Rise and Shine

As they belonged to the small circle aware of Klaus’ true identity, the four elders didn’t find his words surprising. Even the facts that he awoke before Niklas and could bypass the wards they’d set up, didn’t grab their attention. What truly startled them was that Klaus…didn’t have an aura.

“In complete harmony with nature. Exarch-level Dra Control,” one elder remarked. When human magi reached Exarch-level Dra Control, their aura merged with the world’s, making their presence nigh-impossible to detect unless they wished to show off. But as they stared at Klaus’ golden beam, the elders realized their oversight.

“No, not just Dra Control. He is a true Exarch. How can an incomplete soul grow so fast?” They asked one another, baffled by Klaus’ growth speed. Desperate to save him from an eternal loop of pain, Niklas split Klaus’ soul into four parts, a main part with one-third the original soul, and three lesser parts that made up the rest.

Klaus’ current soul only contained the main, meaning that—at best—he could unlock 16 Dra Roots. And although that number sufficed to reach Arcadia’s summit, it couldn’t explain the cursed prince’s progression speed.

A High Emissary at 14, an Archon at 20, and an Exarch at 42. In Arcadia’s history, few could compare. And remembering that this was merely the result of one-third of Klaus’s true potential, those elders couldn’t restrain their sighs. If not for the eldars’ Karmic Hex, wouldn’t he now stand at the pinnacle of the arcane world—destined to surpass even Adramelech?

But as the elders lamented the fallen crown prince’s fate, Niklas’ eyelids trembled. The scene of his utter defeat at Jezebel’s hands replayed in his mind, and his eyes opened wide—bloodshot from his seething rage. But in that instant, Klaus leaned over, greeting Niklas with a lopsided grin.

“Old man, rise and shine,” Klaus declared with grand theatrical gestures he’d only show before Niklas.

“When will you give up this habit of spouting rubbish?” Once Klaus’ face appeared in Niklas’ eyes, his rage vanished, and though he rebuked Klaus in words, the gentle tone betrayed him.

“Old habits die hard. Enjoyed your rest?”

“What rest? Marcel activated Number One to let me keep an eye on the situation. How about you?”

“Wilfried regularly fed critical intel to my brain. I just processed it all. By the way, if you keep calling grandfather by his name, I might start calling you Niklas.”

“Dare, and I’ll smack you back into your coma,” the father and son pair dove into a rapid exchange. As for the Number One in Niklas’ words, he was none other than the eldest prince. The three imperial princes, Ayden and his two elder brothers—were nothing but Niklas’ clones—created to store Klaus’ soul parts.

Niklas only had one child: Klaus. The eldars’ Karmic Hex guaranteed that in each generation, Niklas’ line could only produce one offspring. Back then, the reckless use of Soul Division, a taxing branch of Dark Magic, weakened Niklas to near-death. But believing that leaving the three clones wholly independent would create trouble, he swallowed his pride, and had Marcel bind them to his soul.

Whenever Niklas’ true body suffered mishaps, Marcel could swap his soul to one of the three princes. He could also turn them into puppets bound to Niklas’ will. And while having to rely on Marcel for such a vital task brought the emperor no end of grief, he had no other choice. The Arcadian Empire didn’t have a better Soul Puppeteer than Marcel. Niklas might not fear him in pure strength, but even he could only bow before Marcel’s mastery of souls.

“Hum, hum. Your Majesty, please forgive our interruption, but as we speak, the rebels split their forces into three. The main force, an army of two million backed by 3,623 fighters all equipped with plasma weapons, garrisoned in Koln, and prepares an attack on Tenburen before advancing on the Imperial City. Rupert and Erland lead them.

The second numbers 1.2 million, backed by 2,341 fighters, and aims for Erlom. Three Grand Dukes lead them. The last totals 800,000, and targets Orloth. The former Grand Master of the Blood Rose commands that batch.” The most senior of the elders broke the pair’s exchange.

Only now did Niklas pay the four attention. As members of the elder council, all four were Exarchs and pillars of the house. In any other circumstance, Niklas would have given them his full attention. But in this one, their sight annoyed him.

