Soul Sword : The empire's last game

The throne room sat in devastation, a shadow of its past magnificence. Once decorated with banners symbolizing triumph and justice, the chamber now resonated with the groans of its shattered columns and the murmurs of invisible forces. Moonlight poured through jagged fissures in the ceiling, illuminating the focal point of the room—a jagged, obsidian sword resting on the skeletal remains of a throne. The Soul Sword.

A solitary figure stumbled through the broken doorway, his steps faltering on the fractured marble floor. Emperor Caldris, once celebrated as the mightiest warrior of his era, was now a mere shadow of a man. His regal garments hung intatters on his emaciated frame, and his formerly sharp eyes were clouded with fear and regret.

.

He advanced toward the throne, his trembling hand gripping a worn journal. The words within were smudged and frantic, marked by desperate attempts to uncover the truth he had come to realize too late. His voice, hoarse and broken, resonated throughout the chamber.

"I should have destroyed you… long ago. "

The sword glimmered faintly, as if mocking his statement. Caldris paused, memories crashing over him like an overwhelming tidal wave.

The battlefields of the past erupted in his mind's eye—screams, the clash of steel, and his own victory as he seized the Soul Sword from the lifeless grasp of a rival. He had been younger then, reckless, deceived by the illusion of strength. He recalled the way blood had pooled at his feet, the manner in which the bodies of his fallen foes had stacked around him. He had smiled that day.

"This is power," his younger self had whispered, clutching the hilt of the sword. "This is what it means to be emperor. "

But power had its cost.

The visions shifted. His empire, his people, his loved ones—all of them gone. The Soul Sword had taken everything from him, stripping away his sanity, causing him to perceive foes where none existed. His own generals had turned against him, and he had butchered them in a blind fury. He had sat alone on the throne, conversing only with the sword in his hands.

He violently shook his head, dispelling the visions. "No more," he rasped. "No more sacrifices. No more blood. No more emperor. "

Caldris moved toward the throne, grasping the hilt of a rusted warhammer he had brought with him. His hands quivered, not from frailty, but from the immense weight of what he was on the verge of doing.

"I was a fool to believe I could control you," he murmured, lifting the hammer above his head. "No one should wield this power. "

The Soul Sword responded instantly, its black blade igniting with an ethereal silver flame. A low hum filled the air, resonating deep within his chest. The atmosphere turned frigid, and for a brief moment, Caldris felt the burden of countless souls pressing down upon him.

A whisper slithered through the air.

"You think you were the first? "

His grip faltered.

"You are nothing but another name in the dark. "

"Another emperor swallowed whole. "

"I will not allow you to claim another life! " he shouted, his voice breaking. He brought the hammer down with all his remaining might, targeting the blade's radiant core.

The hammer never made contact.

A blur of movement rushed through the room, and Caldris stumbled back, the hammer falling to the ground. He turned, breathing heavily, as a figure emerged from the shadows.

The intruder wore a mask of black iron, devoid of features except for two narrow eye slits—save for the faintest hint of red at the edges, resembling smoldering embers. Their movements were fluid, nearly inhuman, as they approached the throne with deliberate steps. In their grip, they held a curved blade that shimmered like water in moonlight.

"Who are you? " Caldris demanded, his voice quivering. "What is your purpose? "

The figure inclined their head, seemingly amused. They remained silent, but the gleam in their eyes conveyed all he needed to comprehend.

A predator's stare. A conqueror's appetite.

"You fail to comprehend," he implored, positioning himself between the stranger and the Soul Sword. "This game… it's a curse. The sword—"

The figure moved swifter than his waning vision could track. A blade penetrated his chest, sliding between his ribs like a whisper.

Caldris staggered backward, gripping the wound, blood oozing through his fingers. "Not… again…"

The masked figure strode past Caldris's collapsing form, their attention entirely on the Soul Sword. They halted before it, their hand poised above the hilt as though gauging the blade's response.

The sword reacted immediately. Its silver flame blazed more brightly, casting uncanny shadows across the room. The whispers that had haunted Caldris for decades surged louder, merging into a singular, chilling voice.

"A new vessel. "

The figure seized the hilt, and the flames extinguished in an instant. The chamber was enveloped in silence.

Caldris, slumped against the base of the throne, managed to raise his head. Blood dripped from his lips as he gasped out his final words.

"You… don't understand… what you've done…"

The figure turned to him, removing their mask with careful slowness. For the first time, the throne room beheld their face. Sharp. Young. Confident. Their lips curled into a smile—one that did not belong to a king, but to something far more sinister.

"Oh, I am fully aware of what I've done. "

The Soul Sword began to glow once again, its black blade shimmering with malevolent energy.

The figure raised it high, their smile broadening.

"Let the game begin. "

As the words reverberated through the chamber, the room darkened, and the faint sound of laughter—incomplete, layered, as if possessed by many voices simultaneously—permeated the air.

The throne room faded into silence once again. The Soul Sword lay in the possession of its new master, its dark power poised to be unleashed. Somewhere in the empire, five heirs stirred in their slumber, the mark of the sword glimmering faintly on their skin.

And thus, the Empire's Final Game commenced.