[Chapter 321. The Throne’s Secret]

The Gatura King slumped to his knees. His massive frame shuddered with each ragged breath escaping his lips. He leaned against his battle axe, the weapon's shaft groaning under the strain of supporting his bulk. Dark blood ran down his patchwork armor in thick rivulets, dripping onto the marble floor and pooling around his kneeling form. The coppery tang filled the air, mixing with the damp chill of the encroaching fog.

He lifted his head, the muscles in his thick neck straining, and spoke in the same guttural language the Elites had used—harsh, percussive syllables meaning nothing to Iris yet conveying his defiance. Though his body was failing, his single good eye burned with an unnerving intensity, a primal fire refusing to be extinguished. In that gaze, Iris saw not surrender, but the promise of one final, desperate act of resistance.

The Shadow Hound, having emerged from the darkness to tackle his back, materialized again in the shifting mist. With a howl that seemed to tear at the very fabric of the hall, the hound launched itself at the King's exposed spine. The King pushed himself off the ground with a surge of strength, swinging his massive arm in a wide arc to swat the nimble creature. His claws missed their mark, but the hound's attack proved devastating. Its sharp talons raked deep grooves into the King's armor, screeching against metal as they tore through the crude plating.

For a heartbeat, Iris considered ending the fight while the King remained vulnerable and off-balance, her Zweihänder raised for a final, decisive strike. Yet before she could bring her blade down, the King moved with startling agility.

His axe tore free from the marble floor with a grinding screech, setting Iris's teeth on edge. The weapon began to glow with the same ominous yellow-green energy as the shields and halberds had before—the light pulsing like a dying star. Instead of directing this power at Iris or her shadowy companion, the King slammed the weapon back into the cracked marble floor.

As Iris's Zweihänder arced through the air, the ground around the axe split open along jagged fault lines before exploding into chunks that flew in a shower of stone and dust. A thick cloud of debris filled the space where the Gatura King had been kneeling, turning the air opaque and choking. Iris brought her blade down into the swirling dust but struck only stone. The impact sent vibrations up her arms; the King had vanished from sight.

Her ears swiveled, catching the faint scrape of metal against stone and the heavy, uneven footfalls of a massive creature moving deeper into the chamber. Pulling her Zweihänder free from the cracked marble with a sharp, grinding sound, she turned toward the throne.

There he was. The Gatura King's imposing silhouette framed by the flickering turquoise light of the remaining pillars. He ascended the stone steps with staggering agility for one so grievously wounded, each movement laden with purpose. Instead of reclaiming his seat, the King plunged his armored hand into the top of the throne's backrest, his fingers curling around an ornamental design crowning it—a twisted sculpture of interlocking metal and weathered stone.

With a guttural cry that resonated through the hall like the death throes of some ancient beast, the throne—once a symbol of authority crafted from stone and iron—began to splinter and break. The air filled with the sharp crack of fracturing wood and the deep groan of stone under immense pressure. With another savage jerk, the throne shattered as something enormous tore from its very structure, the sound echoing like thunder in the confined space.

Iris stopped mid-charge, her boots skidding on the marble as she stared at what now stood in the King's other hand. It was a blade dwarfing even her own formidable Zweihänder in both length and width—a truly colossal greatsword forged from dark, weathered stone and pitted iron. Its surface was etched with crude runes that seemed to writhe in the light of the turquoise stones.

The weapon radiated an aura of primal power, making the air around it shimmer with heat. In a motion defying his apparent injuries, the King brought the colossal blade up before him, his single eye burning with renewed fury. He spoke in his harsh, percussive tongue, the words seeming to carve themselves into the air itself. As if in response, the crude carvings adorning the sword erupted with a deep, ominous glow—the colors of fire and blood, shifting between deep oranges and violent reds. The energy pulsed along the weapon's length like trapped magma, casting dancing shadows across the King's scarred features.

He turned toward Iris, his movements predatory. Hefting both his battle axe and the newly acquired sword—a dual-wielding display of overwhelming strength—the King took a single step, sending tremors through the cracked marble beneath his feet.

Then, with a powerful leap that seemed to defy gravity, he closed half the distance between them in a heartbeat, his massive form blotting out the turquoise light as he descended. He plunged the newly acquired sword into the ground. The impact triggered a thunderous explosion that ripped through the chamber. Fire and stone flew from the point of contact in a deadly maelstrom, the orange-red glow of the runes intensifying to a blinding brightness.

Iris reacted with instinct born of countless battles, bringing the flat of her Zweihänder up to block the incoming shrapnel. The first wave of glowing rocks exploded against her blade with the force of cannon fire, each impact sending painful vibrations up her arms. The sheer kinetic force of the blast sent her tumbling backward several steps, her armored boots scraping against the marble as she fought to maintain her footing amidst the chaos of flying debris and choking dust.

Before she could recover, the King sprang into motion, his massive form moving with an eerie grace. He charged, each heavy footfall sending tremors through the cracked marble. A trail of his dark, viscous blood marked his path like a grim banner.

The Shadow Hound, ever loyal to its creator, lunged from a nearby shadow with a primal snarl, its dark form streaking through the dim light like a vengeful spirit. The King turned his head mid-sprint with terrifying swiftness, shifted his center of gravity in a display of tactical brilliance, and spun with immense momentum.

Both the axe and the newly acquired sword slashed out in a deadly arc of coordinated destruction. The glowing orange-red blade struck the hound with devastating force. The impact detonated in a massive fireball of orange and crimson flames, blinding Iris with its intensity. As the smoke and dust settled, the hound was nowhere to be seen, its essence scattered like leaves in a storm.

Iris felt the loss of the hound not just as phantom pain deep in her chest—a sharp, stabbing ache that made her breath catch—but as a profound feeling of emptiness transcending mere physical sensation. She knew a creature born from shadow could not be truly killed, that it was simply vanquished for the moment, dispersed back into the darkness from which it came. Yet that cold logic brought no comfort for the loss she felt—a hollow ache where the connection to her summoned companion had severed.

Her silver eyes narrowed as the Gatura King came to a halt. His heavy axe ground through the stone floor in a half circle behind him, the sound akin to nails on a chalkboard amplified to torture.

Before he completed the motion, the Gatura pushed off toward Iris with staggering speed. The muscles in his legs bunched beneath the crude armor, covering the distance in mere heartbeats. She brought her sword up, the turquoise energy pulsing along its length like a captured heartbeat, ready to dodge and counter the attack.

The first strike was with his axe—a wide horizontal swing that would have cleaved her in two had she not moved. But it missed her despite her minimal movement, the blade whistling past her side with enough force to ruffle her dark fur.

The next attack was executed with the massive blade he now carried. This one was not a wide swing, but a downward slash aimed at the floor between them rather than at her directly. Iris tilted her head in confusion. The king stood too far to strike her, even with the advantage of the blade's extraordinary reach; at least two meters of empty space lay between the weapon's downward arc and her position.

Something was wrong.

Operating on instinct, she brought up her Mystic Ward between herself and the Gatura, a shimmering barrier of energy materializing in the air. A moment later, numerous impacts peppered the barrier with a percussive force.

Stones struck the Ward with enough force to pulverize on impact, each explosion of rock sending miniature shockwaves through her defensive magic. All she could see was a cloud of dust and the glowing shape of the sword within it, the orange-red runes pulsing with energy as they tore through the stone.