Last Ruler Of The Empty Throne-Chapter 163: Fated encounter

The night was a shroud of inky darkness, broken only by the faint silver glow of the moon casting ripples across the restless sea. A sleek vessel sliced through the waves, its hull groaning softly under the strain of its speed.

On the horizon, a distant blur approached with terrifying velocity, a shadow moving faster than any natural creature should. The wind howled as the figure closed the distance, a faint whoosh cutting through the air like a blade.

With a single, graceful leap, the figure landed on the deck of the vessel, cloak billowing like a storm cloud. The wood creaked beneath their weight, but they moved with the lightness of a specter, barely disturbing the surface. A person froze at the sight of the intruder and bellowed. "Who—"

The word died in his throat.

A flash of steel, a blur of motion, and his head rolled across the deck, blood pooling beneath the moonlight. The other ten evolvers barely had time to react. The figure moved like a phantom, their blade an extension of their will, striking with surgical precision. One by one, bodies fell, cold, lifeless, and unyielding, strewn across the deck like discarded marionettes. The figure didn’t pause to mourn or gloat. Time was a luxury they didn’t have.

Navigating the vessel’s labyrinthine corridors with the ease of someone who’d memorized its layout, the figure reached a massive, reinforced door, a prison cell forged from dark metal.

Inside, two figures lay slumped on the cold stone floor, their bodies battered and bloodied, bound by chains.

The figure’s heart pounded, not from exertion but from the weight of the moment. The mission was to rescue these two prisoners. But doubt gnawed at their resolve. From the moment they’d set foot on this cursed ship, they’d known the odds of survival were slim. Now, standing before the unguarded prison, those odds plummeted further.

No guards. Not even a sign of anyone being there. It was too easy.

’A trap?’ The figure’s instincts screamed danger, but there was no turning back. They reached beneath their cloak, fingers brushing against a small, humming device etched with glowing sigils. With a soft click, the device activated, and the figure’s body shimmered, phasing through the prison door as if it were mist.

Inside, the air was thick with the stench of blood. The two prisoners stirred weakly, their breaths shallow but stubborn, clinging to life.

The figure knelt, cutting through the chains with a blade that hummed with faint energy. They hoisted the prisoners over their shoulders, their own strength strained but unwavering.

As they phased back through the door, the figure froze mid-step.

A cold, invasive sensation swept through their body; no, it was a presence, like an invisible eye piercing their soul.

’He knows.’ The thought was a blade to their heart. Without hesitation, they blurred into motion, sprinting toward the edge of the vessel with unnatural speed. The prisoners’ weight slowed them, but adrenaline and fear propelled them forward.

With a final leap, they plunged into the night, vanishing beneath the waves under the watchful gaze of the moon, while thanking their homeland for letting them live another day.

They didn’t see the faint smile on the face of the one who’d let them go.

...

Hours later, exhaustion clawed at the figure’s limbs as they stumbled into a clearing deep within a dense and large forest. Nestled in the shadows was a lone house, its weathered stone walls blending seamlessly with the gnarled trees around it.

It was strange how a lone house like this could still survive after everything the world had been through.

The figure pushed open the door and staggered inside, dropping the two prisoners onto the wooden floor with a heavy thud. They collapsed beside them, chest heaving, gasping for air.

The mission had been a gamble, a dance with death, and the weight of it pressed down like a physical force. Their cloak fell back, revealing a face etched with both resolve and terror. Akon, the last surviving shaman of his people, his dark eyes haunted by the massacre that had claimed his kin.

The mission had been tense. Too tense.

"What happened?" a voice called out, sharp with concern. A woman with silver-streaked hair knelt beside the prisoners, her hands glowing faintly as she assessed their wounds. Other figures emerged from the shadows of the room, their faces a mix of shock and curiosity.

Lo and behold, these were the lords who still hadn’t given up on trampling over Jon, and currently, they were evolvers of the second realm, their presence radiating power that tinged the air.

Akon pulled himself upright, his voice hoarse. "He’s a bigger monster than we thought." His gaze drifted to the ceiling, as if expecting the enemy to materialize from the shadows. The lords exchanged uneasy glances. They’d known their adversary was formidable, but Akon’s words carried a weight that forced them to reassess their assumptions.

"Get a hold of yourself, Tomen," barked a man with a jagged scar across his cheek, his voice cutting through the tension.

