The chamber was silent.
No words.
No movement.
Just the weight of tension between Hakan and Rhalvion.
The air between them felt thick—coiled like a spring waiting to snap.
Hakan's golden eyes narrowed, sharp and unreadable.
"Tell me, Rhalvion…" he said slowly. "Just who are you?"
Rhalvion immediately dropped to one knee, his head bowed low.
"My liege, I am your servant. Your blade, should you command it."
"That's not what I mean," Hakan replied, his voice quiet—but heavy.
He stepped forward, standing over Rhalvion.
"I've Trusted you. But you know things no one else should. Things not even dragons speak of anymore. So I'll ask again—what are you?"
Rhalvion looked up, pain flickering in his eyes.
But before he could answer—
Reality cracked.
The floor trembled. The walls groaned as if the stone itself feared what was coming.
A pressure descended upon the hall—immense, suffocating. It was more than just power. It was presence. A will so ancient and absolute it made the very air feel like it was screaming.
And then—
A vortex tore open above the chamber, spiraling with blinding golden light laced with threads of shadow. The air warped. The temperature dropped. And from the heart of the rift…
He descended.
The figure was draconic, yet wrapped in the shape of something more. Scales of starlit obsidian shimmered faintly beneath celestial armor. His eyes glowed with the weight of time itself—cold, ancient, unreadable.
The First Dragon Monarch.
Azharel.
The name echoed in Hakan's mind like a curse.
The being he had once stood before in the Astralis Rift.
The being who had rejected him without explanation.
The one whose existence made even the strongest dragons bow.
And now he stood here.
In front of him.
Not as a statue.
Not as memory.
But as a god returned.
Hakan's fists clenched unconsciously, and Rhalvion, still kneeling, lowered his head even further.
The hall—so grand and vast just moments ago—now felt like a prison cell.
And the warden had arrived.
Hakan's eyes locked onto the vortex-born figure, unwavering even as every instinct in his body screamed caution.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, voice low, sharp.
Azharel said nothing at first—just stared, timeless and unreadable. Then, without looking away, he spoke calmly:
"Rhalvion. Leave us."
And just like that—Rhalvion was gone. No light, no sound. No exit.
One blink, and he simply ceased to exist within the space.
Hakan tensed.
"What…?" he muttered, scanning the now-empty chamber. He could still feel a residue of Rhalvion's energy—but it was fading fast, like smoke in the wind. Where the hell did he go? he thought.
But he didn't dwell on it.
Because the presence in front of him—the weight of it—was too massive to ignore.
He dropped into a defensive stance, fists clenched, golden aura curling around his forearms like flame.
"What do you want now?" Hakan demanded, his voice edged with fury. His body was ready. His soul, maybe not.
Azharel looked down at him—calm, cold, with just the slightest flicker of curiosity in those ageless eyes.
"There is no need to be frightened, human," he said. And then, with the ghost of a smile, added, "Or should I say… Hakan. The Dragon Monarch."
Hakan scoffed, but his grin was anything but amused.
"That's rich," he muttered. "Coming from the one who rejected me without a word."
Azharel exhaled. A slow, theatrical sigh.
"Ah, humans. So fragile in body. So loud in pride."
And then—light exploded across the chamber.
The murals shimmered, the ancient stonework pulsed with energy, and for a brief moment, the entire hall felt weightless—suspended in eternity.
When the radiance faded, Azharel stood transformed.
Humanoid.
Golden hair cascading past his shoulders. Eyes like searing suns locked behind frost. His form was sleek—refined—but power still radiated off him in waves. No horns. No wings. He looked more human than dragon.
But his skin shimmered faintly with celestial scales, and his presence alone made Hakan feel like he was standing before the edge of the universe.
A predator in human skin.
"Hakan," Azharel said again—closer now.
He stepped forward, slow but certain, his bare feet barely touching the marble floor. The weight of his presence crushed the air around them.
"Do you want the truth?" His voice dropped—low, almost gentle.
Face to face now. The gap between them was only inches, but it felt like galaxies.
Hakan's muscles tensed. Sweat rolled down his brow.
His voice was strained—but steady.
"Yeah… I want the truth."
Azharel tilted his head ever so slightly, as if studying an anomaly that shouldn't exist.
"Then prepare yourself," he said, his voice like thunder wrapped in silk. "Because the truth does not care if it breaks you."
The hall dimmed.
Not by shadow — but by removal. The walls, the floor, the ceiling — they didn't vanish. They ceased to be. One moment, Hakan stood in the chamber. The next, he was in the heart of something vast, ancient, and forgotten by time itself.
