The Hero Who Wasn't:Lord of Kingdoms

The Lion's Warm-Up: Opening the Dance of Death

"Hmm... I'd say I'm about two or three floors underground now." Valerius muttered to himself as he walked through wider, more opulent corridors. The walls here were adorned with massive statues of dwarven heroes and kings—but all of them had been toppled and shattered, their once-proud faces scarred with deep claw marks. It was a deliberate desecration—an open declaration of who ruled these halls now.

He continued onward until he reached a massive circular gate of black obsidian, completely covered in intricate dwarven runes glowing with a sinister purple light. Valerius could sense the powerful magical barrier immediately. He could break it with brute force, but that would waste precious energy—energy he needed for the Emperor.

"Kalia, can you handle this?" he sent the thought to his wife.

Her voice came into his mind—calm and confident. "Of course, my love. But it's an ancient and potent ward—I'll need a few minutes to unravel it."

"Ah... finally, some real excitement, huh?" Valerius murmured with a cold smile.

He wasn't talking about the gate—but about the shadows forming silently behind him.

From cracks in the walls and side tunnels, seven figures emerged. They were nothing like the ghouls he'd crushed earlier. Their skin was dark green, almost black, and gleamed like wet stone. Their bodies were more muscular, more agile—and their eyes carried not mindless hunger, but a cunning, predatory glint. They wielded crude axes and swords—fashioned from the same black obsidian as the gate.

"Elite guards, then," Valerius assessed in an instant. "Roughly A-class fighters—maybe even A+."

"Alright then," he said as he turned to face them, drawing his sword slowly from its sheath. "A decent warm-up after that softness a moment ago!"

---

The Reserved Dance of Death

Valerius didn't rush. He controlled the tempo from the start. He knew his goal wasn't just to kill them—but to buy time for Kalia and conserve his energy.

Three of them lunged at him simultaneously—in a coordinated strike. One from the front, two from the flanks.

Valerius moved. It wasn't blinding speed—it was terrifying efficiency. He leaned back just enough to let the front axe pass harmlessly, while his sword circled out in a smooth arc, deflecting both side blades.

He fought conservatively—dodging, parrying, forcing them to burn their strength as they attacked wildly. He studied their patterns, their weaknesses, their teamwork.

Moments later, he found his first opening. One of the ghouls lunged too eagerly. Valerius didn't swing—he simply angled his blade. The ghoul's axe slid along the steel, throwing it off balance. As its chest lay exposed, Valerius's free hand struck.

It wasn't just a punch—it was power focused to a single point.

BOOM!

The ghoul's chest exploded inward—its remains splattering its stunned companions.

"One."

The six remaining hesitated—rage overpowering their fear. They all charged together this time.

Valerius's style shifted. Now he attacked. He moved among them like a phantom, his sword flashing in the dim glow. Every slash was precise—a thrust through one's throat, a swift slice that severed another's arms before he decapitated it. He used his scabbard like a club—shattering a third's knee before finishing it with a skull-crushing blow.

They fought skillfully—using brutal tactics, trying to flank him, confuse him. But they were children battling a master duelist. Every step they took, Valerius had predicted three steps ago.

He cut them down one by one—not with reckless power, but with cold, surgical efficiency.

When the seventh and final guard fell—its eyes wide with confusion and terror—Valerius heard Kalia's voice in his mind.

"It's done, my love. The barrier is broken."

Krrrrrrrrrrrk…

The purple runes across the gate faded and cracked—then the heavy stone door slowly ground open, revealing a deeper, darker tunnel.

Valerius sheathed his sword and glanced at the corpses of the seven beasts.

"Not bad for a warm-up."

He stepped forward—into the waiting darkness, leaving another slaughter behind him.

---

The Emperor's Whim

At the deepest point of the mine—inside a throne room not built of stone or gold, but of bleached bones fused together into a grotesque, twisted mass—he sat. The Ghoul Emperor.

He did not watch with eyes—but felt every movement within his domain. He felt the intruder's strength. He felt the protective aura of the wife above. He felt every kin of his being snuffed out—reduced to bloody dust.

He felt no anger. No grief. Only a sharp, exquisite pleasure—an ecstasy that swelled with each wave of death.

A dry, jagged laugh escaped his throat—echoing through the bone hall.

"Hehehe... This human is far too entertaining."

To him, their slaughter was art. Valerius's lethal dance, his cold precision, his merciless strength—it was a performance the Emperor hadn't witnessed in centuries. The butchering of his kin was the entertainment he craved.

But watching alone was no longer enough. The pleasure was waning—he needed more. He wanted to join in—amplify the show.

"Time to play," he murmured, his voice like silk scraping broken glass.

He decided to intervene—not directly. That would end the fun too soon. No—something far more delightful.

His body began to shift.

Craaaack… hissssss…

His pale, grey skin split apart—not in bloody wounds but like dry husk peeling away. No blood flowed—only thick, black, saliva-like slime. His bones cracked and stretched—almost as if they were tearing themselves apart. It was a revolting, monstrous sight—a grotesque birth from his own flesh.

From this hideous biological fissure, a new shape emerged—crawling out from the Emperor's back, formed of flesh, slime, and bone. It stood before him—a perfect copy in form, but different in essence.

Where the original embodied coldness, indifference, and absolute power—this new being embodied something else. Its eyes gleamed with manic delight—its mouth locked in a permanent, twisted clown's grin. It was a living embodiment of one of the Emperor's countless emotions: Jest.

The original Emperor looked at his smiling duplicate with mild disdain.

"Go," he commanded. "This guest deserves a special welcome."

He added—setting the game's cruel rules clearly:

"Remember—you're nothing but a shard of me. Barely one-ninth of my full strength. Do not disappoint me. Show our guest true despair… and true fun."

"Jest" gave an exaggerated, theatrical bow—then let out a wild, insane giggle.

"As you wish, my 'self!'"

It turned—and didn't just walk—it danced, skipping and twirling through the mine's tunnels, heading straight for Valerius's path.

The true Emperor settled back onto his bone throne—resting his head on his hand, an eager glint flickering in his eyes for the first time. He had just unleashed his most unstable, most chaotic fragment to meet the human warrior.

Now—the real show would begin.