"Huh?" Tomen jerked and looked at the faces around him in shock. He totally hadn’t expected to be here.

"Shit..." He quickly snapped his head around, eyes wide with lingering fear. "Is he here?" he asked, scanning the room frantically, his hands trembling.

The others instinctively checked their surroundings, their senses heightened. The room fell silent, save for the crackle of the fire in the hearth.

Satisfied that no immediate threat loomed, they turned their attention back to Tomen. His fear was palpable, a stark contrast to the unshakable resolve he’d shown before the mission.

What had he seen to reduce him to this?

As Tomen regained his composure, the lords tended to the prisoners. One was the Perspia prince, his royal garments torn and bloodstained, but his regal bearing unmistakable.

After ensuring that nothing like that would happen, Tomen was healed to some extent and began stuffing his mouth with food.

Everyone watched him with mixed emotions.

"Guys," He finally spoke up, "I-I think we should give up."

Akon and the lords frowned.

They knew it was bad, but it shouldn’t be that bad, right?

"Why?" The beauty lord asked.

Then he began to reiterate the story.

He only told about the Gordon’s Bay war. How they had arrived only to meet a war, fought countless sea creatures, he killed his subordinates, and before things could go his way, Jenny summoned Jon.

The beauty lord, her eyes sharp as cut glass, leaned forward. "Summoned? You mean she teleported him, or was it an illusion?"

Tomen shook his head, struggling to articulate the horror. "She created him. Molded him from nothing, like a sculptor shaping clay. It was a construct, but it had his will, his emotions, his strength. It was Jon, in every way that mattered."

The room fell silent, the weight of his words sinking in.

A construct with the full power of their enemy? It was a broken ability, one that defied reason. Tomen continued, describing how Jenny had collapsed after the summoning, leaving Jon to end the war single-handedly. "And then... he woke up. He looked at me, and I felt it, his mind piercing mine, reading my thoughts like an open book."

The poison lord’s face crumpled. "He can read minds? As if his strength wasn’t enough?"

"Apparently, that’s his main skill, mind ability," Tomen said, his voice barely above a whisper. "He caught me, interrogated me. And then... he shared a skill with me." He paused, letting the impossibility of it hang in the air. "I still have it."

Akon’s eyes widened, his voice rising. "He shared a skill? And you still have it?"

Tomen nodded, pointing to the Perspia prince. "Then his sister arrived with an army to save him. Jon destroyed them. All of them."

A heavy silence settled over the room. The Blade lord spoke after a while. "We can’t give up."

Heads turned to him, some skeptical, others desperate for hope. "We’ll face him eventually," he continued. "It’s inevitable. But from what you’ve said, he hasn’t reached the second realm yet."

"Right, his requirements haven’t been fulfilled."

The beauty lord nodded thoughtfully. "He’s powerful, but not invincible. Not yet."

"So, what do we do?" Tomen asked, his fear giving way to determination.

"Ally with others who share our cause," the Blade lord said, his gaze settling on the Perspia prince. "And get stronger."

The prince. If he hated Jon as much as they did, he would be a powerful ally. Together, they could unite others, forge a coalition, and pursue their shared goal: the death of Jon.

...

On the vessel, now eerily quiet save for the lapping of waves, a meeting of leaders convened in a dimly lit cabin. Shalia, the fourth princess of Perspia, was mid-sentence when Jon interrupted, his voice casual but laced with menace. "Your brother just escaped."

Shalia blinked, dumbfounded. "What?"

"Someone snuck in and took him," Cynthia said, her brow furrowing.

Jon nodded, "Yes."

Alexa, ever the warrior, stood ready to investigate. "You let them go?"

Jon’s smile widened, but his eyes were cold.

He’d read Tomen’s memories, seen the lords’ schemes, and today he had glimpsed something unexpected:

A shaman.

The last survivor of a people he’d sworn to destroy.

And why didn’t he kill him? It was simple. Since that was the only surviving shaman, he was the only one who could open the gate to their homeland.

He still hadn’t forgotten his revenge.

"Just leave it. Bury the bodies and record their names in case we later find their parents to compensate them," He waved his hand to everyone’s shock. They had thought he would rage out of control, but he kept his calm.

"Continue." He gestured to Shalia.

"Huh? Y-Yes."