Astoria — Southern Fringe of the Anarchy Empire
A hundred imperial warships split the freezing sea like blades, cutting a path toward the South. The death of the Winter Sovereign had torn a hole in the balance of power. With the Southern Sect leaderless and vulnerable, the timing was perfect. The Empire would strike. And at the helm of this conquest was Val, the Berserker — wrath incarnate in imperial steel.
Two weeks of bitter sailing through snow-lashed waters brought them to the Southern Border. Before them stood towering gates of obsidian stone, carved into the mountain itself — the legendary martial stronghold of the South. It was silent, cold, unmoving. No welcome. No honor guard. Not even a whisper.
Five thousand imperial soldiers stood assembled in rank behind Val. Two Royal Knight Captains flanked him, blades drawn but waiting. The imperial banners flapped in the wind — crimson against white frost.
Val stepped forward. His voice thundered across the frozen plain:
"Open the gate!"
No answer.
The guards on the battlements stood still, deliberately ignoring him — a deliberate insult. Perhaps they still clung to hope. Perhaps they hadn't yet learned the Winter Sovereign was dead.
Val's eyes burned crimson. He turned, grabbed a spear from a nearby soldier, and hurled it with supernatural force. The weapon screamed through the air and impaled a border guard clean through the chest. A second spear followed, silencing another.
Chaos erupted.
Southern archers readied their bows. War drums thundered. But it was already too late. Val walked forward, his entire body igniting in his signature Berserker Aura — a furious red flame that rippled with malice. He raised a battering ram alone, and with one earthshaking slam, he shattered the gates of the Southern Sect.
The imperial army surged through the breach like a tidal wave. Ladders slammed against walls. Screams filled the air. Blood painted the snow.
Val was the storm. His axe carved a crimson path through the Southern defenders, rending steel, bone, and flesh alike. The enemy captain charged, only to be cleaved in two by one brutal downswing.
Suddenly, a royal cry cut through the chaos:
"Enough!"
The palace knights had arrived. From behind them, the Vice leader of Southern Sect emerged, clad in white and silver, her face pale, her spirit fractured. Her husband was dead. Her realm was burning.
"Why have you brought such horror to our gates?" she cried. "Explain yourself!"
Val turned, laughter rolling from his chest like thunder.
"Since when does the Empire owe explanations?" he mocked. "We do not ask permission. We obey orders. And our orders were simple:
Take the Southern Sect."
He reached into a sack and tossed the severed head of the Winter Sovereign onto the ground. It landed with a sickening thud. For a moment, silence gripped the field like frost.
Then the howls of war erupted again.
The Queen staggered back. Grief threatened to choke her, but her people still looked up to her. She hesitated — until a nearby knight shouted:
"We are the descendants of warriors! Do we crawl now, in front of invaders? If we surrender, how can we ever face our ancestors?"
The Queen faltered. Her silence was her answer.
The Southern defenders, driven by desperation and pride, surged forward again. The war reignited in full.
Val smiled beneath bloodstained armor.
The fire of conquest would not be extinguished.
The battle raged on.
But not for long.
What chance did a mere sect have against the might of a true empire? From sheer numbers to the caliber of knights, the Empire surpassed them in every way. Soon, the battlefield lay silent—most of the sect's warriors had fallen.
Amid the carnage, one of the surviving loyal knights turned to the vice leader, voice trembling.
"You must retreat—please, evacuate while you still can."
But a cold, commanding voice cut through the air.
"I can't allow the vice leader to live," Val said, stepping forward, crimson eyes burning with resolve. "So long as she draws breath, there will always be hope. There will always be rebellion."
The vice leader, bloodied and kneeling, understood. Her defiance had met its end.
"Then promise me," she said, her voice cracking. "Promise me you won't torture my people. They've suffered enough."
Val smiled—calm, cruel, composed.
"I, Val de Astoria, Royal Knight Commander, swear on my honor. So long as they do not resist the Empire, your citizens shall remain unharmed."
A faint smile touched her lips. She believed him. The word of a knight still meant something.
As Val approached, he reached into his robes and handed her a small, glass vial.
"This is Lilis Poison," he said, his tone almost gentle. "A painless death. Like falling asleep beneath a quiet snowfall."
She took it in her trembling hands.
"Thank you," she whispered.
And with dignity, she drank. Moments later, her body collapsed to the cold stone floor.
Val turned and strode toward the central plaza. His voice thundered across the square.
"From this day forward, the Southern Sect shall fall under the rule of the Empire! Those who surrender shall be spared and live unarmed—as promised to your vice leader… your queen."
Imperial banners were raised on every wall, every gate, every tower. The Winter Sovereign and his consort were buried in the palace with all due rites.
And like the Herbrecht Duchy before it, the Southern Sect was placed under martial law—awaiting the day a new noble would rise to rule in the Empire's name.