It was truly a battle. No…it couldn't be called that. It was—
“...an onslaught.”
The presence of bloodlust filled the air. To the point it was suffocating those that may breathe it. The pressure that came forth, when she entered, even without any sort of active amplification was enough to shake the halls of his throne room.
No—it threatened the destruction of the entire palace.
He was prepared to end himself with one last battle, a glory to the last king of Albion, to defend its honour even in its fallen state. Yet, even with his treasured sword, it wasn't enough. That blade was broken.
Disgust was what he wanted to feel. Anger was what he wanted to feel. Yet he could feel was—
“What a shame…”
Those pitying words, he did not speak them. His throat had been sliced open by her. He was bleeding out, crawling to his throne for one last time. To sit upon it as his final resting place, that was his wish.
The cold stone floor, the metallic taste of blood, the searing bouts of pain, of cuts and slashes upon his form. It mattered not to him, for he wanted that last wish.
But what worth did he have to earn it? What honour did he maintain to be crowned as king? What sort of dignity did he have left for him to be worthy of that seat in front of him?
“Ghk—!”
He had none. Nothing that he could call with such terms. No worth nor honour. No pride to speak of, for there was nothing to be proud of at this moment.
Hated by the people, denounced by the lords, scorned by his fellow rulers. He was a failure through and through. It was not the Phantoms that made this kingdom fall, nor any other subsequent disasters that came after.
That fault was his own.
“Ahk—!”
A black obsidian spike manifested into reality, striking his lower spine and stabbing deep into the floor. The effort to crawl to that throne, in spite of the internal battle within him, was for naught. He couldn't scream out in pain, at most a spat of blood was brought out.
“Tsk tsk tsk…”
That young lady, approaching his body with the clacking of her heels, had spoken out again. A wide grin appeared upon her face, one of thrill and satisfaction. Her crimson red eyes were apparent, glowing with malice.
“I was quite glad that I had this fight with you, oh Last King~” she said to him, as she took the steps that he tried to get, sitting upon the royal throne.
Her body hunched forward, head rested upon the palm of her hand. She maintained that smile. “However…you’re not them. So I had to treat you rather seriously, you got to experience an Apostle’s power~!”
Her laugh was annoying, loud, boisterous, almost childish. She sounded like a teenage girl, and she was one. It took a moment for her to calm down.
“...well, a small portion of it anyways.” She sighed, “For you, it was a grand last stand, for me it was child’s play.”
The Apostle of Bloodlust had her back straightened, as she lifted up a finger, controlling the black spike she had conjured. That obsidian construct was lifted out from his body, and he was—
“Oh my, you're still alive~?” she inclined her head, an eyebrow raised, with a rather curious smirk on her face.
Even with his grievous wounds, which would kill any man, or any standard warrior, he still maintained that will of his. Broken bones, ruptured and ruined organs, immense physical trauma, and mass bleeding.
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Such a great yet pitiful display of determination, in her eyes at least. A fitting end to a once proud and tyrannical king. She could even consider this as justice well-deserved.
Therefore, to honour that thought—
“GAHK—!”
Once again, the narrow blade-like spike struck his form, this time his upper spine, near his still beating heart.
“What a bore…really,” she said, as if she had rolled back upon her praises. “Don’t get me wrong, you do have skill, but…you’re not really on the level I wished you were.”
She exhaled, “Well, I fully expect those six to be the same too honestly. But at least there's more than one of them, so I could be humbly surprised~!”
She had beaten the guardian that protected the remnants of the capital with an expected ease. She had decimated the undead guards that roamed the Royal Palace. She did not bother with the Phantoms for they were just a nuisance, but now…
“I wonder what I should do~...”
She wondered about the ideas that could be used to entertain herself, to spend her time as she waited.
She needed no armies, despite being capable of summoning them. She didn't want those six people slaying them in the first place, it goes against her style. Plus, the Phantoms were enough danger for her to watch them fight. So this was redundant on her end.
So perhaps…
“Oh, I know~!”
With a snap of her fingers, black and crimson veins of Essence pulsed through the halls of this place, emanating with a dark light that twisted the walls and shattered the stained-glass windows. The Royal Palace had transformed, the throne room becoming a place filled with shadows and unnatural red glows.
She watched, pleased, as the once-proud hall of kings became a reflection of herself.
“I figured that since you were the centre of the Veil's creation, I should replace you in order to maintain it~!” She said, looking down upon the now— “Oh my, you're actually dead now…right."
The presence that she had reinforced, that being her own, had caused the man before her to start disintegrating into pure Essence. Once again, a pathetic sight, giving her a small frown as she stared at him with her lifeless eyes. Nothing of note really, he had no worth to speak of, he too had realised that in this pitiful moment.
“Well, no use in pitying him,” she said, shrugging that thought off. “I wonder though…”
She tapped a finger against her chin, her eyes gleaming with an almost childlike mischief. “What would it take to make those six feel this same despair?” She glanced at the fading remnants of the dead king with a bemused smile, as if his disintegration was merely a prototype for something greater. "Would they crawl like you did, I wonder? Or would they at least have the decency to scream?"
The thought amused her, a spark of delight brightening her crimson eyes. Oh, how she loved that moment—the transition from defiance to despair, the last shred of hope snuffed out like a candle. Her fingers flexed as she imagined it, her mind already painting the scene of those six newcomers gasping for breath, terror dawning in their eyes as they realised they were utterly, hopelessly outmatched.
“Each of them will have their own flavour, I’m sure,” she mused, leaning back into the throne, relishing the thought. “The Hero’s resolve shattering, the Wanderer’s bravado fading into fear, the Princess’ pride being snuffed out, the Dragon’s happiness taken away…and that Preacher boy, hmm…” She laughed, the sound echoing through the twisted hall. “Let’s see how much faith he really has when he’s face-to-face with something he can’t pray away.”
She spoke out each of their titles, known to not just her, but the one that sent her here. Archetypes of the story, more or less. She was particularly interested in that Preacher, her eyes watching him, her presence near him, directed all the way from the capital.
But she left one title unspoken.
“The Chosen Person…”
That girl was the most interesting of the bunch, truly. It was not every day that the Sage would act and choose her next puppet. But she was glad enough that she could finally test someone that she could deem as something very much worthy.
If that White Rabbit were to have chosen their disciple, then that person must have quite the potential. That was her thought process on this—after all, such a being would only invest in someone who could progress the narrative, bend fate, or perhaps even defy the rules set by the world itself. It intrigued her, the idea of facing someone with that kind of potential, even this early on. Someone who could perhaps challenge her, if just a little.
“Hmm….”
Her fingers drummed against the throne's armrest as the twisted shadows around her seemed to writhe in anticipation. This palace, now a mirror of her own malevolence, would be the perfect stage. Each hallway would lead them deeper into her web, each shadow a reminder that they were never truly alone.
Once again, she did not bother to create any defences. The natural environment of the Veil was already enough entertainment for her to observe in her leisure. That Hunting Horror was also something she wanted to see fight, for that kind of Phantom wasn't a common thing to see in the real world.
But nonetheless, she shall act as a patient hunter, laying a subtle trap that would ensnare her prey. She would not pursue, that’d just be tiresome, but she would watch from afar.
Letting them come to her.
“They’ll come here, thinking they’re about to become something more, thinking they can somehow set things right.” She grinned, wide and gleeful. “But all they’ll find is me~!”
Thus was the life and death of King Halifax Lenore, the Last King of Albion. Killed by the Apostle of Bloodlust—an afterthought in her game, a mere prologue to the terror she had prepared for those foolish enough to enter her domain.