The skies above Arcadia burned crimson. A massive blood-red moon loomed over the land, its glow casting long, haunting shadows across the towering black spires of Arcadian Castle. Rivers of molten light pulsed through the fortress walls like veins, as if the kingdom itself were alive… and watching. Inside the castle, silence ruled.
Until "KRRRRRRR…" The great doors of the throne chamber groaned open, their ancient metal scraping against the stone floor. A blinding light spilled through the widening gap, swallowing the corridor in a fiery glow. Then "BOOOOM." The doors slammed fully apart. A lone armored soldier stepped forward, his boots echoing against the vast hall as the red light consumed the entire room. His grip tightened around his weapon as he approached the throne. At the far end of the chamber, seated upon a dark, imposing seat of power, was the King of Arcadia, Azarel. Two silent guards stood at his sides, unmoving as statues. The king himself sat relaxed, one hand resting against his face, his glowing eyes fixed on the approaching soldier.
"You kept me waiting," Azarel said calmly, his voice low but heavy with authority.
The soldier immediately dropped to one knee. "Sorry, my King."
Azarel rose slowly from his throne, his presence alone enough to suffocate the room. "What information do you bring me?" he commanded.
The soldier hesitated. A bead of sweat ran down his face as he spoke, "My King… Garrik has been lost… Commander Klavaz was defeated by an Orion… and the Silver Angel Zarella."
Silence followed for a moment, the air itself seemed to still. Then Azarel exhaled softly.
"That is okay," he said, almost dismissively. "Garrik was just a distraction… from the real plan."
The soldier looked up, confused. "A… distraction?"
Azarel's jaw clinched as if he was in pain. He quickly composed himself before answering. "I have already sent a fleet to Havoc. There we will capture their leaders and can cut off the Angelic supply route."
He stepped closer, his eyes burning brighter.
"Once we take control of Havoc… the Angelics will choke. They will have no choice but to surrender to us." he continued.
The weight of his words settled like a storm. Azarel turned away and began to walk out of the room.
"This meeting is now over." he dismissed.
Without another glance, he walked past the soldier, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow swallowing light. The soldier still in a state of shock at what he just heard and witnessed, did not move an inch.
Later that night… Azarel entered his private chambers. The room was quiet—warm, dimly lit by soft flames. A stark contrast to the chaos of the throne hall. Sitting near the window, a woman with long silver hair looked up from her book, a gentle smile forming on her face.
"Azarel, dear… how did the meeting go today?" she spoke softly.
He paused at the door, his hand tightening slightly before he spoke. "We lost Garrik… and…" His voice faltered. "Klavaz was taken from us too."
The words felt heavier now, closer than ever before. To Azarel this felt like a dagger to the back, a pain that he could not just shrug off. The woman Helena stood and walked toward him, her expression softening with concern.
"I am so sorry, dear… I know you two were close." her voice covered with comfort.
Azarel's composure cracked. He stepped forward and pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as if she were the only thing keeping him grounded. Helena rested her head against his chest, her arms wrapped around him.
"This war…" he murmured, his voice strained, "has taken so much from us."
"Tell me… what must I do to save everyone?" Azarel whispered. "Helena… how do I protect our family… and still win this war?"
For a moment, she said nothing. Then she looked up at him, her eyes filled with warmth. She knew what kind of man she had married, he was not an emotionless monster. He cared for his fellow warriors, they were his brothers who would always be there for each other.
"Azarel… you have given so much to everyone," she said gently. "We couldn't ask for a better king… or father."
Azarel's eyes were filled with water as he fought the tears back. He knew in front of the public he could not crack ever. Showing weakness would lead to loss of faith but, here with Helena he could show weakness. After all she was the one who could help him get through this situation.
"The people of Arcadia adore you. They will follow you till the very end." she continued.
"I can always count on you to help lift my spirits." a faint smile broke through his grief as he spoke.
He rested his forehead against hers, the firelight flickering around them. Outside, the crimson moon still burned and somewhere beyond the horizon— War was already moving. Helena's gentle smile lingered as she rested her hand against Azarel's chest.
"Remember," she said softly, her golden eyes warm in the firelight, "the boys have their tournament tomorrow."
"I'll be there. Wouldn't miss it for the world." Azarel exhaled, some of the weight in his chest easing.
"They're really excited," she added with a quiet laugh.
Helena turned slightly, her long silver hair catching the glow of the flames as she walked toward the window. She packed up her book and headed towards the bedroom.
Azarel stood in the doorway of his two kids' bedroom. Both Dareon and Vaelor were sound asleep. Azarel basked in the peace, consuming this moment like it was his last. Nothing else mattered in this moment but the love he had for his family. For a brief moment… the war felt far away.