Azharel stood beside him, unchanged.
"Open your eyes," the former Dragon Monarch said, his voice now a low tremor against the weight of the universe. "And witness the truth."
The space around them warped — and then ignited.
A sky the size of eternity bled with colorless flame. In its midst, a battle raged that defied sense.
Titans clashed — beings larger than mountains, older than stars. Wings of fire clashed with spears forged from frozen time. Realms themselves were visible — drifting in the void like scattered islands, each realm bound to the next with divine chains, all shaking under the chaos of war.
"There was a time before Drakareth," Azharel said, his golden eyes glowing. "Before Anerion. Before even the first soul crawled from the ash of existence."
Hakan watched in awe as a colossal being emerged from the void — a humanoid shape, wrapped in swirling concepts. Its form flickered — sometimes smoke, sometimes shadow, sometimes a thing of impossible geometry. Its very presence warped the space around it. Planets shattered as it passed.
"He had no name. No title. No throne. Because he needed none."
Azharel's voice was quieter now, more reverent than fearful.
"He did not conquer kingdoms. He devoured realities. He consumed concepts. The moment he turned his gaze to a world… it ceased to have meaning."
The being raised its arm, and a sun vanished. Not exploded — forgotten. Like it had never existed.
"He came to claim all things. And he nearly did."
The vision shifted again — and now Hakan saw the Seven Realms.
Drakareth, wrapped in celestial flame.
Eldorwyn, a forest with stars for leaves.
Luxaria, blinding and divine.
Valharest, where Valkyries rode light itself.
Jotunheim, mountainous and roaring.
Umbralis, swirling with endless shadow.
And
Anerion — the land of mortals, still so young, so unaware.
"They rose together. United their champions. Their gods. Their kings. Their secrets."
Suddenly the void burned as seven armies rose together — dragons, elves, giants, celestials, shadows, mortals — and clashed with the Devourer.
It was a war that spanned centuries in a single moment.
Azharel's voice was heavy with memory now.
"We lost billions. Concepts were torn apart. Light had to be reinvented. Time collapsed in three of the Realms. But we… prevailed."
The final image formed — a circle of titanic beings, Primordials in their truest form, binding the enemy with chains that sang in alien languages. They sealed him within a prison not made of space — but of silence, forgetting, and sacrifice.
"And those who survived became… us. The Primordials. Each returned to our realm to protect it. To wait."
The vision shattered like glass, and they were back in the chamber — but the weight of it all still pressed on Hakan's shoulders.
He turned slowly to Azharel, face pale, breath shallow.
"And now?"
"And now," Azharel continued, his voice low and grave, "his five generals have returned… to bring him back."
Hakan's jaw clenched. "And if they succeed?"
"Then everything we saved—everything the Realms bled for—will be lost," Azharel said coldly. "The last war will look like a whisper compared to what's coming."
He paused for a moment. His gaze turned distant.
"But back then… a precaution was taken."
"A precaution?" Hakan's eyes narrowed in confusion.
"A prophecy," Azharel said. "A final hope. A being who could stand against him if he ever returned."
He looked at Hakan now, his gaze heavier than before.
"The prophecy speaks of the Sevenfold Monarch."
Hakan froze. The words felt like thunder inside his skull.
"What...?"
"The other Primordials," Azharel said, "they believe that Monarch is you."
Hakan's mind raced, a thousand thoughts flooding in. None made sense.
"Then why—" he took a step forward, anger boiling just beneath the surface, "—why do you go against them? Why not me?"
Azharel didn't blink. His voice, when it came, was quieter. Sharper.
"Because you are not that person."
Hakan stared at him, his heart thudding in his chest.
"You are something else," Azharel said, each word like a hammer to the soul. "Something that shouldn't exist. Something that should have died."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Hakan looked down at his trembling hands. His breath came shallow. He couldn't make sense of any of it.
"No… no. You're lying," he whispered. "You're just messing with my head."
He clutched his temple, trying to force the thoughts into place, trying to breathe through the chaos tearing through him.
"If I was supposed to die… then why am I here?" he looked up at Azharel, eyes burning.
Azharel remained silent for a moment, his gaze steady, almost mournful.
"When the precaution was taken… it was to ensure the people of Anerion—your world, Earth—would no longer stand defenseless," he began. "Until then, only some held powers. But this time, the Realms agreed: every world must awaken. Every race must rise."
Hakan's hands clenched. His voice cracked, raw.
"And what does that have to do with me?!"
He was on his knees now—his breath shallow, his chest heaving. The truth was twisting like a blade inside his ribs.
