Rafael stood tall before the massive mirror adorning the wall of his lavish chamber. His broad shoulders were cloaked in an outfit tailored to perfection, befitting his new title as crown prince. A sleek black suit with modern cuts hugged his frame, paired with a long crimson mantle that shimmered subtly under the golden light. The royal crest of Carlies, a gleaming gold emblem, adorned his chest, a symbol of the authority now officially his. Servants moved swiftly around him, adjusting the folds of his suit, slipping white gloves over his hands, and ensuring every detail was immaculate. Rafael, however, remained calm, unfazed by the flurry of activity. His gaze in the mirror reflected the bearing of a leader, though beneath his composed exterior lay a flicker of satisfaction he couldn’t entirely mask. It wasn’t just the restoration of his rightful title that pleased him—it was also the ruin of those who had once dismissed him. "Frederick," Rafael murmured softly, his voice laced

The title Duke of Darkness did not come from a royal ceremony or empty praise, but from the blood-soaked land in the northern borders, the place where Rafael learned to live, die, and kill. At that time he was only fifteen years old, but King Tremos threw him there without hesitation.“If you want to be recognized as my blood, prove it at the border,” his father had said. There was no affection. There was no explanation. Only a cold command that could not be disobeyed at all.Rafael went, not because he obeyed, but because he knew it was the only way to survive in a palace that hated him, also as proof that he still had noble blood.He spent the next fifteen years in a way no child was ever prepared for. He chose to break through barbarian hordes until his hands felt numb, splitting open monster skulls while laughing softly, and staring into the eyes of enemy soldiers until they froze in terror. He even often looked at a sea of corpses when war broke out. Those wounds shaped him, crea

Caesar stopped behind Rafael, understanding. He stood still, only watching how Rafael vented that power.The first roar broke out. One of the monsters leaped, the ground splitting under its impact. Then Rafael began to move. Not hurried. Not hesitant.His sword was drawn in a single breath. A blackish-red light crawled along the blade, seeping like ink into steel. As the monster nearly touched him, Rafael twisted his wrist with a small, almost lazy motion.Slash.The creature’s head separated from its body before it could scream. Black blood sprayed, warm, splashing onto Rafael’s arm. The headless body collapsed with a wet sound.Seeing one of their kind killed, the others attacked at once. Rafael stepped forward. The sword that had become his legend seemed to dance beautifully, not wildly or brutally annihilating the monsters. Yet every swing struck its mark. Every slash severed tendons, joints, or spines. The second monster was split from shoulder to waist. Next, the third lost its