Meanwhile… on Havoc
The night sky above Havoc glowed an unnatural green, casting a sickly light over the sprawling city of steel and glass. Towering spires stretched endlessly upward, their lights flickering in uneven pulses, as though something deep within the city had begun to fail.
Drop ships tore through the atmosphere one after another, their engines roaring as they descended into the suffocating stillness below. When they landed, soldiers poured out in tight formation, boots striking the pavement in unison as weapons were raised and eyes scanned their surroundings with trained precision.
"Secure the perimeter," the commander ordered, his voice steady though it carried an edge that hadn't been there before.
The squads moved quickly, spreading through the streets, but the deeper they pushed into the city, the more apparent it became that something was wrong. There were no civilians rushing for safety, no signs of resistance, only the low mechanical hum of Havoc's infrastructure and the occasional flicker of broken lights struggling to stay alive.
A distorted hologram buzzed near the corner of a building, its image glitching as it repeated the same cheerful advertisement over and over again, the voice warped beyond recognition. Nearby, a metal container rolled lazily across the ground, nudged by an unseen draft before coming to a hollow stop.
One soldier veered off into a narrow side street, his movements cautious now, his earlier confidence giving way to unease. As he stepped forward, something beneath his boot shifted, not the solid resistance of pavement, but something softer.
He stopped. Slowly, his gaze dropped. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat. A severed hand, lifeless but still faintly warm. A chill crept up his spine as his eyes lifted, and that was when he truly saw the street around him was not empty, not abandoned, but filled.
Bodies lined the ground in unnatural positions, some twisted against the walls, others sprawled across the pavement as though they had collapsed mid-motion. A few were reaching outward, their final moments frozen in silent desperation, as if they had been trying to escape something that gave them no time to run.
"They're all dead…" he muttered under his breath, though even as he said it, the words felt wrong.
This wasn't death, this was something else. Something more sinister had happened to these beings. The Havocains were a strong and powerful race. Their reptilian features definitely gave them the physical edge against more races. However, to see the entire race wiped out like livestock was a new experience. A sudden burst of static crackled through his comms, sharp and jarring against the silence.
"Unit 3, respond..."
The transmission cut off as a scream tore through the air, raw, panicked, and violently abrupt. The soldier's head snapped up, his heart lurching.
"Joren...?!" his fear took over his voice.
The scream ended as suddenly as it began, replaced by a silence so complete it felt suffocating. Then… something shifted.
At first, it wasn't movement he noticed, but a feeling, an oppressive weight pressing down on his chest, as though the air itself had grown heavier. The shadows ahead stretched unnaturally along the walls, bending in ways they shouldn't, before slowly pulling away from the surfaces that cast them. From within that distortion… a figure emerged.
Cloaked in darkness, he stepped forward with unnatural calm, flames curling along the edges of his form, they were not burning, but consuming the light around them. At the center of his chest, a glowing core pulsed steadily, each beat sending subtle ripples through the air, distorting the space around him like heat rising from a flame.
The soldiers raised their weapons almost instinctively, but none of them fired. Something deep within them, something primal held them back, a silent warning echoing through their minds. The figure tilted his head slightly, as if observing them… or perhaps studying.
"It seems," he said, though his lips never moved, his voice resonating not in the air but within their minds, "you have stumbled upon something you were never meant to see."
One soldier staggered backward, panic finally breaking through his training. Fear had completely consumed him, this figure's aura was so heavy that every soldier was unable to move. To them it felt like gravity had not just increased, it had multiplied.
"What… are you?" the soldier said out of fear.
For a brief moment, nothing answered. Then, behind them… eyes began to open. One pair, then another, then dozens more. A sea of glowing red stared out from the darkness, surrounding them on all sides, their presence silent, but unmistakably alive. The realization settled in like a death sentence, the city was not empty instead it was waiting.
Back at the Arcadia Tournament Grounds Morning came with light, laughter… and the roar of a crowd. The grand arena of Arcadia was alive for the yearly junior tournament. Thousands filled the stands, their cheers echoing across the stone coliseum as banners waved high above. The air buzzed with excitement as two young fighters clashed in the center.
Prince Dareon the oldest of the two princes was clashing with an orange haired Arcadian prodigy. The young prodigy was one of the highest ranked fighters for their age who had only ever lost 2 matches before. Steel rang against steel as the boys exchanged blows. The boys moved fast, faster than most their age, their blades striking, sparks flying with each impact.
Come Dareon, think… I can't go toe to toe with him. What would my Dad do?
Dareon was deep in thought while trying to hold off the pressing attacks of his opponent. Suddenly an idea came to his mind.
That's it! Dad always told me brute strength doesn't decide a fight. Making your opponent believe that strength is the only way creates openings.
From the royal stands, Azarel leaned forward, a rare smile on his face. Beside him, Helena watched with quiet pride. Azarel had been training Dareon for this tournament, knowing that the best young prodigies of Arcadia participate he knew this would test the young prince's skills.
