, studying them as if choosing fruit. "Don't struggle," he murmurs with a predator's politeness. "It bruises the meat."