CHAPTER 21: WILFRED CERB VANTIS

South of Runewood, Austerra Kingdom

The ancient gates of Runeterra Castle groaned open, casting long shadows across the stone roads as a caravan of carriages and armored soldiers approached.

The people of the kingdom paused in their daily affairs, stunned by the unfamiliar crest etched in gold on the foremost carriage — the imperial seal of the Wha-lah Empire.

It had been fifty long years since a messenger from the Emperor himself last graced Austerra with a visit. Traditionally, it was the obligation of provincial kings to pay homage at the imperial capital. A visit from the Emperor’s envoy — and unannounced at that — was not merely rare. It was ominous.

Inside the throne room, King Aurelus sat stiffly upon his blackwood throne, his fingers drumming against the armrest carved with phoenix wings and dragon talons. News had just reached him — an envoy had arrived at the gates with a hundred imperial soldiers in tow.

Aurelus’s brow furrowed deeply. His golden crown, inlaid with firestones, caught the torchlight as he turned to his right-hand man.

"Hammish," he said coldly, "are you certain we received no word of this?"

Hammish, the king’s current royal advisor and most trusted aide, stepped forward and bowed low. His silver robe brushed the marbled floor.

"I swear it upon my life, Your Majesty," he replied, his voice was firm but respectful. "Not a whisper nor a shadow of warning preceded this arrival. I have questioned our tower watchers, scouts, and postmasters — none have seen a single messenger bearing the imperial mark in over a decade."

King Aurelus’s gaze darkened. "So... they want to catch us off guard."

He reclined slightly, fingers curling into a fist on the arm of the throne. Something doesn’t sit right with him.

"Have the gifts been prepared?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Hammish replied. "We have assembled the finest tributes: rare crystals from the northern mines, fireleaf wine aged a century, and enchanted silks from the western shores of Khodian. The banquet, too, is ready at your command."

Aurelus gave a slow nod, though his jaw remained clenched. "Let them in," he said at last. "Let us see what surprises the capital has seen fit to send me today."

Outside the castle, the wind fluttered the flag of Austerra in jagged bursts, as if it too sensed something unnatural. The imperial envoy’s carriage came to a halt, its wheels crusted in golden dust from the highland roads. When the door swung open, a hush fell over the gathered crowd.

From the carriage emerged a fine-looking man draped in imperial robes of twilight blue and sun-gold. Flanking him were two mages — a stoic man with pale eyes that glowed faintly and a woman with hair like frost-kissed ash. All three of them breathes overwhelming power that no one around can deny.

Behind them stood a hundred imperial soldiers, their golden armor glinting beneath the afternoon sun, orichalcum blades strapped to their backs. The sheer pressure of their presence pressed down on the atmosphere like a brewing storm.

The citizens of Austerra could not help but gape. Even those seasoned in war shrank from their aura — a killing intent honed from battlefields far beyond these peaceful lands.

With one glance at their exposed Divine Frames, it was clear that not a single soldier among them ranked below Level Forty. Each man and woman had endured the fires of war and come out tempered like steel.

In contrast, the silver-armored soldiers of Austerra looked dulled and worn, their weapons practical but plain, their posture too relaxed. There was no mistaking the imbalance. If this were anything more than a diplomatic visit, Austerra would be overrun within a single day.

The envoy did not speak. He simply walked and glancing from here and there with a stare of nonchalance. His every step echoing across the stone courtyard, as if even the ground obeyed his arrival.

King Aurelus waited patiently on his throne with cold eyes.

As the throne room doors opened, his soldiers instinctively stood straighter. The air felt heavier — thicker with magic and political weight.

In walked the envoy, regal and terrible in his silence. Light from the high stained-glass windows broke across his form, making him seem half-angel, half-blade.

He looked like a man in his thirties, his face untouched by age. But there was something ancient behind those eyes, something coiled and waiting. The king’s own Divine Frame flared briefly to scan him — and what he saw made his stomach twist.

This envoy was no mere messenger.

The Wha-lah Empire was not just a confederation of kingdoms — it was a living juggernaut of military power, magical innovation, and divine authority.

At its heart stood Emperor Rhomeov III, known as the Sword Saint of the East, the man who once held the eastern pass alone for three days against an army of spectral beasts, trolls, orcs and goblins. His influence stretched across all the kingdoms united under the empire’s banner.

Geographically, east of Austerra lay the Kingdom of Maalah, governed by Queen Perla—sovereign of ice and frost—renowned for freezing an entire battlefield in crystallized snow during the Third Orc Invasion.

