Kingdom Building Game: Starting Out With A Million Upgrade Points! - Chapter 202

Chapter 202: The Last Stand of House DeLambre Part Five
Arkanos’s voice lingered in the air like smoke over a battlefield—sharp, acrid, and unforgettable. The word “retreat” tasted of bile on his tongue, a concept so foreign it was nearly profane. He paced forward, each step slow, deliberate, resonating through the stone as if the earth itself dared not breathe too loudly.

Yoanas stood frozen, the weight of his son’s death crushing his breath, his composure, his very soul. The gleam of his silver-blue armor, once proud and defiant, now reflected a cruel truth—no metal could guard against the grief etched into a father’s heart.

Arkanos studied him, not as a warrior gauging a foe, but as a man standing before a mirror that revealed something he did not wish to see.

A father.

A legacy.

A son, now dead by his own hand.

The emperor’s grip on his holy sword loosened—just slightly. The divine light pulsing along its length dimmed to a gentle flicker, as though the weapon, too, paused to reflect.

For the briefest of moments, Arkanos was no longer the conqueror, no longer the butcher of empires. He was simply a man, standing in the ashes of someone else’s hope. Someone else’s dream. Someone else’s child.

And yet… wasn’t that what power required?

He met Yoanas’s gaze, and for a single heartbeat, the battlefield disappeared.

Two men. Two fathers. One holding the sword, the other left only with silence and sorrow.

Arkanos breathed in deeply, the scent of blood and fire clinging to his lungs.

“Understand this, Wolf of the Vale… This is not simply a war of banners. Not just a game of houses. This is annihilation… and I have long since abandoned the luxury of mercy.”

Yoanas didn’t answer. His fingers flexed around the hilt of his broadsword, trembling—not from fear, but from the storm building behind his eyes.

A tempest not born of vengeance alone, but of failure.

Yoanas lowered his gaze, just for a moment—not in submission, but in mourning. The glint of unshed tears caught the firelight, but none fell. When he looked up again, his eyes had changed. The grief remained, but it had crystallized into something sharper—resolve.

“I swear on my name. On the blood of my son. On the honor of my house. I will take your head, Arkanos. If it costs me my last breath, my last drop of strength—I will end you.”

There was no roar, no bravado. Just truth. A promise etched in pain and sealed with the weight of lineage.

For a moment, silence reigned. Then came the slow, steady sound of boots on stone—Arkanos, closing the distance between them, one heavy step at a time.

He stopped just a sword’s length away, the divine blade now fully dimmed, resting at his side.

“Then go ahead,” Arkanos said quietly, almost kindly. “Try.”

Yoanas’s voice tore through the smoke and ruin like a beast loosed from chains—raw, guttural, unrelenting.

“CUT DOWN THE BLOODBANE SCOURGE! LEAVE NONE STANDING!”

Yoanas’s roar still echoed across the courtyard, a primal challenge that stirred the blood of every Akerian defender.

His silver-blue armor gleamed under the flickering torchlight, the golden sunburst on his chest a defiant beacon amidst the smoke and ruin.

The Bloodbane knights stood, their black-and-crimson ranks faltering for a heartbeat as the Wolf of the Vale advanced, his broadsword raised like a judgment from the heavens.

Behind him, his reinforcements formed a steel wall, their spears and shields locking into a phalanx that surged forward.

Arkanos stood unmoved, his holy sword still dripping with Alaric’s blood. The divine runes along its blade pulsed faintly, as if savoring the kill.

His emerald eyes locked onto Yoanas, assessing the man not as a grieving father but as an obstacle to his empire’s ambition.

The emperor’s cloak snapped in the wind, the dragon crest a stark contrast to the burning banners littering the courtyard.

“Form the wedge!” Yoanas bellowed, his voice cutting through the din like a warhorn. His soldiers obeyed, their formation tightening into a spearhead aimed at the heart of the Bloodbane line. Archers on the manor’s inner walls loosed volleys, their arrows finding gaps in the Bloodbane shields, while mages in sapphire robes chanted from the keep, their wards flaring to hold back the enemy’s advance.

Then, in a motion that stilled the battlefield, he sheathed his sword with a clink, the divine runes along its blade fading to a dim glow.

He placed one foot forward, one back, and leaned slightly, his posture almost casual, as if inviting the Akerian charge.

His emerald eyes glinted with deadly intent, the air around him heavy with menace.

The Akerian knights faltered, their charge slowing as they exchanged wary glances.

“What’s he doing?” one muttered, gripping his spear.

“Standing like a fool!” another hissed, his shield raised. Yoanas’s eyes narrowed, his voice a guttural snarl.

“He’s mocking us! Looking down on House DeLambre!”

His broadsword trembled in his grip, rage and grief intertwining. “I’ll end you, Arkanos—your head will roll before this day is done!”

Bloodbane warriors, too, hesitated, their ranks rippling with unease.

A few knights, loyal to their emperor, spurred forward, their blades drawn to protect him, fearing some unseen affliction or trap.

“My lord!” one shouted, his horse rearing as he neared.

Seraphine, from the left flank, paused her assault, her mind racing. Her blue aura flared as she scanned the scene, sensing a shift.

“Hold your positions!” she barked, her voice sharp, her knights freezing mid-charge. Utilia, atop the keep’s balcony, smashed another mage aside but glanced down, her fierce grin fading to curiosity. “What’s this majesty playing at?” she muttered.

Arkanos exhaled, his breath visible like steam in the chill air, curling upward in the torchlight.

The Akerian phalanx was mere strides away, their spears leveled, their war cries rising.

Yoanas led them, his silver-blue armor streaked with blood, his broadsword raised for a killing blow.

The emperor’s eyes were closed, his face serene, as if the chaos around him was a distant dream.

Then, in an instant, his eyes snapped open, emerald fire blazing.

“Holy Slash!”

In that instant, his hand moved faster than sight, drawing his holy sword in a single, fluid motion. A golden beam of energy erupted from the blade, a radiant crescent that tore through the air with divine wrath.

The beam sliced through the charging Akerian knights, cutting them in half at the waist with precision. Armor, flesh, and bone parted effortlessly, blood spraying in arcs as screams of agony filled the courtyard, drowning out the clash of steel.