Chapter 87 – Eve of Convergence III
Chapter 87 – Eve of Convergence III
Chapter 87 – Eve of Convergence III
The soldier faced straight in fear and swallowed hard before speaking again, “The messengers… from King Azure.”
A heavy silence fell over the tent. The flickering lanterns seemed to dim under the weight of those words. The gathered nobles, strategists, and war-hardened generals exchanged wary glances, their expressions ranging from suspicion to barely restrained hostility.
“Bring them in,” King Dawnes commanded, his voice devoid of hesitation.
At this, a murmur of concern spread through the tent. One of the strategists, his brow deeply furrowed, leaned toward the kings. “Your Majesty… is it wise to grant them an audience here, in the heart of our command camp?”
King Hersery exhaled, his gaze locked onto the entrance of the tent. “You were the one asking what King Azure’s next move might be, were you not?” His lips curled slightly. “Now, we will know.”
Moments later, the tent’s heavy flap was pulled aside, allowing a gust of cold air to seep into the already tense space. The figures that stepped in did so without a sound, their presence unnerving in its stillness.
Three messengers clad in pitch-black garments moved with an eerie grace, their faces obscured save for their piercing, watchful eyes. Their tight robes, though unarmed at a glance, did little to reassure the assembled war council.
General Mong entered alongside them, his expression grim. A contingent of armed guards flanked the messengers, their grips firm on their spears, fingers tightening along the wooden shafts. The moment they stepped inside, the soldiers surrounding them instinctively tightened their grips, the sound of swords shifting in their scabbards a stark contrast to the messengers’ measured silence.
The three figures knelt in perfect unison, lowering their heads and placing one hand at their sides and the other on the ground in a gesture of respect. The figure in the centre reached into the folds of his robe with deliberate, measured movements. The moment his hand slipped inside, everyone in the tent grew tense and anxious, except for the Tri-Kings, who held their composure without so much as a flinch. Soldiers rushed to ready their spears, angling their points toward the three messengers, while General Mong stepped forward, pressing the edge of his sword close to the central figure’s neck. But when he finally withdrew his hand, revealing a scroll bound with a crimson ribbon and sealed with a golden wax emblem—the unmistakable sigil of King Azure—the air shifted. The tension eased, though no one lowered their weapons. Holding the scroll aloft with both hands, he presented it like an offering.
King Vio raised a hand, signalling the soldiers to stand down. The soldiers, and even General Mong, responded by lowering their weapons, but the tension in the tent did not ease. The air inside the tent grew thick with unspoken apprehension.
The layout of the tent was set: the kneeling messengers near the entrance; the soldiers and General Mong positioned behind them; the Tri-Kings standing on the far side of the war table; and the remaining members of the council watching warily from along its edges. Every gaze was fixed on the motionless figures.
A ripple of unease passed through the tent as the soldiers inside—battle-hardened yet suddenly unsettled—instinctively shifted their stances. The council members’ fear thickened the air, turning it heavy and tight. Even the most seasoned generals and strategists stiffened, their instincts warning them that these were no ordinary messengers.
Yet the messengers remained motionless, their bodies bowed, their posture unwavering.
King Hersery took a slow step forward, his expression unreadable.
A murmur of protest arose from the gathered men.
“Your Majesty, allow me to take the scroll instead,” General Mong suggested, his voice calm but firm. His stance shifted slightly, ready to intervene.
King Hersery did not even glance at him. With a slight shake of his head, he dismissed the offer. “There is no need,” he said, striding around the war table without hesitation until he stood before the messengers. The messengers did not move, still kneeling in unwavering respect.
Reaching out, King Hersery snatched the scroll from the lead messenger’s grasp. The kneeling figure merely bowed his head lower in response, his movements controlled, deliberate—unnervingly calm.
The room collectively held its breath as the king turned the scroll over in his hands, examining the seal.
With a flick of his fingers, he broke the wax and unravelled the ribbon.
Slowly, he unfurled the parchment. The soft rustling of the paper was the only sound in the tent.
Then, in a voice that echoed through the heavy silence, King Hersery began to read aloud.
To the esteemed rulers of the Eastern Region,
As the sun sets upon the blood-stained fields of our ancestors, so too does fate draw us toward an inevitable reckoning.
I had once planned to march my armies through your lands, tearing through one kingdom at a time and claiming dominion piece by piece.
But you have saved me the trouble.
And for that, I would like to extend my gratitude to you.
You have gathered the rest of the Eastern region onto a single battlefield.
What was once a long conquest is now a simple task—one swift stroke, and the entire Eastern Region shall kneel beneath me.
There will be no fractured thrones, no divided rule. Only one crown shall remain, and it will rest upon my head.
Your alliances are not forged from strength, but from fear.
Your unity is nothing but an illusion. I will show you the true meaning of unity.
You seek to defy fate, to carve your destiny with hope, but hope alone does not dictate the outcome of war.
The storm is already upon you. And tomorrow, as it sweeps across the Plains of Rohea, it will leave nothing but ruin in its wake.
Signed
King Azure
The Only True King of the Eastern Region
The final words lingered in the air like a funeral bell, their weight pressing down on the gathered council members and strategists. The war tent, moments ago filled with heated debate, now stood in deafening silence.
A chill ran through the room. The message was not a demand for surrender. It was not a negotiation. It was an execution order.
A ripple of unease spread through the room. Nervous glances were exchanged, some councilmen shifting uncomfortably, their hands clenching the edges of the table. A few muttered curses under their breath. Others, their faces shadowed with doubt, cast wary glances at the silent messengers still kneeling before them, their presence like phantoms in the dimly lit space.
King Hersery’s hands tightened around the parchment, his knuckles white as he lowered it. But something caught his eye—a second parchment, affixed to the back of the scroll. Without a word, he turned it over “There’s more.”
The gathered nobles and generals leaned in, anticipation coiling through them like a drawn bowstring.
King Hersery took a breath, then read aloud:
Rules of Engagement for the War of the Plains
At the hour when the first light graces the field and the shadows flee, so shall the battle begin.
The clash shall cease only when the sun surrenders to the horizon, and no pause shall be granted.
Neither plea for mercy nor offer of surrender shall be acknowledged; only death shall mark the end of combat.
Let no hand intrude when warriors of renown cross blades; their duel shall be sacred and unbroken.
He who bears no weapon yet stands in the war, shall be harmed.
The tent fell into an oppressive silence as the weight of the rules settled over the members of the tent. Many of them exchanged uneasy glances, the gravity of the final rule sinking in like a death knell. The silence that followed was suffocating. This was not just a battle. This was a war of annihilation.