The colossal gate opened without a sound, as if moved by invisible hands.

  William stepped into the Ivory Bone Hall. Instantly, his vision was ambushed by a blinding sea of white. No other color dared to stain this room. The floor, walls, even the soaring ceiling were all clad in the finest milky white marble—surfaces so slick and clear they reflected William’s shadow like a mirror over a frozen lake.

  On the left and right sides of the aisle, statues of past heroes stood frozen in heroic poses, carved from alabaster just as pale. Giant paintings hanging on the walls seemed to float in a white mist, their frames forged from finely wrought silver.

  The air here was heavy, not from gravity, but from the scent of agarwood incense burning in every corner. Thin smoke crawled along the floor, creating a mystical atmosphere, as if this room were the border between the world of men and the afterlife.

  William’s footsteps—tap, tap, tap—sounded so small amidst this primordial silence.

  At the end of the room, at the furthest point that served as the gravitational center of the entire kingdom, sat the figure.

  George Lavin. The 134th King of Carta. His father.

  The sight always made William’s stomach churn. Amidst the luxury of smooth white marble, the throne looked like an alien object fallen from the sky—a terrifying anomaly.

  The throne was not made of gold or gems, but of solid, pitch-black iron. Its material came from the core of a meteor that fell thousands of years ago. Its surface was rough, riddled with small irregular holes like a charred honeycomb. Cold, hard, and merciless.

  And upon that painful iron chair, the King sat alone.

  His body looked so small, as if slowly being swallowed by the vastness of the black throne. George was very old. His skin was dry and spotted, folding over brittle bones like ancient parchment on the verge of crumbling. His breathing sounded slow, one by one, filling the emptiness of the hall.

  However, the most intimidating thing was not the frail figure, but what perched on his head.

  The meteoric iron crown.

  Its color was as dark as the throne, with the same pitted texture. Its tips were not encrusted with diamonds, but sharpened like spear points, towering high upwards as if challenging the sky. The crown looked heavy, a physical and mental burden nearly impossible for such a fragile neck to bear.

  William stopped ten steps from the foot of the throne. He stared at his father—a lonely old king atop a pile of cold space iron—and felt how silent the peak of power truly was.

  William bowed his head deeply, a gesture of respect that was precise, stiff, yet absolute. Silence ruled the hall for several seconds, filled only by the sound of the King’s breathing, which sounded like wind blowing through a narrow cave passage.

  When William straightened his body again, he found no warmth. He was faced only with a pair of old eyes drowning behind folded, wrinkled eyelids. Those eyeballs... their color had faded, blurred by the cataract of time, like a lens exposed too long to light and now going blind with age.

  "William..."

  The voice rasped out, hoarse and dry, like the friction of two old stones.

  "The opening of the Gate of Darkness is mere days away..." King George paused, drawing a breath that sounded heavy and painful. "Every joint of the kingdom is prepared. The gears have turned; officials move in the shadows of their respective duties."

  The King’s thin fingers, looking like dried eagle talons, gripped the edge of the meteor armrest.

  "William... mark this. When the Dark Gate opens later, Ironseat will see its enemies very clearly." That blurred gaze seemed to pierce William’s soul. "Just as clearly... as your eyes now see how old I am on this throne. Displayed plainly. Without place to hide."

  The old hand slowly lifted. With slow, trembling movements, King George began counting on his fingers.

  "First," his crooked index finger pointed up. "Our enemy is pure darkness crawling up from the bottom of the Mirror Canyon. Something not human."

  "Second," the middle finger rose, joining the index. "The old nobles..." The King’s lip curled cynically. "...weasels hiding sweet smiles on their faces, yet clutching sharp daggers behind their backs."

  "Third," the King’s voice grew heavier, "Foreign nations who have long stared at us with envy, who despise our existence standing tall on this land."

  "I want you to answer this question, Will..."

  King George’s voice slid low, rolling across the cold marble floor like a heavy iron ball. He leaned his frail body slightly forward, making the shadow of the meteor crown on the wall behind him elongate like giant claws.

  "What is your answer?"

  The question was not merely an academic test. William knew this was a test of blood worthiness. In this silent Ivory Bone Hall, one wrong answer could mean exile, or worse—disappointment from the only man he feared.

  William did not answer immediately. He let silence fill the space between them, let the stinging scent of agarwood sharpen his senses.

  He crossed his arms. The fabric of his black shirt brushed softly against the skin of his arms. The fingers of his right hand rose slowly, massaging the bridge of his brow with a circular motion. He was very careful, keeping a safe distance from the bruise on his forehead that still throbbed wildly. The pain from Arka’s headbutt earlier still stung, a constant reminder of crude physical violence. But here, before the King, the violence required was not physical, but intellectual.

  His brain spun fast, dissecting the three enemy variables his father mentioned: The Canyon Darkness, Traitorous Nobles, and Neighboring Nations.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  Three enemies. Three war fronts. If Carta fought all three one by one, this kingdom would be finished. Resources would run dry, soldiers would die in vain.

  Efficiency, William thought coldly. The answer must be absolute efficiency.

  Slowly, William lowered his hand. He straightened his back, staring straight into his father’s cloudy eyes without blinking.

  "Find all three on one crowded, festive stage," William’s voice broke the silence, calm yet sharp, as if reading a dinner menu, not a massacre strategy.

  William took one step forward, pressing his argument.

  "Do not fight them one by one. Drag them all into the same arena. Create controlled chaos..." The corner of William’s lip lifted thinly, barely visible. "Let the monsters of darkness taste the blood of greedy nobles. Let neighboring nations panic facing the horror from the Canyon. Let them stab each other, tear each other apart, and devour one another."