Azharel didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"You don't have powers like the others in your world, do you?"
Hakan froze. His eyes slowly lifted toward the Primordial.
The silence between them was deafening.
"No abilities. No gifts. Not like the others," Azharel continued. "Because you weren't meant to receive anything at all."
The weight of those words pressed into Hakan's bones.
"You weren't supposed to awaken… You weren't supposed to live."
Azharel's voice dropped further—heavy with something ancient and unknowable.
"The energy that struck Earth—that power source we created—ignited the awakening in millions. It was carefully designed. It was meant to give power... and to purge anomalies."
"And you," he said coldly, "were the anomaly."
Hakan's breath hitched.
"You should have died that day. You were the only one the light didn't accept."
A beat passed.
"But…" Azharel's brow furrowed, for the first time showing something close to confusion. "You didn't die. You stood in the center of extinction—and walked away untouched."
Hakan's mind was spiraling, every memory of that day flashing back—the sky tearing open, the fires of the heavens raining down, and him... standing alone in the ruin.
"Why…?" he whispered.
"That's what I've been asking myself since the moment I saw you," Azharel replied. "You survived something written into the fabric of fate. Something no one—not even I—can explain."
Azharel looked at him, eyes gleaming like distant suns.
"You are the one thing I cannot see. The crack in the weave. The refusal of the script. I don't know what you are, Hakan Raihan… but you are not a mistake."
Hakan remained still, silent. His hands hung at his sides, trembling. His mind wasn't just shaken—it was unraveling. The things he had built his pride on, the battles he'd survived, the strength he'd believed he earned—it was all crumbling.
"Is there anything you want to ask, Hakan?" Azharel's voice echoed across the chamber, calm and unbothered.
Hakan slowly stood up. His eyes looked different now—darker, distant. Behind them brewed a thousand thoughts: Was I never needed? Why did I live? Am I just a mistake...?
"Yes," he said finally, his voice low and rough. "There are a few things I need to know."
Azharel nodded, arms folded behind his back. "Then speak."
Hakan's eyes locked onto his with unsettling intensity.
"If I was never meant to exist... if I was supposed to die—then what about Vealzaryon? Was he holding back too?"
Azharel tilted his head. "You want the truth?"
Hakan didn't blink. "I want everything."
The Primordial's expression didn't change. "Vealzaryon fought you with only twenty percent of his power."
The words hit Hakan like a spear through the chest. His breath caught. His world, already shaking, cracked again.
"What...?"
"Eighty percent of his essence was still bound—diverted into the planetary barrier that protects Drakareth from outside invasions. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't access it."
Azharel took a step closer.
"And Xyvarion? When you fought him? Sixty percent of his power was sealed in the Tenebral Hollows."
Hakan's body trembled, not from fear—but from the weight of revelation. His lips parted.
"So everything… every victory I took pride in… it wasn't because I was strong?"
"No," Azharel said flatly. "It was because they were holding back."
The silence stretched. Only Hakan's ragged breathing filled the void.
"You now know about the prophecy… and the truth of your existence," Azharel continued, his golden gaze narrowing.
Hakan looked up slowly, something hardening behind his eyes.
"What are you getting at?" he asked.
Azharel didn't answer immediately.
"I'm sorry," he finally said. "But for our plan to succeed… you must die."
Without warning, his palm snapped forward—and a crushing wave of force launched Hakan across the chamber, slamming him into the far wall with a thunderous boom. Dust and stone exploded outward as the impact cracked the marble.
Hakan groaned, slumping to the floor, blood in his mouth. His vision swam.
Azharel turned away and raised his hand toward the hall of statues.
"Come forth."
From the shadows, three dragons emerged—towering in humanoid form, but unmistakably draconic. Their auras warped the air, their presence suffocating. Scales shimmered with energy, eyes like burning embers.
Azharel's voice rang through the chamber like a command of fate.
"Kill him."
Then he stepped back to his statue—watching, observing, unmoved—as if this wasn't betrayal, but an inevitable conclusion.
One of the dragons lunged.
Before Hakan could even stand, a clawed foot smashed into his ribs, lifting him off the ground and hurling him into another pillar.
BOOM.
Hakan's body crashed against the cold stone, leaving a deep crater in the ancient wall. He slumped forward, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps. Blood dripped from his mouth, his ribs were surely cracked, and his right arm refused to move.
The dragons didn't speak. They didn't taunt. They were extensions of Azharel's will — emotionless executioners tasked with a single goal:
Erase the mistake.
Another one charged — claws coated in searing blue energy. It struck him across the chest, sending him tumbling like a broken doll across the marble floor. He landed hard, his head hitting the ground, everything ringing — a numb, hollow vibration through his skull.
