Chapter 2: The Fourth Overlord (2)

Simon had inherited a legacy of bastards.

The first to sit on the Crimson Throne was the archdemon Mardok Endymion the Bloodthirsty, who gave the empire his name and led it during the aptly named Century of Terror; a period which included such pleasant events as the Walling of the Screaming Saints, the Red Forest Massacre, and the Despoiling of Nabadia. He terrorized the eastern continent for a hundred years until his successor ate him alive.

The second Overlord was the dragon Gargauth the Greedy, who while nowhere near as terrible as his predecessor, still drove his own tribe to near-extinction over a monetary dispute and personally set an entire metropolis ablaze to burn out a single rebel—who, as it turned out, wasn’t even there. The dragonlord ruled for nearly three centuries until Balzam Magnos beheaded him in battle.

The third Overlord was Balzam Magnos the Cruel, the first human to hold the title; his relatively short but fruitful reign saw the subjugation of no less than five independent nations in a bit less than two decades and he suppressed all rebellions with ruthless efficiency. The empire had doubled in size during his tenure, and most expected him to complete his predecessors’ dream of conquering the world… if his children didn’t tear apart his dominion first.

In all cases, the Crimson Throne had awarded the Overlord Class to whoever murdered the previous holder; yet it seemed that Balzam had decided to break the tradition. The only reason Simon could think of why he had been awarded this power was that either Louis or Thalas murdered their father, and he wished to spite them both with his last breath.

Hence, Simon kept his mouth shut. He avoided his siblings’ gazes the same way he had done his best to stay beneath everyone’s notice for most of his life. His predecessor and father was literally drenched in his own blood; there was no way he wouldn’t end up the same with a level 1 Class, even one as powerful as the Overlord.

He had to get away now.

But then that asshole Thalas ruined everything. “Mother, the bastard is trying to run away.”

Simon cursed his rotten luck as he looked over his shoulder. Whereas Louis had inherited his father’s appearance, Thalas was the closest to him in demeanor and attitude. A sharp man with crimson hair flowing down his helmet and golden eyes that seemed to glitter in the dark, he always wore a cruel smirk across his fair face. The Crestone of the Berserker glowed on his cloak, ready to transform him into the cruel, bloodthirsty beast he had always been.

“Leaving so soon, halfblood?” he taunted Simon. “Awfully suspicious, don’t you think?”

“You’ll stay right where you are, Simon,” threatened the empress, her eyes gleaming with magic. “None of you shall leave this room until–”

“Your Grace, do not–” he heard a general shout, only for his sentence to end in a flash of fire.

Simon didn’t know who struck first, and didn’t care; all that mattered was that someone struck and everyone triggered their abilities in response. He barely had time to see Lauriane try to push him back as her body transformed into her Class form and the empress summoned a hammer into her hands before the entire room exploded in a massive detonation.

A wall of fire engulfed Simon, burning away his clothes and searing the skin off his flesh. Terrible pain beyond description seized him, wracking his body with agony. He would have screamed if the flames hadn’t melted off his throat off his spine, and his eyes soon boiled in their sockets.

When the darkness came swiftly, it was as a mercy.

He dreamed of the Crimson Throne.

It glared down on him from atop steps of thick black stone, its seat drowned in red cloth drenched in the blood of the Overlord’s enemies. The great, obsidian-horned demon skull worked into the backseat observed him with four ruby eyes gleaming with malice and hunger. Great wings expanded behind it as if to help it take flight before linking up at the top in the form of a clock with metal feathers for hours, while curled ribs and tusks served as armrests.

It judged him, Simon could tell. It judged him, and found him wanting.

This is the second of your hundred reigns.

You have earned the title of Simon the Short-lived.

The Short-lived: Your reign didn’t even last two hours. +5 Agility.

The second reign? What did–

The dream ended like the previous one did, with Lauriane’s hand forcing him awake.

“Put on your pants and come with me,” she ordered, dressed as she had been a mere minute ago before the entire court began to tear itself apart. “We don’t have much time.”