“Bitches that don’t know when to shut it,” Niklas wanted to say, but restrained himself.

“Any nuclear weapon?” Klaus asked.

“The armies on imperial territory aren’t using any. But the forces heading toward Orloth are packing many.”

“At least they haven’t lost that bit of common sense,” Klaus noted. Using nuclear weapons against the von Skolls was no different from asking for a beating. Although Rupert had clearly lost his mind, those backing him hadn’t.

“I told you that you should have killed him. Now you must slaughter 800,000.” Niklas shook his head. After Klaus crushed the former Grand Master of the Blood Rose before the eyes of Arcadia’s elite, the man sank into a concerning mixture of depression and hatred. Niklas initially planned to have him murdered, but Klaus’ will stopped him.

Faced with his father’s reproach, the duke closed his eyes and arched his head back.

“Slaughter and mercy both have their use. Not being able to balance them has always been your flaw,” he replied, and teleported himself back to Kars. Without Klaus’ presence, Niklas’ eyes lost all gentleness, regaining their usual domineering look.

“Coordinate with Hans to transport a division of the Golden Army to the Imperial Academy. The Technocracy’s moves are questionable. They can’t aim for the Imperial City with such riffraff. I wouldn’t be surprised if a secret detachment was on its way to the island.”

“The retired emperor also thinks so, but fears that transporting troops will al-” an elder countered, but before he could finish his words, Niklas nailed him with a glower that sapped all strength from his limbs.

“As you command, Your Majesty! Should we also dispatch troops against the incoming forces?” The elder quickly changed his tone and lowered his head further to not offend his emperor.

Crossing his arms behind his back, Niklas walked past the four elders, and projected his gaze beyond the Imperial City.

“No need. I will handle them.”

…

In Ravaria, the capital of Orloth—King Erik quivered on his throne—scared witless by the news before his eyes. Officials lined up in the court hall, trembling like their monarch as the messenger’s words still rang in their ears.

“My lord, the former Grand Master of the Blood Rose, is leading an 800,000 man-strong elite army to reclaim his rightful seat! He asks Your Majesty to surrender Orloth to Grand Duke Rupert’s coalition and assist in the overthrow of von Karsten’s men!”

A call to rebellion. Although the empire seemed to stand on its last leg, 3,000 years of complete domination prevented the tributary kings from fostering rebellious thoughts. Said bluntly, they couldn’t afford it.

Before Klaus, Orloth didn’t have a single Archon. This meant that with its military level, the kingdom couldn’t resist one Archon’s all-out assault. With such strength, even if the imperial dukes dared rebel, the tributary kings wouldn’t dare.

But now—an ultimatum stood before King Erik—and as he often did these days, he broke into cold sweat. Emboldened by Erik’s weakness, the messenger pursued:

“Have no fear, we already won. As we speak, the Grand Duke’s main forces prepare to storm the Imperial City. Arcadia is ours. It’s not a choice of whom to back, but your last chance for survival.”

The words forced Erik against a wall. But as he prepared to give his consent, a handsome man walked into the court meeting, and immediately snatched all eyes.

“T-the Duke of Kars?” When those words reached his ears, the messenger spun, and was alarmed to see Klaus standing—very much awake.

“V-von Karsten? Aren’t you comat-” before the messenger could finish, Klaus rammed his fist down the man’s throat, and tore off his tongue.

Blood gushed forth. The messenger collapsed on the ground—clutching at his neck—and lips while squirming in silent agony. Tossing the tongue aside, Klaus aimed one finger at the man’s face, searing his forehead with one burning message.

“Your tongue disrespected my country, so I pulled it out. But since you now can’t deliver my message, I engraved it on your forehead. You shall tell your lord that if he commits suicide within the hour, I pledge to spare his house.

But should he refuse to abide, the whole lot can join the pile of skulls that decorate Kars’ walls.”

Klaus declared and snapped his fingers. Purple light wrapped the messenger, turning him into an amethyst statue that rose into the air, breaking through the ceiling to shoot toward the invading forces’ camp.