  "We only need to stand at the edge of the stage..." William closed his sentence with a tone of finality, "...and finish off whoever remains in a dying state."

  William’s breath held after the last sentence left his lips. He stared sharply at the King, seeking validation.

  However, King George did not flinch.

  The old face remained stiff as a death mask. His wrinkled skin did not move, his blurry eyes stared blankly, as if William’s answer was merely passing wind, meaningless.

  One second passed. Two seconds. Five seconds.

  Cold sweat began to crawl down William’s back. Was I wrong? Was it too cruel? Or not cruel enough? The tension in the room thickened, slowly choking his neck.

  And then... the explosion happened.

  "HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

  Not just laughter. It was a volcanic eruption from within the frail chest of the old King.

  King George threw his head back, laughing freely with a strength that defied logic for his age. The sound slammed against the slick white marble walls, bounced to the fifty-meter-high domed ceiling, then rained back down upon the two of them.

  The acoustics of the Ivory Bone Hall, designed to glorify sound, now worked to horrifying effect. The sound reflections were out of sync, creating layers of overlapping echoes.

  To William’s ears, it felt as though he wasn't standing before just one old man.

  That echo...

  It felt as if the statues of heroes in the hallway had come to life. As if the spirits of the one hundred and thirty-three previous Lavin Kings rose from their graves, sat in rows beside William’s father, and laughed uproariously along with him. A choir of madness from the past.

  It felt like the entire dynasty was laughing at the cruelty of this world with him.

  The laughter was so loud that fine dust on the marble statues seemed to vibrate. William stood rooted to the spot, feeling the resonance vibrate his ribs, suspended between horror and strange admiration. King George, ruler of Ironseat, was thoroughly entertained.

  The laughter slowly receded, leaving echoes dying in the corners of the room, but the grin on King George’s face did not fade. He stared at his son with odd satisfaction, as if he had just found a mirror for his own soul.

  "Facing the world with madness..." the King murmured, his voice now low, venomous, yet full of conviction. "That is the only way of life for House Lavin. The only way to drag them all down beneath the tombstones before they drag us."

  Suddenly, the King’s wrinkled hand rose and slammed the armrest of his iron throne.

  Bam!

  The sound of meteor metal struck by old bone sounded dull and heavy, killing the remaining echoes in the air. William jerked slightly, but his eyes never left his father.

  "Will," the King called, leaning forward, his cloudy eyes seeming suddenly sharp again. "Ensure... ensure you watch their destruction with your own eyes. Do not look away."

  The King gripped the cold iron tighter.

  "When they scream, when they despair, when they howl in grief for losing everything... stare at their faces. Drink their fear."

  The King’s voice turned into a whisper crawling on the skin of William’s neck.

  "Enter their dreams as a nightmare. Even when they sleep, be present in the darkest corners of their minds. Be the ghost that makes them afraid to close their eyes."

  The King’s breath sounded heavy, yet full of the passion of hatred. "Trample their dignity, Will. Then laugh... laugh loud like Father just laughed. Let them know that their suffering is entertainment to you."

  Then, the King’s expression changed drastically. The grin vanished, replaced by a flat face, cold and deadly. He raised his hand, bringing the tips of his index finger and thumb together, leaving a very small gap. Almost invisible.

  "And remember this one thing, William..."

  The King’s eyes narrowed.

  "Never possess kindness, not even an inch."

  That finger pointed straight at William’s chest.

  "One inch of space you give today," the King hissed with emphasis, "they will return it in the form of ten inches of poisoned dagger tearing your stomach tomorrow."

  King George shook his head slowly, as if teaching a small child about the danger of fire.

  "Do not give them forgiveness. Do not be naive. One enemy life you let survive today, they are the ones who will sever many heads from the necks of House Lavin tomorrow. Your kindness is death for your own flesh and blood."

  The King leaned his back onto the rough throne again, staring at the hall’s ceiling with a blank, scornful gaze.

  "And Will... don't be self-righteous about life," he scoffed. "Don't fuss over who should survive and who should be saved. It's all bullshit."

  "You save someone today? Tch..." The King spat to the side of the throne. "Useless. Tomorrow or the day after, they will die too."

  The King chuckled cynically, a short laugh devoid of humor.

  "They will die because of their own stupid words, die from a bullet fired by a comrade in arms, die poisoned by their own family for inheritance..."

  His voice faded, becoming a weary yet absolute mumble.

  "Or die rotting from old age like me... It's useless, Will. Death is the only certainty. So why have mercy on something that is certain to become a carcass?"

  William stared sharply at his father, tracing every wrinkle on the old ruler’s face. No denial, no defense. The words of nihilism just spewed by the King were merely confirmation of what had long been an open secret.

  It was true.

  It was true what was mumbled fearfully by all the nobles at the ball. True what was hissed by palace officials behind closed doors. Even true what was believed by the commoners in their hovels.

  George Lavin’s reputation had transcended the bounds of human reason.

  William recalled a dark saying, an urban myth heard so frequently it felt like a living truth:

  Go to the most remote village at the edge of the kingdom’s map. Find the narrowest, filthiest, darkest alley. Enter it.

  Do not waste your time asking humans—humans can lie, humans can be silenced.

  But find a stray dog curling in hunger in the darkness of that alley. Stare into the animal's eyes deeply. Then, whisper one simple question to it: "What is the figure of King George like?"

  Then, the dog will not bark. It will not growl.

  The beast will open its mouth, and with eloquent voice, it will speak like a human to bear witness:

  "He is a Mad King."

  William exhaled slowly, feeling the cold of that truth crawling up his spine. His father’s madness was so dense, even the universe seemed to agree to acknowledge it.