Simon’s mind struggled to make sense of the situation. He recalled the explosion, the fire, the entire imperial court tearing itself apart like crazed beasts… and now he was somehow back in his bedroom, with his half-sister shaking him like a bag of potatoes.

“Are you unharmed?” he blurted out. His eyes had to be deceiving him, for he didn’t see any hint of burns or damage on her skin or clothes.

“Yes, yes, I am unharmed, don’t worry… but I can’t say the same for our father.” Lauriane took a deep breath. “The thing you’ve been having nightmares about has happened.”

Simon had the worst sense of déjà-vu. He blinked a few times, trying to make sense out of it all. Did he… did he dream of everything? No, no, that hadn’t been a dream. He had never felt anything so vivid as the pain of being burned to death, nor remembered such clarity. Moreover, his status screen icon was still active in the corner of his vision.

What was going on?

“Simon, there is no time,” his half-sister said, more sternly than before. “Dress up no–”

“Was he stabbed?” Simon inquired, trying to make sense of it all. “With his mistress? Gutted like a fish?”

Lauriane’s eyes widened in surprise. “Did you dream of it?”

“I… I think I had a vision of the future.” His throat felt sore all of a sudden. It was the only explanation that made sense. “I have no idea how, but I saw it.”

“Did you see the assassin too?” Lauriane asked with a hopeful tone, her hands grabbing his shoulders. “If you know, Simon, you need to tell me now. The situation has everyone on edge.”

“I… I didn’t see the murder itself.” Simon struggled to believe his father had been assassinated, even with the glaring proof that his Class had passed on to him in the corner of his eye. “We were in Father’s bedroom, all of us, and then someone struck and it all went to hell.”

“So you saw a vision of the future?” Lauriane inquired, more confused than anything. “Like with the Oracle Class?”

“Well…” Simon scoffed. “Either that, or I traveled back in ti–”

The word died in his throat.

Simon coughed as an immense pressure closed on his windpipe and began to crush his throat. He felt unbearably cold fingers press on his skin with inhuman strength, but when his own hands reached out to his neck on instinct, they found nothing.

Nothing but phantom pain, sharp and agonizing.

Simon fell onto the floor while the invisible force choking him squeezed the air out of his lungs. His vision blurred with flashes of the past and the present as the blood rushed to his head. The descriptions he had read in the library couldn’t even begin to describe the horror of strangulation.

“Simon?!” Lauriane gasped in fear when her eyes set on his throat. “By the Light, what the…”

He had no idea what she saw, but it was killing him. Simon could feel it in his bones. Lauriane called out the healers and the exorcists, but it was already too late. His life, his very consciousness, had already begun to fade away.

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A single thought crossed Simon’s mind as the black void of unconsciousness began to encroach upon everything: that he didn’t want to die.

He had too much left to do. He never had a wife, never got to attend the academy or become an adventurer like he always wanted to, never got to travel and see the world, never got to live. He couldn’t die here and now, with no explanation nor answer. He wanted to live to eighty, ninety, a century.

He needed more time.

He didn’t want to die.

He couldn’t die here!

But the darkness didn’t care. It swallowed him all into an all-consuming void filled with a creeping cold, and then…

And then the end.

He dreamed of the Crimson Throne again.

It still looked down on him, but not with disappointment this time. Simon could have sworn he had caught a glitter of amusement in its four eyes. The damn chair was mocking him, laughing at him for returning so soon.

This is the third of your hundred reigns. You have earned the title of Simon the Blabbermouth.

The Blabbermouth: You said too much and paid the price. You are immune to the Silence Ailment.

Revealing the Crimson Throne’s secret in any way, shape, or form to an outsider will trigger a failsafe and end your reign prematurely. Only the Keeper may know for the glory of all future Overlords.

Take the truth with you to your grave. You have been warned.

Simon awoke gasping for air.

He fell off his bed in his panic, his hands scratching his throat while he inhaled with all of his strength. His lungs expanded as they welcomed the fresh wind of life into themselves. Lauriane loomed over him with a hint of concern, her hand raised in his direction as if to shake him awake. “Simon?”