His fingers twitched.
His eyes, barely open, stared at the broken tiles beneath him.
This is it, he thought. This is what I am. A fracture. A glitch. A failed prophecy.
The weight of everything pressed down on him — heavier than the blows, deeper than the pain.
You weren't chosen.
You weren't even supposed to exist.
Azharel's voice echoed in his mind.
"You were supposed to die."
Hakan squeezed his eyes shut. The pain in his body was nothing compared to the pain in his soul. His victories meant nothing. His strength was a lie. His survival was an error.
"I'm… nothing," he whispered.
And then — in that silence — something sparked.
Faint.
A flicker in the abyss.
A memory.
A smile.
Shizumi. The people cheering his name as he returned from the Vealzaryon battle, broken but undefeated.
He saw the children racing through the streets, waving banners with his symbol.
He heard an old man say, "If Hakan's alive, then we're safe."
He saw Soren — his brother — looking up at him with those same fiery eyes. The same eyes that once burned with admiration and drive.
He saw Iffah, her hand reaching for his as the world fell apart around them, whispering, "You're the one thing in this world I still believe in."
Then came the memories of Torren, reckless and wild, always screaming, "Let's go, Captain! Let's burn them to ash together!"
Sylvia, calm and sharp, standing at his side no matter how grim the odds.
Rina, nervous but determined, holding her ground in battles far beyond her years.
Alaric, his vice captain, always just a step behind him — never wavering.
And suddenly, the darkness inside his mind began to shift.
From self-pity…
To something else.
Rage.
Rage at being told he was nothing. Rage at being dismissed. Rage at the idea that everything he'd done, everything he fought for, meant nothing because some cosmic bastard said so.
"No…" he breathed.
The air shifted.
His body still hurt — but his fingers curled into fists.
"No," he growled.
A dragon lunged again, its claw raised to end it.
But just before the blow landed — Hakan's hand shot up.
He caught the claw.
The impact thundered through the chamber — but he didn't move.
He was standing.
Holding back the strike — bloodied, broken, but unbowed.
His eyes opened — blazing.
Golden, like fire kissed with starlight.
A voice echoed in his mind — but this time, it wasn't Azharel's.
It was his own.
"They said I had no destiny. No fate. No purpose."
"They said I was supposed to die."
"Well guess what—"
"I don't need fate."
"I don't need prophecy."
"I wasn't born to be chosen."
"I was born to break the chosen."
His aura flared — not like a dragon, not like a human — but something entirely new. Something raw. Untamed. Elemental.
The dragon in front of him growled and pushed harder — but Hakan didn't budge.
He took a step forward.
Then another.
Still holding the claw.
Still glaring into the eyes of a beast born from divine command.
"I fought Vealzaryon."
Step.
"I stood toe-to-toe with a world-ending threat."
Step.
"I've bled for my people. I've fallen, risen, and fallen again."
Step.
"But I never broke."
He shoved the dragon back with a roar that split the chamber.
"Because I'm not your mistake."
"I'm not your accident."
"I'm Hakan Raihan — the Dragon Monarch."
"And I don't give a damn what the stars say—"
"I'll carve my own fate."
.CRACK—
Hakan's fist met the dragon's ribs, and this time… something gave way.
The creature's armor splintered, scales cracking under the sheer force of Heaven's Breaker. The dragon's body was launched across the chamber, crashing through a column with a thunderous boom. Dust exploded into the air—but before it even settled—
WHOOSH—
Hakan was gone.
The second dragon blinked—and then staggered backward, coughing up dark blood. A clean, razor-thin line cut across its chest.
Dragon's Fang.
A linear strike so precise, so fast, it left a glowing after-image in the air. Hakan stood behind it, his arm extended, two fingers still pointed forward from the strike, breath steady.
The third dragon roared and lunged.
Too slow.
Hakan vanished again—Phantom Step—and reappeared above it, twisting mid-air, his leg rotating at blistering speed.
Sky Rend.
The downward kick slammed into the creature's skull like a meteor, driving it into the floor. The impact sent a shockwave that rattled the chamber and cracked the marble beneath them.
Hakan landed lightly, his body tense but controlled. The aura around him wasn't elemental, wasn't energy—it was pure martial force. Every movement was the result of perfect technique, discipline forged in fire, in war, in heartbreak.
The three dragons snarled, rising from the rubble, their forms twitching with rage. One of them roared and unleashed a wave of flame—but Hakan didn't move.
He extended his palm forward.
Eclipse Palm.
