The Supreme World Conqueror

Chapter 40: The Serpent's End

The inner keep of Emberstone Fortress was a monument to Tidor's dark ambition. The walls were lined not with tapestries, but with the preserved, obsidian-like scales of colossal Basilisks. The air, though no longer thick with smoke, still smelled of sulfur and fear. Don, at the head of his hardened inner circle, fought his way through the last desperate defenders, their loyalty to the serpent absolute even in defeat.

Medrin and Dvrik, their armor scarred but their faces grim with resolve, cleared the final hallway, leaving a trail of broken guards. Leinara, a silent blur of motion, secured the flanks. Don, his blade pulsing with the quiet fury of the Black Flame, walked with a single-minded focus toward the throne room doors. Beside him, **Caria** moved with a warrior's grace, her emerald eyes fixed on the inevitable end.

They threw open the heavy, basalt doors.

The throne room was a cavernous space, carved directly from the volcanic rock. Molten rivers flowed through channels in the floor, casting a hellish, orange light on the walls. At the center, on a throne of jagged obsidian, sat Earl Ekarvel Tidor. He was alone, his gaunt face a mask of primal fury, his skin pale and stretched tight over his skull. He was a man who had staked his entire existence on power, and he had lost everything.

"You," Tidor rasped, his voice raw with hatred. "You arrogant boy. You dare to enter my domain? I built this empire on the bones of those weaker than I! I made a pact with a power that could have swallowed your pitiful flame whole!"

"Your pact was with a tormentor, not a master," Don countered, his voice steady. He gestured to the emptiness where the Pale Wraith had been. "You bound a screaming soul to your will. You wielded despair, not power. And despair has no teeth against a unified will."

Tidor cackled, a dry, rattling sound. "You think that was its true form? The creature you shattered was merely a shard, a conduit! The Pale Wraith is not a soul to be bound, boy. It is a force of pure entropy, an essence drawn from the heart of the void, and I am its anchor! It is bound to this fortress, to my blood, to my will! As long as I live, its shadow will devour you from within!"

As he spoke, the very air in the throne room grew cold. The molten rivers seemed to dim, and the shadows deepened, reaching for Don and his companions. Tidor's body began to shimmer, his eyes turning to pools of black, abyssal darkness. He was not just a man anymore; he was the living heart of the Wraith.

"I will not be defeated by a boy and his whores!" Tidor screamed, launching himself from the throne, his movements a blur of inhuman speed.

The duel was swift and brutal. Tidor moved with a preternatural speed, his blade a terrifying extension of the Wraith's power, a killing blow aimed for Don's throat. But Don met him with the honed precision of the Black Flame. He parried, his blade meeting Tidor's with a shriek of clashing metal, the air crackling with colliding magical forces.

Tidor's strength was immense, fueled by the abyss, but his movements were manic and chaotic, a desperate thrashing of a man who had lost his core. Don's moves, in contrast, were fluid and purposeful, a dance of absolute control. He allowed the Wraith's despair to wash over him, but his will, forged in the furnace of his union with Caria, did not bend.

Tidor struck with a blinding speed, his blade aiming for a gap in Don's guard. But Don was ready. He moved with a flash of supernatural speed, sidestepping the blow and bringing his own blade around in a powerful, clean arc. The Black Flame roared, its power focused into a singular, devastating strike.

He drove his blade straight through Tidor's heart.

Ekarvel Tidor's eyes widened in shock, the black abyssal pools fading back to a horrified, all-too-human blue. "The Wraith… it dies with me…" he whispered, a final realization of his ultimate failure.

The cold that had permeated the room vanished. The air returned to normal. Tidor's body went limp, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. The siege was over. The serpent was dead.

The doors to the throne room burst open, and the cheers of the unified Helimdor army echoed through the keep. Don stood over the body of his defeated foe, his armor marked but unbroken, the Black Flame a quiet, victorious hum in his soul.

He turned to his companions. Caria was there, her face a mix of pride and fierce adoration. Medrin and Dvrik clapped him on the shoulder, their respect a palpable force. Leinara stood with a knowing smile, her work as spymaster having paid off.

Don walked to the obsidian throne, his steps echoing in the vast, silent hall. He ran a hand over its jagged surface, a symbol of Tidor's failed ambition. He looked out at the keep, his new dominion, and knew that Helimdor was his. The lords of the south, by blood or by battle, were now bound to him.

He turned back to his inner court, his face alight with a new, terrifying purpose. He had achieved his consolidation. He had conquered the south.

"Send a raven to Erydon," he commanded, his voice clear and resonant, carrying the weight of a new era. "Inform the Crown that the civil war in the south is over. The lands of House Tidor are now under the dominion of House Adraels. The south is unified. There will be no more Earldoms. There will be only one ruling title."

His eyes, burning with a victorious, absolute power, met Caria's.

"I am the Archduke of Helimdor," he declared, his voice a promise of the storm to come.

The Arc of Helimdor's Conquest was complete. The Archduke had risen, and the Crown would soon have to answer for its king.