The gate of Sylvester’s family once again opens, welcoming the expatriate son. Beholding the front of the mansion is Arioch, proudly present with a trophy. The gatekeepers seemingly notice his presence, pure fear, and anxiety wash all over them. In a fearful stance, one guard speaks out in a jittery tone, “G-Good morning, my lord, welcome you on your return!” Arioch’s usual confirmation is no more than a dangerous glance, sending the guards’ souls to collapse. The golden gate, adorned with exquisite patterns, slowly creaked open. With delightful steps, he entered the garden, filled with numerous plants and flowers. Indeed, the obnoxious servants living under the hood surely took care of them well. Or else, may they be headed. A frightening thought, yet Arioch finds it amusing. Continuing to walk, he takes in the usual appearance of the mansion that he has become accustomed to. The same spacious one with a maze of hallways and secret paths that only God knows their real purposes. A somber aura consumed the whole place, as if the warm rays of the sun could never get close to its skin, and cleansed away all the sins lingering inside. To all the weak and naive souls living under this hood, who only dream of being free one day being free. Still maintaining his pace, Arioch now arrived just before the gold-made pair of doors, and then the booming sound of a knocking handle completely sliced through the devastating silence of the intense atmosphere.

With the doors flying open, what greets his sight is the Grand Duke of Hyram, using a cloth to clean his silver sword. The blade is forged in the flames of battlefields, cleansed by the blood of the defeated. The sharp emerald eye fully concentrates on the blade, not even raising its head once to see who steps in. Perhaps, judging from the footsteps he heard a while ago, the perfect hearing ability has already given him the answer. The black hair, hinted at with a few white strands of time, was stroked to the back, leaving only a few hairpieces falling on the black eyepatch. Though dazzling the color of his eyes, only one shines the color of the gem. "Father, it's a pleasure to see you still doing well." Arioch drew a smile, bowing at the Duke. That man is none other than Demian Lionel Sylvester, the High Commander of Hyram, the most powerful… Ambitious man, and his dear father. “Skip the small talk, Arioch.” His stern tone commanded. “Everything is going as planned. We are waiting for your order, father.” That’s right, his plan. The plan he calculated for years finally comes apart. All those years of being a loyal dog to serve the crown, to bow down before a man who did not even deserve to sit on the throne... He had enough. But well, his dear father's ambition is nothing to his son. Pleasingly watching the silver lights glittering under the sun, Demian sheathed the sword. Wearing the black fur cape, he let out a smirk. “Time to take back what is mine.”

"Yes, father," Arioch smiled amusingly. The moment he was about to step out of the room, a golden hair girl stormed in. Though she is not able to implement the plan, her intelligence warns that a storm is coming. A powerful one that would take the one she loved. Astonishment and fear drew on her beautiful face, “Please father, you can’t do this. This is a meaningless battle." Her sobbing voice begged her father to stay, hoping somehow he could summon the last bits of kindness left in him. Demian stopped for a second, the emerald eyes looking at her in confusion. In tears, she thought this could be a perfect chance. Evelyn held his hand, begging, “Please father, you don’t have to do this.” She cried, "Please, there must be another way. Peace.” For a man who has soon drowned in the furious ocean of power, how can peace be an option? Pushed her to fall to the ground, Demian threw her a piercing cold glance, “You disappoint me, Evelyn. You are a disgrace to this family.” Then disappeared.

Arioch, who had been silently enjoying the whole show from the start, let out a laugh. Crouching down, he jesting, “My fool sister, for a time like this,” he lifted up her chin, capturing all her weak looks, “Why don’t you just silently dress nicely and do nothing, like our mother.” “Maybe that would make Father fond of you.” Hesmiled pathetically. Standing up, he adjusted the glasses, “Now excuse me, you will see the grand final soon, dear sister," and left behind a powerless Evelyn.

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The cold breeze of Hyram shrieks, blowing the flag of the crimson dragon. Riding a black horse, thousands of knights follow behind. The sight of the crown was already in his palm. Money, reputation, can’t survive in the flow of time... only power will last forever. They raise the silver sword high and scream his name, praising the power of Sylvester. And they think those old myths, those prophecies, are enough to chain this Demian down? Not a chance. Let them taste what it feels like to be under my feet.

The crimson dragon, in the flame of power, will take back the crown.

As they ran towards the castle, they would slay anything that dared to block their way. The silver blade was hungrily deep in the flesh, immersed in the warm blood. As if countless souls were grieving, the rain poured down from the sky in agony. Soak in rain and blood, they are no longer human…for now, they are the death. The castle, a symbol of the royal family, is stained in the dazzling color of crimson. The river of blood crept into every corner of it, bathing the noble castle in a nauseous smell. The Patricians run like rats. The moment their faltering masks tear apart, they are no different from the commoners. Coward…sinful.

Soon, he reaches the door to the throne room. He pushes the elegant door open and sees the Queen and the young Prince. The Queen... that weak woman. Still wearing the crown, her hair falling messily from the running, her eyes looking at him with nothing but fear. Holding the Prince in her arm, she yelled, “The King and the Crown Prince are here. Don’t you dare go any further.” The Prince trembles in fear as the bloody sword catches his eyes. Yet, that little effort is not enough. Dragging the bloody black cape, Demian pointed the sword at the Queen. The emerald eye does not even shed a single ray of sympathy. “Take away the Prince”, he ordered. The Prince cried out in fear. His helpless hands tried to hold on to the carpet while the soldiers dragging him away called out for his mother. He was too young… Too naive to understand this deadly game. The Queen impotently screamed, “Guards, arrest this man!”, tears falling down her cheeks. Yet even if she does scream for hours, no one will come, for they are now nothing but ashes. “Step out of my way if you want to live.” Demian coldly commands. Even the noble Queen can’t handle the piercing coldness in that gaze. Kneeling down, she begged, “Please Demian, please don’t go any further.” She yelled, “I will do anything you want. I would even become your woman.”, just to get back a disgusted look. The lightning struck outside, sharpening his lines. Ignoring the woman lying on the ground in tears, he goes forward to the throne.

Behind the curtains is the King, whom he has served for years. For quite some time, though all of a sudden, the castle is informed of a sickness, blocking the King from meeting the court. His voice is all they have all those time. Suspicions arise around the mysterious presence of the King. And now, only two steps away, the truth will be revealed. Using the cold blade to lift up the curtains, all he sees is just a dry corpse. An ironic corpse wearing the prestigious crown sits on the throne, the corpse they have served all those times. In a brutal, ironic laugh, he laughs out loud. So this is the truth. Is the powerful Sylvester even under a corpse? In the corner of his eye, the sight of the Queen disgustingly fills his attention. So this was all her plan, to buy some time for her son to take over the crown from him. Slowly, patiently, he digs the silver sword deep into the corpse’s heart. A move bearing all his fury, all his resentment. The corpse, under its own strength, collapses to the ground pathetically. Not even turning around, a single-handed motion is all it takes to take the Queen’s life. Lying on the ground, the crown falls into the blood puddle.

Finally, with the golden crown on his head, he is able to sit on the throne he desired. Feel the power of the monarch following in his veins, he smiles pleasantly. Countless knights kneel before him, hailing his name. The man on the throne left out a victory smirk, ignoring the agony of thunder.

O'Hail, the King of Hyram. King Demain Sylvester…