"Come on… Dareon remember your training." Azarel muttered under his breath.
Dareon allowed himself to be overpowered, doing just enough to parry the strikes. Dareon had come up with a new strategy to beat his opponent. Dareon was a prodigy himself, his rank of 7th in all of Arcadia meant he was no mug.
"Strength is absolute." The young prodigy spoke with absolute confidence. "You may have the prince title but, your strength will never allow you to rule."
Dareon smiled which confused the prodigy.
"The difference is a King knows their opponent's weakness. He allows his opponent to think one way..." Dareon spoke as parried the attack away.
The Prince surged forward noticing the opening he had created. Dareon had allowed himself to be overwhelmed, each strike got heavier which allowed Dareon to conserve his energy. Now with the weapon of his opponent out of the way he could take full advantage. The prodigy hit the ground hard, dust exploding around him. Azarel shot to his feet, raising a fist.
"That's it, my boy!" Azarel shouted with pride.
The crowd erupted.
"CHEERS!"
"YEAH!"
Dareon approached the prodigy who was visibly upset with his defeat. Dareon extended his hand to his opponent showing respect for their battle they just had.
"But how...?" the prodigy asked.
"I allowed you to believe you were winning, letting you believe strength is absolute. Strength isn't the only thing you need to rule," Dareon continued explaining. "What makes a great King is knowledge and conviction."
The victorious boy stood tall, breathing heavily, before raising his fist in triumph. The arena thundered with applause. For that moment… There was no war, no death, only pride and family.
"My king… sorry to interrupt, but… there has been a situation." The voice cut through everything.
Azarel turned sharply. A soldier stood behind him, tense, eyes glowing faintly as urgency radiated from his posture. Helena's smile faded knowing this would be a serious matter that would derail their moment as a family.
"My king…" she said quietly, a hint of concern in her voice.
Azarel clenched his fist. He looked back at the arena at his son, just for a second longer. He stood there for a second not as a king but as a proud father. Then he turned away.
Moments later… Azarel strode through the command chamber, his cloak sweeping behind him. Rows of glowing panels lit the room in warm red, but the atmosphere had shifted into a cold, focused and dangerous mood.
"This better be serious…" he said, his voice low and edged with steel. "I am missing my son's tournament."
No one in the room dared to speak lightly. Because whatever had happened on Havoc… Was already changing everything. The command chamber fell into a heavy silence. Azarel stood before the massive viewing window, Havoc's green-lit world stretching endlessly beyond the glass. Its once-thriving cities now flickered faintly, as if something had drained the life from them. Behind him, a soldier struggled to steady his voice.
"My King… the strike team on Havoc… they… they have been killed." he finally said.
The words echoed for a moment, Azarel didn't move. Then slowly… he turned.
"How has this happened?" he demanded, his voice sharp, controlled but beneath it, something darker stirred. "The Angelics shouldn't have any knowledge of this plan…"
The soldier swallowed hard. "It wasn't just the strike team my King…" he continued, his voice trembling, "the Havocains have also been wiped out."
Silence followed, the tension rose as no one dared to move or speak. Azarel's fist slammed into the control console, metal denting beneath the force. Sparks flickered as the system glitched under the impact as the room froze.
"You mean to tell me that not only is the strike team gone, the entire Havocians are now gone too?" he questioned.
The soldier nodded.
"I need you to find out who is behind this," Azarel said, his voice now cold and deadly. "We will bring them to justice for their crimes. I want the arcane energy project ready in the next days."
The words weren't just a command, they were a promise.
Havoc… Moments Earlier
The city streets were drenched in silence as bodies lay scattered across the pavement, the aftermath of something far beyond a simple battle. Smoke curled through the air, and the green glow of the city cast an eerie light over the carnage.
A soldier staggered backward, his breathing ragged. He didn't even have time to react. A hand shot forward fast, inhuman and grabbing him by the throat. The figure who was cloaked in darkness stepped into the light. Cracks of glowing red energy ran across his body like molten veins, pulsing with unnatural power. His eyes burned like embers beneath the shadow of his hood.
"Your role ends here," he said calmly.
The soldier clawed at his grip, panic flooding his eyes. Then "SNAP". The sound was sickeningly final as the soldier's body went limp. The figure let him fall. For a moment, he simply stood there… surrounded by the dead. Then slowly, a smile spread across his face. Not one of joy, but something far worse. Something inevitable.
His glowing eyes lifted toward the sky as if he could see beyond the world itself, as if he already knew what came next.
Far away… Azarel stood in the command chamber, staring at Havoc's dying world. Unaware of the horrors that took place there… This was no longer going to be a war between the Angelics, this would be a war for survival.
End of Chapter 7