Chương 201: Chapter : 201

Ken closed his eyes and allowed himself a small, genuine smile. Not the goofy one he wore as a mask, but a real one. The kind that only showed up when nobody was looking.

"Maybe being a celebrity is not so bad," he thought to himself.

"As long as I can still take naps and sell potatoes." And with that comforting thought, Ken Eliot, the most famous servant in the Belmontia Empire, the man whose tiny cyan bullets had humiliated a Prince, the biggest celebrity in the capital, fell asleep on the couch in the middle of the living room while the entire Empire was still talking about him. His mouth fell open. A tiny drop of drool rolled down his chin. The bag of potato chips slid out of his hand and hit the floor with a soft thud.

Naomi looked at him and shook her head. But she reached over and quietly pulled a blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over his sleeping form. She did it gently, carefully, making sure not to wake him up.

"Biggest celebrity in the capital," she whispered with a faint, warm smile.

"And he still falls asleep like a five-year-old." Risa turned around, saw Ken sleeping, and let out the softest, most adorable giggle. She tiptoed over and carefully placed her teddy bear next to Ken's head, as if the stuffed animal could protect his dreams. Then she tiptoed back to her spot and continued watching the television, a content smile on her small face. The morning sun continued to climb. The broadcast continued to play.

And somewhere in the magical television's endless loop of highlights, Ken's tiny cyan bullet struck another soldier, sending them flying through the air to the sound of cheering crowds and pop music. But the real Ken, the one hidden behind the goofy smile and the messy hair, was fast asleep, dreaming of a potato farm where nobody would ever ask him for an autograph.

Far beyond the borders of the Belmontia Empire, past the Greytooth Mountains and across the Dead Salt Flats where nothing grew and nothing lived, there lay the rival nation of ZulFarah. It was a harsh, unforgiving land ruled by a ruthless king who despised the Belmontia Empire with every breath he took. The cities of ZulFarah were built from dark stone, and their streets were always cold, always shadowed, as if the sun itself did not want to shine there.

Deep beneath the capital city of ZulFarah, hidden so far underground that even the rats could not find it, there was a chamber. It was not a nice chamber. It was damp, pitch-black, and smelled like rot and old blood. The walls were rough, uneven stone, carved out of the earth by hands that had no interest in making things look pretty. The only light came from five sickly, dark purple flames that burned on a flat stone altar in the center of the room. The flames did not flicker like normal fire.

They twisted and writhed, as if they were alive and in pain. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. Around the altar, five figures sat on crude stone seats. They wore long, tattered black robes that hung from their thin bodies like dead vines. Their faces were hidden deep inside their hoods, but their hands were visible, and those hands told terrible stories. The skin was pale and cracked, marked with deep, glowing purple veins that pulsed with dark magic.

Their fingernails were long, black, and sharp, like the claws of a beast that lived in nightmares. These were Black Magicians, the most feared and most illegal magic users in the known world. The leader of the group sat at the head of the altar. He was taller than the others, and his robe was slightly less tattered, which in this room counted as fancy. When he spoke, his voice was like gravel being ground between two stones, low and rough and full of hate.

"Brothers," the leader said, his dark purple eyes glowing faintly inside his hood.

"The time is closer than ever. Our agents in the Belmontia Empire report that the Succession War is weakening their internal structure. The Royal Family is too busy fighting each other to notice what we are doing. The conditions are perfect." One of the other magicians leaned forward eagerly. His voice was a thin, reedy hiss, like a snake sliding through wet grass.

"The Great Black Soul Sovereign... you mean we are finally ready to begin the awakening ritual?" The leader nodded slowly.

"We have gathered enough suffering energy from the border conflicts. Every soldier who died in pain, every village that burned, every family that lost a child, all of that agony has been collected. It is stored in the deep wells beneath this chamber, and it is enough. Enough to begin the first stage of awakening the Sovereign." A third magician, a woman with a voice like cracking ice, spoke up.

"When the Great Black Soul Sovereign rises, the Belmontia Empire will fall. Their armies, their precious Royal Family, their towers and their flags, all of it will be consumed. The Sovereign feeds on the suffering of nations, and the Belmontia Empire has caused more suffering than any other. It is poetic, is it not? Their own cruelty will be their undoing." The fourth magician, who had been silent until now, let out a dry, rasping laugh.

"And then ZulFarah will rule the continent. No more treaties. No more bowing to the Belmontia dragon. We will be the ones on top, and they will be the ones in the dirt." The fifth and youngest magician clenched his fists with excitement. His glowing veins pulsed brighter.

"Let us begin tonight! I cannot wait to see the look on the faces of those arrogant Royals when they realize their empire is crumbling around them!" But the leader raised his hand, and the room fell silent. His expression darkened, and when he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of genuine, deep-seated fear.

"There is a problem," the leader said, slamming his fist onto the stone altar. The purple flames jumped.

"We are not the only ones making moves. There is an obstacle. A very, very dangerous obstacle." He looked around the room, making sure every single one of them was listening.

"Lancelot." The name dropped into the room like a stone into still water. The effect was immediate. The eager young magician flinched. The woman with the cracking-ice voice went rigid. The dry-laughing magician stopped laughing. Even the reedy-voiced magician pulled his hood tighter around his face, as if hiding from the name itself.

"The masked monster," the woman whispered.

"The one who operates from the shadows. The one who single-handedly destroyed three of our sister cells in the western provinces last month."