Kingdom Building Game: Starting Out With A Million Upgrade Points!

But he couldn't…

Kamel, Herald, and Vakemore found themselves frozen, their minds racing for an answer—any answer—that could salvage what remained of this catastrophe.

But there was none.

Their grand strategy, the weight of their preparations, the ancient magics they had unearthed, the terrifying undead they had wrenched from the underworld—all had been reduced to dust beneath Arkanos' heel. Quite literally, in some cases.

And now, there he stood, a towering figure clad in abyssal miasma, holding his consort as if she were the most precious thing in existence, while gazing at them with all the amusement of a god watching ants try to comprehend the concept of fire.

It was humiliating. It was terrifying. It was, perhaps, the worst moment of their collective lives.

Kamel, still kneeling from the force of Arkanos' presence, struggled to control his breathing.

He had felt mana before—no, he had mastered it, studied its ebb and flow, bent it to his will. He was no novice. But this? This was not mana. It was abyssal miasma.

And not just any amount.

This was a tide, a storm, a force so vast and unrelenting that it made even the darkest sorceries in their arsenal feel like candlelight before a raging inferno.

Vakemore, ancient as he was, found that his hands trembled against his staff. They had shaken once before—on the day he had glimpsed death and clawed his way back into undeath. He had thought, in his arrogance, that he had conquered fear.

He had been wrong.

Herald, meanwhile, was having a more immediate reaction. His legs had taken it upon themselves to inform the rest of his body that standing was no longer an option.

He collapsed onto the cold stone, staring at the armored titan before him, his mouth opening and closing like a man who had just forgotten the very concept of words.

No one spoke.

And that was a problem.

Because silence, in moments like these, was just an invitation for the inevitable.

And so, Arkanos, ever merciful, decided to break it.

"That was… underwhelming."

His voice, smooth yet brimming with an unfathomable weight, echoed through the desolation.

He did not move, nor did he tighten his grip on Kaela. He did not need to. The very act of existing in his presence was pressure enough.

"You believed yourselves victors, wielders of lost power, architects of war," he said, his silver gaze sweeping over them. "And yet, when the tides shift, when the inevitable collapse of your schemes arrives—you crumble."

A slow, deliberate step forward. The stone beneath his massive boots cracked as the leg of his Sacred Eidolith crashed into the structure.

"Tell me," Arkanos spoke again, his tone almost conversational, "what was the plan if this were to happen? Don't tell me that in all your schemes, you left out the possibility that you might meet your end at my hands. What sort of fool would underestimate a man willing to die for that which he loves, much less an emperor?"

Kamel swallowed. Words failed him. He had expected Arkanos to put up a little fight before he would eventually fall—not for… this. Not for something beyond comprehension.

Herald, always the strategist, always the one to find an angle, finally willed himself to speak. His voice wavered, but the instinct to negotiate, to salvage, to survive, forced the words past his lips.

"W-We can talk about this, My Emperor."

Arkanos tilted his head slightly. A slow, deliberate motion, his white eyes narrowing. "Your emperor? You would lead intruders into my lands, conspire with those who desired my head and sought to kidnap my consort, and still dare to refer to me as such?"

"Tell me, Herald, has whatever this fallen has given you robbed you of your sanity, or are you still trying to insult me?"

Herald grasped at the fraying edges of his confidence. "There is still much to gain on both sides. You may have won this battle, but war is long, and alliances—"

"Ah," Arkanos interrupted, his voice filled with amusement. "The final refuge of the desperate. 'War is long.' 'Alliances can be made.'"

Another step forward.

"But tell me, Herald," he continued, his voice dropping just slightly, "what use is war when one side has already lost before the battle has even begun? Do you truly believe the beings you've sided with would pose a threat to me? Think well, you fool. Look into this darkness and ask yourself if they could rival even a fraction of its might."

Herald tried to answer. Truly, he did. But there was something about Arkanos' gaze that made forming coherent thoughts… difficult.

Arkanos let the silence drag, savoring it. Then, ever so slightly, he turned his head, regarding Vakemore with a passing glance.

"And you," he said, almost idly. "A great Necromancer, a master of undeath, a weaver of souls. Do you not have something poetic to say? Some grand invocation of dark wisdom? A curse to hiss before your inevitable demise?"

Vakemore, who had been very pointedly trying to make himself as unnoticeable as possible, tensed. He opened his mouth. Then, wisely, shut it again.

Arkanos chuckled. "Disappointing."

Another step.

And that was when Kamel, still kneeling, still struggling for air beneath the sheer gravity of what stood before him, realized something vital.

This was no longer a battle.

This was a sentencing.

And they were the condemned.

Kaela stirred in the palm of Arkanos' Sacred Eidolith.

The world had been a blur, a haze of distant voices and overwhelming pressure, but now—clarity.

She realized she had lost consciousness. Not from injury, nor exhaustion, but from the sheer magnitude of mana that had erupted into the ashen peaks.

It had flooded the surrounding area like an unrelenting tide, saturating the air, crushing weaker wills beneath its weight. And she, for all her strength as a member of nobility, had not been immune.

Yet, as she lifted her gaze, as her vision adjusted to the sight of the figure before her—

A colossal Sacred Eidolith.