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Author's Forward:
Welcome to my new world in The Kingslayer King! This has been an intensive slow build. I had the idea of a world where a king took out all other kings and have it beg the question of whether or not his reasons for doing so were right or not. Essentially, I had the opening chapter.
The opening chapter saw at least five rewrites and extentions, starting from 800 words as an introduction, to now a full 2800+ words to set the stage of this world that I see as an alternate medieval type land, but still probably classify it as a fantasy.
Last year I spent time readinf Robert Jordan with The Wheel of Time, Brandon Sanderson with Mistborn, and a small amount of Andrzej Sapkowski with The Witcher. Honestly, looking back at my writing from just a year ago with Ducking Around in Another World Volume 1, compared to Volume 2 and this, I can see the notable difference that reading has done. It's a little bit different and difficult when you're used to comics/manga just getting to it.
I, of course, hope to improve, but thank anyone who comes along on any of the journeys I've started. As always, my goal is to create and entertain. Onward, into the fall of the final king~
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.The Final King
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*In the early days, we walked among you. The gods of fire and storm, of stone and sea, of nature and life itself. Shaping your world with our hands and playing with fate as though it were a game. But the centuries have gone long, and the stars have grown dim.
For a time, it was amusing. We reveled in your prayers. Drank deep of your devotion. We took lovers from among you. Watched as our children carved their names into history. We started wars for fun, brought plagues to see reactions, and watched as you still built monuments in our honor. You were entertaining and unpredictable. Full of passion and folly.
But eventually, the amusement faded. Your stories began to repeat. Your worship became routine. Empty of the awe it once held. We grew tired, restless, longing for something more. So, one by one, we left. Our temples crumbled and our names eventually forgotten. Any remaining stakes we may have in this world are meaningless.*
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
The great iron doors of the throne room groaned open, their rusted hinges grinding like the bones of the long-dead. The once-great hall of Illios, now a hollow shell of faded glory, lay in ruin. Cold air slithered through shattered stained glass windows, carrying the scent of dust and old blood. The flickering torchlight barely pierced the gloom, casting long, skeletal shadows against the cracked stone walls. At the far end of the chamber, upon a throne of blackened steel, sat a figure unmoving, watching.
Upon the throne sat King Darrow Ghaldre, the king of Illios, a once great land on the Centava Continent, but time has worn away any shine that may have been found there once upon a time. He needed no crown. His name alone held dominion over this broken kingdom. Or rather the name the people called him, The Kingslayer King.
The weight of seventy cycles clung to his weathered frame which was a presence of iron will and unrelenting resolve. His beard, streaked silver, rested against his chest, his dark eyes heavy with the burden of a world almost fully reshaped by his hand. He was the architect of a new age. One forged in the blood of kings.
As the doors groaned again to a close, two men appeared in the torchlight, walking a prisoner in front of them. It was a man whose wrists were bound with thick iron chains. His long hair, matted with sweat and filth, veiled his gaunt face. A ragged beard framed hollow cheeks, and the remnants of a once-regal cloak, embroidered with a now unrecognizable sigil, trailed behind him in tatters.
The prisoner’s steps faltered, his body battered, but still, he refused to be wholly broken. Even as his knees were forced to the cold stone floor beneath the King’s gaze, he did not bow his head. He had once ruled lands like these too. Once stood as the monarch of a divine lineage. But now, Baerlon Therios was nothing more than a relic of the old world. A man who had outlived his throne.
Ghaldre exhaled, his voice deep and worn as it filled the chamber, "So," he sighed, inspecting and tilting his head slightly, “Three cycles to finally find you. The last of your kind, eh?"
Baerlon’s fingers curled into fists, his bindings rattling as his muscles tensed. He said nothing.
Ghaldre’s gaze flicked toward the two men at his feet. Revenants. They were no mere soldiers, but beings that had been reforged through the trials of death and duty. They were bound by something deeper than mere flesh. That their killings under the king would trancend the world into it's golden age and they would be rewarded for their service.
Johanus Dhulos, the taller of the two, carried himself with measured precision. His face was sharp-featured, his eyes the color of storm-lit steel, framed by dark curls. His polished armor gleamed beneath the dim light. Despite it’s fine craftsmanship, it still showed the battle-worn scars of countless conflicts.
At his hip rested the revenant blade. A slender, elegant rapier. It’s hilt tinted a deep silver, carved with intricate patterns resembling coiled vines. At the pommel, a fox head lay etched curving around the end towards the hilt, it's watchful gaze glinting in the low light.
Elyas Verren stood at Johanus’ side, slightly shorter, but broader, and he was younger as his eyes shimmered green making his red short hair frame his face as unique. His movements as he watched their prisoner were almost predatory even in their restraint.
Elyas’ armor was similar to Johanus’, silver and polished with way less wear. His weapon was quite similar as well. It was a rapier that bore a deep red hue upon its guard. His blade had a wolf’s head adorn the pommel, snarling as if frozen in an eternal growl.
