Absolute Cheater

Experience tales at empire

Alaric knelt on the blood-soaked ground, his breath ragged, his body trembling from both pain and exhaustion. His right arm was gone, the stump wrapped hastily in torn cloth to stem the bleeding. His once-pristine armor was shattered, barely clinging to his battered form, and his body bore countless wounds—each a reminder of the brutal battle against Pazu.

It had been three days since the formless entity was defeated, but the price of victory weighed heavily on him. He turned his gaze to the field around him, and his expression darkened.

The bodies of five Bloodcrown elders lay lifeless nearby, their once-mighty forms reduced to hollow shells. Each of them had given their all to ensure Pazu's destruction, their sacrifices carved into the very earth. They had been pillars of strength, mentors, and warriors without equal. Now, they were gone.

"Damn it," Alaric growled, his voice low but seething with rage. He slammed his fist into the ground, bloodied fingers clawing at the dirt. "Damn that bastard King!"

The words tore from his throat like a curse. He wasn't just blaming Pazu, though the monstrous entity had wrought unimaginable havoc. No, Alaric's anger was directed at someone far more insidious: the nameless figure who had unleashed Pazu on them in the first place—the shadowy hand that had orchestrated this disaster.

The King in Bloodcrown Shadow

it was the title given to former king who dared to cover a Bloodcrown beauty. It was not given by Bloodcrown but the supporters of other princes and Princess who decided to mess with the King to made him abduct the Throne.

A stain that he would always carry for his failure.

****

Alaric forced himself to his feet, gritting his teeth against the searing pain. His remaining warriors stood at a respectful distance, unsure whether to approach their lord in his grief. Their numbers had been decimated, and those who survived bore the same haunted look—faces marked by exhaustion and loss.

A young soldier, barely more than a boy, hesitated before stepping forward. His voice was tentative, his hands trembling. "My lord… the others… they're asking for guidance. What do we do now?"

Alaric turned his crimson eyes on the boy, and for a moment, the soldier flinched under the weight of his gaze. But then, Alaric's expression softened, his voice quiet but firm.

"We rebuild," he said, though the words felt hollow. "We honor the fallen and prepare for what's to come."

"But my lord," the soldier stammered, "how can we stand against… against another force like that? We've lost so many…"

Alaric's gaze shifted to the horizon, his jaw tightening. He could feel the faint remnants of Pazu's essence, scattered and weak, but not gone entirely. The battle had not just been against one enemy—it had been a test, a prelude to something far worse.

"We'll find a way," Alaric said, though his voice betrayed a flicker of doubt. He glanced down at his missing arm, a grim reminder of his mortality. "The Bloodcrown has faced extinction before, and we survived. We will survive this too."

Later that night, Alaric stood in the ruined halls of the Bloodcrown estate, alone. The once-grand castle was a shell of its former self, its walls scarred by fire and shadow. The blood-red crown sigil above the throne flickered faintly, a symbol of their diminished power.

He knelt before the throne, his hand resting on the cold stone. Memories of the fallen elders flooded his mind—their laughter, their wisdom, their unyielding loyalty. He clenched his jaw, his heart heavy with grief.

"You gave everything," he murmured. "And I failed to protect you."

A gust of wind blew through the shattered windows, carrying with it a faint, whispering voice. Alaric stiffened, his senses sharpening.

"You didn't fail, Alaric," the voice said, low and echoing. "You survived. And survival… is the first step to vengeance."

Alaric rose to his feet, his crimson eyes scanning the room. The voice was unfamiliar, but its tone was not hostile.

"Who's there?" he demanded, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his blade—only to remember it lay broken in the aftermath of the battle.

A figure stepped from the shadows, cloaked in darkness but bearing an aura of quiet power. The figure's face was obscured, but their voice was steady.

"An ally," they said simply. "One who also seeks the end of the former king"

Alaric narrowed his eyes, his instincts screaming caution. "And why should I trust you?"

