After a slow walk through the eerie stillness of the demon dimension, Rudra finally arrived at the gates of a ruined palace. The structure was hauntingly familiar—a mirror image of a place from the real world, now lying in shambles. Crumbling stone, collapsed rooftops, and gaping holes in the walls gave it a skeletal appearance. The only sound that accompanied him was the echo of his own footsteps.
He paused at the threshold, letting his gaze drift across the wreckage.
"Well, no point in keeping the person inside waiting," he muttered to himself before stepping forward.
As he entered the palace, he advanced steadily toward the throne room. The path was deserted—not a single demon in sight. Yet, beneath the palace, he could feel the presence of many. His haki could clearly distinguish the auras of living beings, and what he sensed now were not demons but people—humans, suffering in silence. Their emotions bled into him: fear, helplessness, and an overwhelming desire for death. It clawed at his soul, darkening his expression.
His once warm gaze turned icy, the light in his eyes dimming as his expression hardened into a cold, unreadable mask. Each step forward seemed heavier, more deliberate, as if the weight of what he sensed beneath the palace pulled at him.
Without breaking stride, a twisting branch of wood emerged from his shoulder, spiraling outward with fluid grace. It stretched and twisted until it took the shape of a humanoid figure—an exact clone formed entirely of wood. Rudra didn't spare it a glance.
"You know what to do," he said flatly.
The wooden clone gave a silent nod before phasing soundlessly into the floor, vanishing like mist sinking into shadow.
Rudra continued on, his presence dark and resolute. When he finally reached the passage leading to the throne room, he didn't pause. He simply raised his hand and struck the stone wall. The impact cracked through the silence like thunder—stone shattered, dust exploded into the air, and debris scattered across the corridor.
Without missing a beat, Rudra stepped through the broken doorway.
The throne room, once regal, now lay in ruin. Jagged cracks split the walls, and shafts of pale, sickly light filtered through holes in the collapsed ceiling. At the far end, slouched on a fractured throne, sat a man clad in tattered remnants of finery. His white hair fell in disheveled strands, and leaning beside him was a weapon Rudra recognized instantly—Rebellion.
Rudra halted mid-step, eyes narrowing.
The man rose with deliberate ease, brushing a hand through his hair as if waking from a nap. Calm, composed, and faintly amused, he spoke with quiet authority.
"Rudra of Fairy Tail," he said. "Or should I say… Subject 69?"
Rudra raised a brow, unimpressed. He lifted a hand, signaling for the man to stop. "Whoa, hold on. Let me guess," he said, tone dry. "White hair, old weapon, dramatic throne room... This is the part where you reveal you're my father, right?"
The man stared for a beat. "No."
Rudra cocked his head. "Long-lost brother then? Raised by a shadowy cult? Maybe swapped at birth by demon worshippers?"
"Nope."
Rudra let out a slow sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Seriously? With all this ominous buildup? The crumbling palace, the sword-that-shouldn't-exist, the whole cryptic greeting… You're telling me we're not doing a big dramatic twist?"
The man chuckled under his breath. "Disappointed?"
"Honestly? A little," Rudra said, gesturing around. "This whole thing is screaming backstory."
A silence settled over the cavern, broken only by the wind whispering through narrow cracks in the stone.
"What now?" Rudra asked.
The man stepped forward, his voice turning somber. "Let me tell you a story."
Rudra didn't answer.
"Over five hundred years ago, a man of unknown origin arrived in this land. He was injured, barely clinging to life. Defeated. Whatever war he fought, he lost. He had no name, no past—just wounds and silence. He collapsed near a small village, where a healer found him and took him in."
The man paced slowly as he spoke, his eyes distant.
"She nursed him back to health. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months. Somewhere along the way, they fell in love. A child was born. But one day, without warning, the man vanished. No note. No goodbye. He simply left."
There was a beat of silence before the other voice chimed in, dry and biting.
"So what, he went out for milk and never came back?"
"Shut up!" the man snapped, fury flashing in his eyes.
He took a breath and continued, his voice quieter but no less intense. "The mother raised the child alone. She never spoke a harsh word about the man who abandoned them. Even on her deathbed, she clung to hope that he'd return. But he never did. When she died, the boy was alone, with only fragments and whispers about the father he never knew."
The man gripped the hilt of the blade on his back. Rebellion.
"The boy grew into a man, fueled by resentment. He searched the world for his father. When he finally found him, it was too late. The great warrior lay dead in a cave, his body withered, Rebellion at his side. The answers he had hunted for so long turned to ash in his hands. But hatred like his doesn't die easy."
He drew Rebellion and rested it on his shoulder, the blade humming faintly with power.
"He wasn't satisfied. He wanted to bring his father back—not for closure. Not for love. But to kill him. With his own hands. To do that, he needed power. Forbidden power."
The man's eyes narrowed.
"He made contact with the Underworld. With Mundus. In exchange for breaking Mundus's seal, he was promised his father's resurrection. But the key to that seal was Yamato—the blade of his father's brother, Vergil."
He pointed a finger at Rudra.
"But Yamato was lost. So he changed his plan. For centuries, he abducted children. Injected them with his blood. Searching for one whose soul could awaken the sword's dormant power. For four hundred years, this horror continued. Until finally, Yamato responded—to you."
The man stepped forward. His voice was calm now, but each word carried the weight of obsession.
"My name is Arthur Sparda. Son of that man. And rightful heir to Yamato. Now hand it over."
Rudra lay flat on the stone floor, hands behind his head, eyes closed.
"RUDRA!" Arthur shouted.
Rudra stirred, sat up, and rubbed his eye lazily. "Oh, you're done? Cool. That was one hell of a boring and pointless backstory. I've heard bedtime stories with more punch."
Rudra stood, unsheathing Yamato with a swift, fluid motion. The air around him seemed to still.
"If you want the yamato," he said, voice calm, steady, lethal, "you'll have to take it."
Arthur grinned, raising Rebellion. "Gladly." The two clashed, their battle raging on,
Back in the real world,
A few days had passed since the lockdown of Crocus, and the city buzzed with unease. Guards and mages patrolled the streets, their presence unnerving the citizens. Whispers spread like wildfire—rumors that Princess Hisui had used forbidden magic to plunge the former king into a coma and seize the throne. While many dismissed it as mere fantasy, the rumors didn't stop there. Soon, a darker tale began to circulate—that Hisui intended to isolate the capital and offer its people as sacrifices to a demon. As unrest spread through the streets, more and more found themselves believing in the impossible.
In the royal palace, Victor sat alone in his chamber, the quiet broken only by the soft footsteps of his servants as they moved about their duties. His eyes remained fixed on the shadows of the room, his thoughts distant. Without turning to face them, he spoke, his voice cool and commanding. "How's the progress?"
Two figures materialized behind him, their presence nearly imperceptible in the dim light. One of them spoke, his voice low and respectful. "Everything is proceeding as planned, my lord. All is set for the next phase."
Victor's lips curved into a thin smile, but his eyes betrayed no emotion. He stood slowly, his movements deliberate. Walking toward the window, he peered out over the city of Crocus, his gaze distant and calculating. "Soon, the entire kingdom will kneel before me," he murmured, his voice almost a whisper. "Fiore will be mine. And when that happens... nothing will stop me."
A soft chuckle escaped him, dark and filled with ambition. "The princess will be nothing more than a fleeting memory."
The figures behind him remained still, awaiting his next command. But Victor was lost in his vision of the future, the quiet tension in the room growing thicker with every passing second.