Without a word, the two revenants released their hold on Baerlon, letting him slump forward as if his body had finally surrendered to gravity. But it had not.
In an instant, with a speed unnatural for a man so near death, Baerlon’s wrists snapped outward, the iron shackles splintering apart. Before either revenant could react, he turned and surged backward. His left fist struck Elyas squarely in the face, the impact sending a sickening crack through the chamber as the revenant staggered backward, blood streaking down his chin.
Johanus reacted, raising his gauntlet to intercept the next blow, but Baerlon’s right fist hammered into it with crushing force. The metal crumpled inward, biting into Johanus’ forearm. The revenant winced in disbelief, stepping back as his injured arm spasmed. Pain, a sensation he had not felt in cycles, flared through him like fire.
Baerlon did not stop. He stumbled forward, his breath ragged and his body spent, but unwilling to submit. Then, the voice came.
"Baerlon,” Ghaldre’s voice was not loud, but it did not need to be. It cut through the air as sharp as any blade.
The moment Baerlon heard it, his steps faltered. His escape, his struggle, it all wavered, as if some unseen force had clamped around his soul, crushing the last ember of defiance within him. Where was he to go? What did he even have left to go to?
Johanus and Elyas, still reeling from the sudden burst of violence, regained their footing, and they drew their swords. Baerlon froze in place. The cold steel whispered as they slid from their scabbards, the intricate hilts catching the flickering glow of the torches.
The fox and the wolf heads on the pomels curved towards their enemies. To be seen. To know who you were against. The symbols of cunning and savagery, stared at him from the pommels, as if mocking his final act of rebellion. The twin rapiers gleamed in the dim light, their slender forms elegant yet deadly.
Baerlon inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. Two revenant blades aimed at him. The very weapons that had severed the heads of hundreds, thousands. That had ended dynasties and spilled divine blood upon the earth. The last spark of hope in his eyes died.
His legs buckled, and he dropped to his knees, turning back towards the kingslayer. His shoulders sagged, his head finally tilting downward in resignation. Ghaldre’s steps echoed as he approached.
"You fought well," the king awarded, "But you knew this was the only end."
“For thirty cycles, I have hunted your kind,” Ghaldre continued, approaching slowly, “Thirty cycles since I first took up my sword and set out to sever the chains of our people. Chains forged by the gods.”
Baerlon raised his head at that, his once-proud face battered and lined with exhaustion, “You are mad, kingslayer. You always have been!”
“Mad?” Ghaldre repeated, his tone almost bemused. He stopped just before Baerlon and tilted his head again, studying the broken king at his feet, “Perhaps. But it was not madness that led me here, Baerlon. It was purpose. The gods bound us, you know? When they walked this earth, they took their mortal lovers, sired children, and from those children came the royal lines, our lines. You, me, all the kings and queens of this world, born of divine blood.”
Baerlon spat blood onto the kinglayer's boots, “You've got some divine on you,” he laughed briefly, turning into anger, “And that is why we ruled, Ghaldre. It is our right! Always has been!”
“No,” Ghaldre’s voice dropped, his face hardening, “It was never our right. It was their control. So long as their blood flows through our veins, we are nothing but tools, or rather pawns. Playing pieces in a game the gods abandoned long ago. But I am no fool. I see their hand, even in their absence. As long as one of us lives, the gods still hold sway over this world.”
“And so you killed them all,” Baerlon roared, his eyes blazing with defiance again, “You butchered your kin, the children of the divine. And what of my son? My daughter?!”
“I freed them,” Ghaldre said, his tone chilling, “I freed them from the burden of carrying the gods’ will. I have cut the threads, one by one. Your son? Your daughter? You can't have any heir to produce more. You’re whole line ends. And now you… you are the last.”
Baerlon let out a bitter laugh, weak and filled with disbelief. Disgust. Hatred.
“You bastard. And when I’m gone, what will you be? The Kingslayer sitting on a throne of corpses in a world without kings? Or what? Do you think you'll have all the power to yourself? Or do you honestly keep telling yourself some lie that you wholeheartedly believe? You're fucking pathetic.”
Ghaldre stepped closer, towering over him now, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword that was hidden under his cloak. The sword that had seen every other one like Baerlon fall before it, “I will be the last king,” he said softly, his words more to himself than to Baerlon, “And when the last king dies, so too will the gods’ hold on this world.”
Ghaldre said nothing more. Slowly, he drew his sword, a long bladed bastard sword with golden furnishings and a ruby red pomel. The blade was worn by time and stained by history as the edges while still sharp, were worn and discolored, but not by rust, by the blood of those who came before.
Baerlon’s eyes met Ghaldre's and there was no fear in them, only the grim acceptance of one who had lived in fear for too long, and lost everything for it.
“Fucking do it already. You will fail, kingslayer,” he started in a whisper as his voice rose to face his final moment, “The gods cannot be severed from this world. Not by you! So do it!”