The figure chuckled softly. "You shouldn't. But trust this: the King is not invincible. And if you wish to destroy him, you will need allies. Strong ones."

Alaric hesitated, his mind racing. The Former King had sent Pazu as a weapon—a harbinger of his greater plans. If this mysterious figure spoke the truth, then the King's power extended far beyond what the Bloodcrown alone could handle.

"Speak quickly," Alaric said. "What do you know of him?"

The figure stepped closer, their voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "Enough to know his weaknesses. Enough to know where to strike. But first, you must regain your strength, Alaric Bloodcrown. You cannot face him as you are."

Alaric's hand clenched into a fist. He hated the truth of those words, but he couldn't deny them. He nodded slowly, his expression hardening.

"Then tell me what needs to be done," he said.

The figure smiled beneath their hood, a glint of satisfaction in their hidden eyes. "The first step," they said, "is reclaiming what was lost. The power of the ancients lies hidden, scattered across the land. And you, Alaric, are the only one who can wield it."

A spark of determination ignited in Alaric's chest. The Bloodcrown would rise again, stronger than ever. And when the time came, he would face the former king—not as a broken lord, but as the unyielding force of vengeance his family's legacy demanded.

"Lead the way," Alaric repeated, his tone resolute despite the doubt gnawing at the edges of his mind.

The cloaked figure nodded and raised his hand, weaving a spell that manifested as an ethereal black tendril stretching into the horizon. The tendril pulsed faintly, its form like a thread of liquid shadow, beckoning Alaric forward.

"Follow it," the figure said, his voice calm but laced with something Alaric couldn't quite place. "It will take you to your destination."

Alaric hesitated for the briefest of moments before nodding. He had no reason to trust this stranger, but no other options lay before him. His right arm was gone, his forces shattered, and his enemies countless. If there was even the faintest hope of finding the power to protect his people and his legacy, he had to take it.

As he began to follow the shadowy path, his thoughts churned like a storm.

I don't have any other choice but to believe him, Alaric thought grimly. After battling Pazu, I know just how far we are from true strength. Pazu was ranked thirty among the King's commanders, and he nearly destroyed us. If there are over thirty others, stronger and more relentless, the Bloodcrown might not survive their next attack.

The weight of his losses bore down on him. The memory of the fallen elders haunted his steps, their sacrifices fresh wounds in his soul.

The cloaked figure remained where he stood, watching Alaric disappear into the distance. Once the Bloodcrown lord was out of sight, the figure chuckled softly, a sound that grew into a malicious, echoing laugh.

"Hehehe… just as planned," the figure whispered, his voice dripping with triumph. "With this, the destruction of this world will be accelerated. And when the ashes settle, I will rise above them all. This world will be mine."

He waved his hand, and the black tendril shimmered faintly, sealing Alaric's fate to a path he would soon regret.

Unbeknownst to Alaric, the figure's true identity was far more sinister than he imagined. If the Former King—the one who had once ruled over unimaginable power—had been present, he would have recognized the voice instantly.

It was the same voice that had whispered to him in the void, promising overwhelming power in exchange for his loyalty. The voice that had transformed him into the King Beyond Shadows, an agent of destruction, enslaved to a force far older and more malevolent than himself.

This was no ally. This was the puppeteer, the hidden force pulling the strings of chaos and destruction across the world.

And now, Alaric was unknowingly walking straight into his web.

The path before Alaric seemed endless, the shadow tendril weaving through ruined landscapes and ominous terrain. Though his body screamed for rest, he pushed forward, his resolve unshaken.

For the Bloodcrown, he thought, clenching his remaining fist. For my family.

But as he walked, the faint sense of unease began to grow. The air grew heavier, colder, as if the very land was warning him of the danger ahead.

Still, he pressed on, unaware that with every step, he was moving closer to the jaws of a trap that could decide the fate of not just the Bloodcrown—but the entire world.