The Kairon Plains of the Northern Continent.
A fertile, abundant land—the gracious earth that sustained the starving people of the harsh north.
And this coming year, there would be a harvest greater than ever before.
How could one be so sure?
The answer was simple.
Because, just like preparing for spring, the plains of Kairon had already been blanketed in the richest of fertilizers.
A mountain of corpses, a sea of blood.
Blood, bodies, grief, and screams drenched the vast plains.
At the center stood a man, his eyes sweeping over the countless multitudes surrounding him.
Drip. Drip.
From the golden chains wrapped around his body, blood dripped endlessly.
Forged from orichalcum—a metal rare even in the highly advanced metallurgy of the Southern Continent—those chains had long since been dyed crimson, their original sheen lost beneath the blood of countless enemies.
He had heaped mountains from their corpses, dyed seas with their blood, taken more lives than could be counted.
And it was not only the chains steeped in death’s stench.
His body was soaked in the blood of his foes.
No matter how many times he bathed, no matter how much fragrant olive oil he rubbed into his skin—
The stench of death, carved deep into his very soul, would never fade.
“Haaa…”
The man let out a long sigh. The aura that had once seemed inexhaustible now ran thin. He looked ready to collapse at any moment, yet he did not bend his back.
He had cast down his arrogant elder brother who flaunted borrowed strength, and devoured his tribe.
He had slit open the bellies of the leeches that fattened themselves by bleeding dry the weaker clans.
He had severed the head of the incompetent High Chieftain who, while being scorned as barbarians by the other continents, could do nothing but console himself with the claim, “We are children of nature.”
This man too carried the rough northern blood in his veins. Fighting and seizing—that was the craft he knew best, the only skill he truly mastered.
By repeating that skill, by conquering endlessly, he had swallowed the North.
And so the world came to call him the Tyrant King.
He raised his head and looked into the eyes of those who surrounded him.
It was strange.
A man at the brink of collapse—any child could tell who was truly in peril.
Yet none among them relaxed, not even slightly.
And when one considered who these figures were, the scene became all the more staggering.
Kaido Valrac, the Sword Saint, famed as the greatest swordsman in Agena, across the Eastern Continent.
Midas Alloin, the Sage of the South, said to have unraveled every truth of magic and the world.
Cassandra Bernarde, the Saintess of the Western Continent’s Sun Church, who had received the first divine oracle in five centuries.
And beyond them, countless other figures whose names alone shook the world—standing tense before a single man.
Had the gossips of the continent witnessed this, their mouths would have watered with the tale.
As the eerie standoff dragged on—
One man stepped forward through the encircling host.
“It ends here. Tyrant King, Lucas Alexei.”
Golden hair, eyes of deep azure.
A face so perfect it seemed chiseled by the hands of the Lord Himself.
He was the one who had gathered these heroes of the world to the North.
Among the countless stars of heroes, none hesitated to name him the brightest of them all.
The Champion of the Khan Empire—Siegfried Düppel.
At Siegfried’s calm declaration, the Tyrant King Lucas, who had been quietly steadying his breath, finally opened his mouth.
“…Siegfried Düppel. So, it was you after all.”
Shiver—!
Just that one low, heavy murmur was enough to make every hero present feel a chill run down their spines.
For it carried the scent of deep resentment, of boundless wrath.
Yet Siegfried himself, facing Lucas’s fury head-on, did not look at the man, but rather at the corpses piled beneath his feet—those who had been the continent’s heroes only moments before.
“…So many lives lost in vain. It could all have ended, and yet you chose needless slaughter. Why? Why shed this blood?”
“Hahahahahaha! Needless blood, you say?”
Lucas let out a laugh at Siegfried’s self-righteousness.
“Like a thief who breaks into a house, asking why the owner killed his comrades. Absurd.”
The ignorant gossips had often said it—Lucas’s tyranny was misguided.
He had toppled his brother, the rulers of the North, even the High Chieftain who had claimed dominion over the continent—
With no cause, no justice, relying solely on brute force to trample everything underfoot.
But Lucas dared to proclaim—
In his conquest, there was not a single shred of shame.
That was his truth.
Yet for the other continents, shaken by the upheaval of the North, Lucas had become too great a threat.
They raised their banners against him, and that led to the very moment at hand.
“It ends here. We shall strike you down, the one who plunged the North into chaos, and restore this land to peace.”
Shing—!
With a speech like a proclamation, Siegfried drew the sword at his hip.
A pure white longsword—Snow White, a masterwork forged by the South’s greatest smith, refined from dragon bone.
A famed blade, in the hands of a handsome champion.
The very image of a hero out of a storybook.
Lucas glanced down at himself.