To the southeast, there was Phili Kingdom, under the command of King Sathornin, the Spear Ascendant — the man who slew a troll war clan with a single magical spear throw that shattered the sky.

To the west, Thugian Kingdom, led by the brilliant tactician and arcanist King Angelus, master of long-range destruction magic.

Across the southern territory, the Kingdom of Khodian watched the waves. Ruled by Charlus the Shield God, brother to King Angelus, Khodian excelled in marine warfare and oceanic trade. They often fought to protect their merchant fleets from the sea pirates that prowled near the Tou-oh Continent, a frozen land of myth and magic.

Further south still was Khankod Kingdom, the land of gentle hills and seismic wrath. Queen Rufang, a summoner of titanic beasts, commanded respect through her earth-shattering spells and the power of her legendary wand, said to have awakened the slumbering spirit of the continent itself.

And at the center of them all was the Wha-lah Capital — a city of towering spires and living enchantments, where floating market stalls drifted above marble streets and wyverns were seen perched like pigeons upon palace walls. It was here the Emperor lived and ruled, crafting decrees that reshaped continents.

Facing the southern lands is the shield of the empire called the Tabago Tower which served a greater purpose — defending civilization itself from what lurked to the south.

The Tabago Tower, the Empire’s mighty southern wall, stood like a spine of stone and steel, separating the heartlands from the chaos below. Towering over fifty meters high, with walls reaching thirty meters, it was the last line of defense against the Goblin Mountains and the cursed territory of Isogon, home to barbarians, bandits, and the most dangerous group known to exist: The Dark Fate.

But the goblins and trolls were not mere beasts of these mountains. Over the past centuries, they too had awakened to their Divine Frames, evolving with cunning, magic, and strategy.

They tunneled under the ground like ants, led by the Immortal Troll King, whose healing abilities made him virtually unkillable, and the Goblin Queen, whose cursed womb gave birth to a hundred new goblins each day — a never-ending swarm of goblin supply.

These creatures were not stupid. They had hierarchies, beast tamers, necromancers, and a growing arsenal of stolen or self-crafted spells much like humans.

What they lacked in refinement, they made up for with tenacity, numbers, and raw survival instinct. And so, the war at the southern border raged on — not in bursts, but as an eternal siege.

It was said that whichever kingdom contributed the most to pushing the enemy back would be awarded favor from the Emperor — land, artifacts, even the right to rule newly conquered territory.

It was the Wha-lah Empire’s unspoken promise — a reward for blood, sweat, and victory.

Back in the throne room, Wilfred, the Imperial Envoy stood tall before the king, his presence calm yet commanding. With a single swift glance at the visitor’s Divine Frame, King Aurelus’s eyes widened in disbelief, a flicker of dread flashing across his stern expression.

__________________________________________________________

Name: Wilfred Cerb Vantis

Level: 75

Title: Emperor’s Hand

Class: Moon Piercer (Ascended)

____________________________________________________________

The moment King Aurelus laid eyes on the envoy’s Divine Frame, a chill raced down his spine. His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard—a reflexive gulp that did little to ease the weight now pressing down on him.

He had visited the Wha-lah capital more times than he could count, stood in the presence of archmages, sword saints, and high-ranking nobles... yet never had he encountered this man.

’Who is this envoy?’’And just what kind of being is Emperor Rhomeov, to be able to forge a monster like this?’

Even without an aura flare or display of aggression, the envoy’s power was suffocating. Refined. Coiled like a storm held back by sheer discipline and experience.

Aurelus had always taken pride in his own strength—now at level 50, a height few in the empire ever reached, and fewer still could maintain. It had taken him decades, countless battles, and nearly all of Austerra’s resources to achieve it. Yet here, standing before him, was someone who made that hard-earned power feel... trivial.

’Should I return to the front lines again... to level up?’’Have I fallen that far behind?’

The thought was bitter, but it rang true.

As the envoy stepped forward and slowly unfurled a red parchment sealed with the Emperor’s personal insignia, all eyes shifted. The emblem of the chained dragon gleamed in his hand—a symbol no one dared ignore. At once, nobles, guards, and servants alike dropped to one knee in reverence.

All except King Aurelus.

He remained standing, jaw tight, spine rigid. His refusal to bow was not rooted in defiance alone—it was pride, yes, but also disbelief. He had served the Empire for more than fifty years. He had led armies, quelled rebellions, and sacrificed more than any man should. To him, submission was not yet earned.

The envoy, Wilfred, didn’t take offense. He merely smiled—calm, collected, and unreadable. After all, he knew that this King’s pride would be gone soon.