Ghaldre’s grip tightened on the sword hilt, and with one swift motion, he brought the blade down. Baerlon’s head fell from his shoulders, his blood splattered backwards, unintentionally bathing Johanus and Elyas. The blood from the remaining stump pooled at Ghaldre’s feet as the head rolled sideways and came to a stop. Shock hung over the severed head as the jaw layed wide with his tongue sticking out and the eyes bulging. Baerlon, the last king, was no more.
For a long moment, Ghaldre stood still, the sword dripping crimson in his hand. He stared down at the lifeless body of Baerlon Therios, the final king, and breathed deep as if waiting for some invisible weight to lift from his chest, but it did not.
He turned his gaze to Johanus, "Come," he commanded, his voice steady, but distant, "Elyas, you go."
Elyas hesitated for only a moment as he secured his sword and took a hankerchief from inside his armor to wipe his face and put pressure on the cut Baerlon inflicted. He nodded before turning and stepping away, vanishing into the shadows beyond the great doors.
Johanus stood still, his wounded arm cradled against his side. He looked at Ghaldre, the man who had shaped his entire existence, and saw something unsettling in his face. This was not triumph, but exhaustion.
"All these cycles. Finally. You know what must be done," Ghaldre said softly.
Johanus swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. Ghaldre gave him this duty years ago. He even took an oath to be honorbound by it, meaning death if he failed to follow through.
Johanus spoke slowly trying to assure himself with his throat tight, “I am no one. I am but a man.”
They were words ingrained in him since a young age.
“No,” Ghaldre said, “You are not, and that is why it must be you. Why it was always going to be you. A man, unburdened by the gods, must take my life. Only then will their ties to this world be severed.”
Johanus hesitated, his hand trembling on the hilt of his sword.
“You must do this,” Ghaldre said his final command as king, bowing his head, “Let men be free.”
With a deep breath, Johanus drew his sword, and in a single quick stroke, the last king fell.
The weight of Ghaldre’s final words echoed in the quiet throne room, but Johanus stood motionless. His sword was slick with the blood of the last king as his hands trembled, not from fear, but from the enormity of what he had done.
He glanced down at Ghaldre's lifeless body. His king, his purpose, all gone in one swift stroke. The chamber was suffocatingly silent, save for the faint crackle of the torches lining the walls. Johanus began to contemplate the stillness left in the wake of the Kingslayer King.
But there was no relief, no triumph. Only the cold, oppressive weight of solitude.
He cleaned the blade with a piece of torn cloth from his cloak, sheathed it, and stepped back from the corpse. His boots echoed faintly in the great hall as he turned toward the iron doors. A strange lightness filled his chest as if his very soul threatened to unravel.
He paused, his hand resting on the great door’s edge, and cast one final glance back at the throne room, now cloaked in death and shadows. Then he pushed the doors open and stepped into a world without kings.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
The world did not transform overnight. There was no grand shift in the heavens and no chorus of celestial voices to mark the passing of an era. The death of the Kinglayer had not brought salvation, but rather the absence of fear. For a time, that had been enough. With his tyrannical grip broken, the kingless kingdoms that remained found themselves in a tentative peace.
The thirteen revenants, once bound by their singular purpose, scattered like embers from a dying fire. Some seemingly vanished into legend, their names whispered only in the dark corners of old taverns. Others sought new causes, drawn toward power in the new world. But Johanus, chose to walk away from it all.
His life was forged in blood and brutality. His hands stained with the remnants of kings and the sins of war. He had been a shadow, a weapon honed for one purpose since a child. To seek out and end those who claimed thrones by birthright. Yet, when the last crown had fallen, and the echoes of battle had faded into distant memory, he had found himself standing at the edge of a world that no longer needed him.
He wandered first, as all lost men do, his feet carrying him far from the places that had once defined him. Through valleys untouched by war, across rivers that had never run red, and into forests where the trees whispered not of treachery, but of wind and rain. The weight on his shoulders lessened, though never fully lifted. Even freedom, it seemed, carried its own burdens.
Eventually, he found a place far from his old life if the gentle caring arms of a woman who didn't care about his past, but rather who he was trying to be. While the adjustments were hard, after selling his valuables, except his sword, he was able to purchase a quiet stretch of land, cradled between rolling hills and woods with a creek. There he turned to farming and fishing, becoming a husband and a father.
The seasons passed without fanfare and the stars shone without judgment. Here, he built a home,not a fortress or a refuge, but a simple dwelling with walls of his own making. He learned the patience of the earth and the solace found in the steady work of hands that no longer needed to wield a blade.
For the first time in his life, he was not Johanus the Fox, nor Johanus, a revenant. He was simply a man. But peace is a fleeting dream this world. The winds would shift again.
Cycles passed unchallenged, but the world was changing once more, and though he had buried his past beneath soil and stone, the past had a way of clawing back to the surface. Johanus felt it. That familiar pull. That cold, restless feeling in his bones. No, the world did not change overnight, but it was changing. Whether he wished it or not, his time in the quiet would soon come to an end.
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⋆༺𓆩The.Fellow𓆪༻⋆
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