A red sky bled over an empire that never died.
Mountains forged from fossilized giants loomed above rivers of molten iron. Cathedrals stitched together from the bones of extinct gods cast long shadows across a battlefield that had never known peace.
This was the Crimson Concord.
A realm ruled by warlords who drank eternity like wine. Here, age was measured not in years, but in battles survived. And survival was a privilege, not a right.
The Thronebreaker appeared at its edge, standing where existence cracked—his boots crunching across ash, his breath fogging the air.
❖ Realm Detected: [Blood Epoch – Crimson Concord]
– Dominant Laws: Martial Supremacy, Blood Binding, Dominion Memory
– Local Status: Intruder
– Objective: Infiltrate War Cathedral | Recover Shard (5/100+)
He gripped Nullfang tighter.
It pulsed against his palm—alive, hungrier than before. Since absorbing the Spiral Core, the blade had changed. Smarter. Angrier. Like it remembered every cut it had ever delivered.
And it wanted more.
The ground trembled.
Across the valley, a marching army appeared—one that shimmered with ghostlight and carried banners of flesh. Towering beasts of bone, riderless war machines, and men whose eyes glowed with imperial brands. None of them human anymore.
Leading them was a figure in crimson plate, his face hidden beneath a crown of swords.
A voice echoed in the Thronebreaker's mind, so loud it cracked the realm around him:
"You bear the core.
You bear the stain.
Come forward and kneel, usurper.
The Crimson Concord accepts your blood."
He didn't reply.
Instead, he walked forward.
Straight into the army.
The first soldier lunged—twenty feet tall, arms like battering rams.
Nullfang whispered across its throat, cleaving through metal and soul alike. The body didn't fall—it withered, as if the concept of "existence" had been sliced from it.
More charged.
Too many.
❖ Combat Mode Engaged: [Mass Suppression Protocol – Phantom Waltz]
– Speed Surge: +200%
– Reality Pressure: Inverted
– Kill Count Multiplier Activated
He became a storm.
A blur of violet light and steel, carving through soldiers like chapters in a book being rewritten.
Each strike wasn't just lethal—it was final. No respawns. No rebirth. Just deletion.
Then came the Warlords.
The first one wore a cloak of living fire.
His name was General Vorzahn, Keeper of the Eversiege, and every footstep he took left craters in the earth.
He hurled a spear made from the crystallized scream of a dying titan.
The Thronebreaker caught it with Nullfang—and redirected it into the sky, shattering a burning moon.
Vorzahn laughed, even as he was cut down.
"I've waited eons to fall to you. Don't disappoint the rest."
The second was faster.
Mistblade Ishera, a ghost wrapped in silk, her strikes like poems written in blood.
She circled him a hundred times in a second.
But Nullfang sang louder.
She fell.
Kneeling as her mask cracked.
"You walk a doomed path, Thronebreaker. The Crimson Throne isn't just a seat. It's a sentence."
The third didn't even fight.
He just watched.
A warlord in black robes, with hollow eyes and a crown of silence.
He nodded once.
Then walked into the sea of corpses behind him, vanishing.
❖ Warlords Defeated: 2/8
– Realm Alert Level: Maximum
– Path to War Cathedral Unlocked
The Thronebreaker moved forward.
Into the valley where the War Cathedral stood.
A fortress the size of a mountain, grown from the fused remains of a hundred realms. It pulsed with memories—each brick a conquest, each pillar a trophy of genocide.
Inside waited the next shard.
And something else.
Someone else.
He felt it.
Eyes watching him from behind time.
The gates opened on their own.
He stepped inside.
And found her waiting.
Not Solenne.
Not the Priestess.
But someone far worse.
The Red Archivist.
Tall. Wrapped in crimson scrolls. Face hidden by a lattice of runes. She held a tome bound in skin and etched in flame.
She did not smile. She catalogued.
"You've changed," she said. "The Spiral twisted you. Made you more… interesting."
He said nothing.
"Still quiet. Still broken. But there's something inside you now. A will that doesn't belong."
"I'm not here for history," he growled.
"No. You're here for your next mistake."
She opened the tome.
Reality shook.
Memories spilled into the air—his own, rewritten. In this version, he never broke the throne. He became the Crimson King. He ruled with fire. He betrayed Solenne.
And he liked it.
He staggered, vision blurring.
❖ Narrative Contamination Detected
– Deploying [Anomaly Override]
A pulse exploded from his chest.
The illusion shattered.
The Archivist snarled.
"You should have bowed."
He charged.
Nullfang against ink-magic. Blade against burning truth.
The fight tore the cathedral apart.
Every strike tore through timelines. She turned his memories into weapons. Tried to drown him in his own doubts.
But he was done doubting.
He buried Nullfang in her chest—and whispered:
"You should've archived better."
She smiled, bleeding concept.
"I'll be waiting. On the other side."
Then she vanished.
At the cathedral's heart, the shard pulsed—this one shaped like a flame frozen in glass.
He reached out and took it.
❖ Shard Acquired: 5/100+
– New Ability Gained: [Bloodbind Dominion]
– Thronebreaker Authority: Tier Ascended
– Warning: Next Realm Instability Detected
– Incoming Transmission: External Source
A voice echoed into his mind.
Smooth. Cold. Amused.
"You're getting better at breaking things. Let's see how you handle a realm with no rules at all."
"Welcome to the Black Pattern, Thronebreaker."
He exhaled.
And took one step forward.