Aurelus gave a tight nod and forced a composed tone into his voice.

"Welcome to Austerra," he said. "I receive the Emperor’s envoy with honor. You must be weary from your long journey. Allow me to—"

Wilfred raised a hand, silencing him with a single, effortless motion. He shows no respect to me? Then have a taste of your own bitter wine.

"Please do not waste your courtesies on me, King Aurelus," he said, voice smooth as silk, yet sharp enough to cut. "I am not here to dine or rest. I come bearing only a message... from the Emperor himself."

With that, he broke the seal of the parchment and unrolled it fully. The scroll shimmered faintly, laced with divine magic, binding the words in truth. He began to read, voice resonant and steady:

"Imperial Decree of Judgment.By the Will of the Celestial Thrones, and under the Eternal Seal of the Emperor of the Wha-lah Empire, Emperor Rhomeov III...

.

Let it be known across all realms and beneath the heavens:

After years of careful examination of thousands of grievances submitted by the people, and upon review of evidence and testimony gathered from both mortal and divine witnesses, the following judgment is declared:

For the heinous massacre of no fewer than ten thousand innocent children, committed within the dominion of Austerra seven winters past—

King Aurelus, sovereign of said realm, is found guilty beyond pardon of crimes against life, light, and moral law."

A collective gasp swept through the throne room like a sudden gust of wind, stealing the breath from those present. A wave of mixed emotions surged beneath the gilded arches—shock, disbelief, and even a strange, unspoken relief.

Among the crowd, a few servants trembled, blinking back tears that shimmered with quiet joy. Behind lowered gazes, some nobles wore expressions of awe; others stared ahead, pale and disoriented. They had waited quite long for this moment of judgment. The wait had been long—but it was worth it.

One elderly courtier clutched his chest, trembling as though the weight of long-buried truths had finally broken free. Along the walls, soldiers stiffened, their hands hovering near their hilts—not to challenge the envoy, but out of sheer instinct, preparing for chaos they no longer knew how to contain.

"By decree of the Emperor, and in accordance with the sacred codes of justice:

King Aurelus shall endure ten thousand lashes from the Bone Dragon Whip, forged in the fires beneath the Throne of Judgment..."

The murmuring grew louder, tinged with disbelief and fear. No one spoke aloud of the tragedy from seven years ago—the vanishing of the kingdom’s third prince, the whispers of a brutal purge. But now it was clear: the Empire had not forgotten. It had simply been watching and preparing.

And Wilfred wasn’t finished.

"Thereafter, he shall be stripped of all royal privilege and cast into the front lines at Tabago Towers for the remainder of his natural life, where he shall serve as a common soldier, without title, honor, or protection.

His command of the Kingdom of Austerra is revoked, and shall be passed to his rightful heir, as deemed by blood and divine law. Let this sentence stand as both justice to the fallen and a warning to all sovereigns who dare place pride and power above the sanctity of the innocent.

Thus is it written. Thus shall it be. Signed and sealed by the Hand of the Emperor."

The scroll curled shut with a final snap.

What followed was a heavy silence hung in the air.

Then, with a low rumble, King Aurelus’s aura flared like a storm bursting through the seams of his body. Golden light erupted from him, bathing the room in violent radiance. The stained glass depicting the Red Phoenix shattered behind the throne, shards scattering across the floor like a thousand falling stars.

He was not going down without a fight.

"So that’s it?" he growled, stepping forward. His voice echoed through the chamber like thunder. "Fifty years of service erased because some sniveling commoners cried over their weak-blooded offspring?!"

A golden greatsword materialized in his hand with a hiss of energy, its surface glowing with runes older than the kingdom itself. His Divine Frame blazed with all the power of a battle-hardened king.

"I have always respected the empire, but you... you capital dogs look down on me that much?"

The soldiers lining the walls struggled to stay standing as his growing aura surged outward, shaking the very foundations of the throne room. The torches flickered violently. Outside, birds fled the sky.

Yet Wilfred, standing at the eye of the storm, remained unmoved.

With a slow lift of his hand, one of his storage ring in his finger flashed as he summoned a crimson dagger—smooth, deadly, and pulsing with raw execution. The warmth in his presence faded like a dying flame. What remained was a blade wearing a man’s face.

"So you’ve made your choice, King Aurelus..."

His eyes glinted, cold and unblinking.

And in the next moment, only a cloud of dust marked where he once stood—he had vanished. He reappeared instantly before the King, who met him with a fierce roar and a wide swing of his gleaming golden sword.

On that day, the Kingdom of Austerra was turned upside down—its foundations shaken, its future rewritten.