His cherished weapon, the golden chains—Geumcheon Chains—stained black with layer upon layer of blood.
His body bound in chains, soaked in gore, his figure terrifying and hideous.
Anyone who looked would see the villain.
Lucas lifted his eyes, locking them with Siegfried’s.
Those eyes shone with triumph—of the man who had finally felled the Tyrant King who had plunged the North into ruin, of the hero who would bring peace back to the continent.
So righteous.
So very righteous.
It was no wonder so many hailed Siegfried as the greatest hero among heroes.
But Lucas, who had fought him countless times before, knew the truth.
Siegfried was not so pure. Not so just.
“……”
Lucas stared at him in silence, then suddenly laughed.
Excuses, he had plenty.
The breakfast he had eaten that morning.
The fragrant tea he had drunk.
The incense burned by the mistress he had embraced.
If none of them had been laced with poison, perhaps this would have ended differently.
But all of that was nothing more than excuse.
The truth was simple. Siegfried and the alliance had won. His empire had fallen.
No words could change that.
…And yet.
Clang!
His grip on the blood-soaked chains tightened.
“I won’t simply hand over everything I built with my own blood and sweat.”
Lucas was the Tyrant King, who had led the North through its age of upheaval.
His end, too, must not be like those petty worms.
Better to die as a Tyrant King than to crawl and live in disgrace.
Whooom—!
A violent surge of energy roared from Lucas’s body.
“If you would take it, then try. If you can.”
I am Lucas Alexei, the Conqueror of the North.
Clatter—!
Crash!
The words had barely left his lips when the blood-red chains lashed out, smashing the head of a knight in the encirclement to pulp.
The man had been of some renown, perhaps—but to Lucas, he was nothing more than another weakling unable to withstand his chains.
As Lucas moved, Siegfried shouted:
“Be on guard! He may be wounded and weary, but he is the Tyrant who swallowed the North! A moment’s negligence is death!”
“O merciful Father of the Sun, look down warmly upon Your servants!”
At his cry, Cassandra’s blessing spread over their ranks like a soft embrace.
Clang!
Siegfried and Kaido’s aura struck at Lucas.
Blue and white light swirled together in a majestic display as they surged forward.
Even as the auras bore down, Lucas kept his chains moving, smashing the skulls of those around him.
KABOOOOM!
The devastating impact engulfed him.
Fssshhh!
Dust and smoke billowed so thick one could see nothing at all.
“…Is it done?” muttered a mage, unable to restrain himself when no response came from within the haze.
The price of those careless words was swift and merciless.
Whip—! Crack!
The chains tore through the smoke, pulverizing the mage’s skull.
“Better you prayed I would live, than utter such foolishness.”
The chains slithered back into Lucas’s grasp with a sinister hiss.
Despite taking Siegfried and Kaido’s combined strike head-on, not a scratch marred his body.
The Geumcheon Chains would not permit their master to be harmed.
Coiling like a living serpent, resonating wickedly with Lucas’s form.
“The Geumcheon Chains…!!”
The perfect weapon of offense and defense that supported the Tyrant King’s power.
The weapon that had struck terror into all the continent.
Siegfried grit his teeth.
“As expected of Lucas. But this place will still be your grave!”
His voice rang with iron resolve, brimming with the will to end the Tyrant King once and for all.
The war that decided the fate of the Northern Continent was nothing short of awe-inspiring.
Knights’ auras split the earth of the plains.
The mages’ enlightenment shook the very sky.
Kaido’s sword shattered against the chains he could not evade.
Midas, said to hold infinite mana, at last ran dry.
And in the end, only two still stood on that battlefield—Cassandra, supporting from the rear, and Siegfried, the Champion.
“Huff… huff…”
So heavy.
The chains, which had been his very soul for half a lifetime, now weighed upon him like a mountain of steel.
“…Tch.”
Lucas spat out blood.
The weapons of countless heroes protruded from his back, his limbs pouring blood in streams.
“Hah… so there was still blood left in me?”
It felt like he’d already lost gallons.
Through his blurred vision, he saw Siegfried drawing closer.
But Siegfried, too, was far from his usual pristine self, his body ragged and torn.
“…This is my victory, Tyrant.”
“Hah… not ‘our’ victory, then?”
Lucas’s mocking words made Siegfried frown, if only for a fleeting moment.
“Any last words?”
Lucas gave a dry chuckle, raised a trembling arm—
And lifted his middle finger.
“Eat this.”
“…Farewell, Tyrant.”
Perhaps it was spite at such a crude final gesture, ill-suited for the stage—
But Siegfried’s blade, as it severed Lucas’s neck, felt harsher than ever.
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