Kingdom Building Game: Starting Out With A Million Upgrade Points! - Chapter 211

Chapter 211: Prophecy And Pale Wings Part Three
But Varian did not flinch. His hands remained calmly at his sides, his cloak shifting only slightly in the heated air around the angel’s wings.

He met Zair’El’s gaze—or rather, the darkness where eyes should be—with indifference.

“Only a fool accommodates his doubts because he fears the consequences of proper action. If insanity need be masked as normalcy in order to achieve comfort, then only an insane man would be comfortable doing so.”

A pause.

Then he leaned forward.

“And as I’m sure you can see, I am neither a fool nor out of touch with reality.”

Zair’El’s wings slowly lowered, folding back behind him. The tension in the air eased, though his expression remained cold.

“That plan required Arkanos to fall,” he said at last. “To be hated by his own people. Dethroned. Perhaps executed.”

He began to pace again, voice low, annoyed.

“With his corpse as our offering, my lord would have claimed the Sword of Divine Damnation, Li’Glria, and opened the sealed realm of the Spirits. You would have been led into the Hall of Ancients, and from within it, you would have been granted the crown.”

He stopped, gaze cutting toward Varian like a blade half-drawn.

“And with that, your precious transcendence would have been secured. But… as I’m sure even you’ve noticed, that future never came to pass.”

“And this is the alternative your lord provides?”

Zair’El tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness as his wings gave a faint twitch.

“Well…” he said, dragging the word out like silk through a blade’s edge. “There is an alternative.”

Varian turned halfway, just enough for the light to glint across his cheek and the steel in his gaze.

“And that is?”

Zair’El’s smile stretched, slow and sinister—a grin that held no warmth, only teeth.

“Rumor has it,” he said softly, “the emperor now has a son.”

He let the silence stretch before delivering the rest like a knife slid between ribs.

“I’m sure he will suffice.”

His back was still turned, but the air around him shifted. No longer the cold of corridors and shadowed halls, but something heavier. Like steel being drawn. Like judgment coalescing behind his spine.

His voice, when it came, was flat. Razor-thin.

“A child?”

Zair’El’s smile deepened, venom seeping into every syllable.

“An heir, yes. Illegitimate, perhaps. But such trivial things hardly matter to the dead.”

Varian turned slowly. His gaze burned, not with fury, but with something older. Something that did not flare, but smoldered. Controlled. Calculated.

“You would have me exchange a divine artifact for a butchered boy?” he asked. “You risk my patience, fallen.”

Zair’El shrugged, wings flexing in slow satisfaction.

“You asked for alternatives. I merely deliver what is available. The crown of the Spirit King demands sacrifice—the lineage of kings, the severance of legacy. It does not care whose blood it is… only that it is royal.”

He took a step closer, voice silken.

“And surely, Varian Akeria, the man who once buried his own brother to unite a shattered throne, knows the weight of necessary loss.”

For a moment, the torchlight seemed to dim. Varian’s expression didn’t shift, but the stillness that gripped the corridor felt like the breath before a blade.

“Where?”

Zair’El blinked. “Pardon?”

Varian’s eyes narrowed. “If this is the path you now offer, then do not play coy. Where is the child?”

Zair’El blinked slowly, savoring the gravity of the moment.

“Within the Bloodbane Empire, of course,” he said. “Tucked behind towers of obsidian. His name is Vael… though he has not yet been taught what he is.”

Varian’s eyes narrowed slightly. No twitch. No flare. But there was a stillness in him now, deep as midnight over a battlefield.

“He resides in the castle of Castrellon. The boy is well protected.”

Zair’El smiled—faint and cruel.

“But not invincible.”

A silence. Heavy.

Then Varian spoke, quiet and precise.

“Good. Then listen well, fallen.”

He turned fully to face him now, cloak fanning slightly in the faint, firelit breeze.

“If any of your kind, any of the fallen, so much as glance toward that child with ill intent… then know this: our pact is shattered.”

Zair’El tilted his head, genuinely surprised. His wings stirred with faint confusion.

“You mean to protect him?”

“I mean,” Varian said, voice low, “that I have buried one son. I will not conspire to bury another—not even one born of my enemy.”

His gaze burned now. But it was a cold burn, like the heat of a sword left too long in the forge.

“If you or your master dare test that line… I will no longer be your ally. I will be your reckoning.”

Zair’El stared, then gave a soft, incredulous laugh.

“Still you cling to your human sentiment… your morality. Your restraints.”

He paced again, wings furling behind him like an offended serpent.

“What is morality, Varian Akeria, but a rusted chain? One that slows your stride toward true power—toward destiny?”

“Call it what you will,” Varian said. “But some lines exist to give life a meaning beyond mere survival. That boy is one of them.”

Zair’El’s smile faded for a beat. Then it returned—tired and knowing, as though amused by the infinite foolishness of mankind.

“So be it then,” he said. “Let the boy live.”

He turned, the shadows seeming to cling to his back.

“We return to the original prize—the divine artifact. I expect you to make your move soon.”

Varian said nothing at first. His eyes flicked toward the far wall, where the torchlight shuddered like breath.

Then, calmly, he spoke.

“Good.”

He turned his back on the angel, footsteps echoing.

“We are done talking here.”

Zair’El began to fade, his form melting into the corridor’s shadow like spilled ink vanishing into velvet. His wings curled inward, folding around him as if the darkness welcomed him home.

But his voice lingered, low, lyrical, and laced with judgment.

“Remember this, Varian Akeria…

You are an emperor only while useful.

A mortal voice in a game played by higher tongues.”

The last gleam of his halo flickered once, then died.

“It would do you well to hold fast to that fact…

And not grow drunk on the illusion that we ever truly served you.”

Then he was gone.

And silence returned to the throne room.