The flames slammed into him—but instead of burning him, they coiled around his arm and dissipated. Then, with a sharp step forward and a roar—
BOOM.
He returned the force, amplified, in a palm strike that obliterated the dragon's barrier and sent it flying into the far wall. Bones shattered. Roars turned to coughs.
From the shadows above, the other dragon lunged again, claws spinning midair.
Hakan's body blurred—Iron Tempest.
Spinning, flowing, rotating—his entire body became a storm of motion. Each strike was a rotation of power, a cyclone of fists and knees and elbows, each building on the last. He redirected the claws with a parry, ducked low, and twisted into an uppercut that folded the dragon backward.
The beast crashed against the ceiling and fell limp to the floor.
Only one remained.
It growled and lashed forward in desperation, fading into smoke—becoming intangible.
But Hakan had trained for that too.
Phase Sever.
He stepped into the attack, his palm slicing through the mist—and found the dragon's core. The creature screeched in agony as the strike disrupted its form, forcing it back into solidity. That's when Hakan followed up with Void Crusher—a precise fist to the gut that distorted the space around the dragon, the air folding in on itself before detonating outward.
The creature hit the ground—and didn't rise.
Hakan stood alone, breathing heavily, blood dripping from his knuckles, his shirt torn and body bruised. But his eyes—his eyes burned like they never had before.
From the back of the chamber, Azharel had remained silent. Watching. His arms folded.
Now, for the first time in eons, a faint smile touched the corners of his lips.
"So… you've learned them," he muttered.
His golden gaze lowered, and an ancient memory stirred—a battlefield scorched by cosmic fire, mountains leveled, skies torn apart.
And one voice—desperate, resolute—amid the chaos:
"He's just a child! Let me take him—please. I won't let an innocent die in our war."
A younger dragon, ragged and burned, stood between the Primordials and a collapsing village. And in that moment, Azharel had hesitated.
Now, as he looked down at Hakan, standing defiant against the will of the universe, something inside him shifted.
"You were right, my friend," he whispered to the memory. "He has what it takes."
The dust settled.
The silence thickened.
And in the heart of Drakareth, among the bones of kings and monsters…
A new legend stood tall.
Clap. Clap.
The sound echoed through the chamber.
Azharel stood still, faintly smiling.
"That was impressive. I never thought you'd pull that off."
Hakan didn't wait. He lunged at him—fist drawn, intent clear.
But Azharel vanished in an instant, reappearing exactly where he'd stood before, hands casually behind his back.
"Relax," he said calmly. "I promised I wouldn't harm you. And I won't."
Hakan narrowed his eyes. "What are you playing at?"
Azharel met his gaze, his tone level but sincere.
"After everything I revealed—the truth about your existence, the prophecy, your so-called victories… And yet, here you are. Still standing tall."
He smiled faintly. "That alone… speaks louder than any bloodline."
With a simple motion of his hand, Azharel called out—
"Come forth."
A familiar flash of golden light flared, and Rhalvion materialized before them.
Hakan stepped back slightly, eyes wide.
"Where did you—?"
Before he could finish, Azharel spoke again.
"He is me, and I am him," he said. "Rhalvion is an extension of my will. He knows all that I do. And now… he'll assist you."
Hakan's expression twisted in confusion.
"You wanted to kill me just moments ago. Now you're giving me help?"
Azharel's smile didn't fade.
"Let's just say… it's a promise I had to keep."
With a flick of his fingers, a book manifested from the air—bound in dark, ancient scales, pulsing faintly with energy.
"This," Azharel said, "is your survival."
He held it out toward Hakan.
"The scroll you once found… it contained fragments. Basics. This book—this is the full head. The complete lineage. Every technique. Every form. The entire foundation of your path."
Hakan hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward, slowly taking the book into his hands. The moment he touched it, the cover glowed faintly, accepting him as its bearer.
Azharel turned to Rhalvion.
"Take up your responsibilities now."
Then, without another word, Azharel vanished, fading into the air like mist in moonlight.
The chamber fell silent again.
Hakan stood there, gripping the book, staring at the spot Azharel once occupied.
"...That damn dragon. First he tries to erase me, and now he hands me this like some parting gift?"
He looked down at the book, then gave a tired, amused exhale.
"After all this… I guess nothing can surprise me anymore."
He glanced at Rhalvion, a newfound edge in his voice.
"Take me somewhere quiet. Somewhere I can study this properly."
Rhalvion bowed low.
"Yes, my liege."
And together, they turned from the hall of fallen monarchs—toward the path ahead.
A path Hakan would walk as the dragon they never saw coming.