Matar silently absorbed his father Sapar’s barbs and the sharp, rasping voice of his half-brother, Fhajo. Suddenly, the entity of Corvus filled King Matar’s mind, its voice a gravelly whisper of pure annoyance.

“Why not simply teach Fhajo a lesson? All he craves is your throne,” the Corvus entity hissed, a buzzing echo in Matar’s ear.

“He’s powerless. Just wait; I’ll surprise them all later,” Matar mused, a steely resolve forming within him. He then heard an elder speak, their voice frail with the weight of years.

“That’s true. We’re overthinking things against our king,” the elder conceded. The others nodded in agreement, then pressed Matar for his reason in refusing the War King’s challenge.

“Answer us, what’s your reason for turning down Thallerion’s challenge?” Adamoth demanded, his tone brittle with impatience. Matar offered no immediate reply.

“If he can’t answer, it only proves he’s a coward!” Fhajo scoffed, his voice laced with mocking triumph, a smug smirk stretching his lips.

Laniro began to interject, but the King halted him.

At this crucial moment, Matar spoke.

“In a few days…” he began, his face and tone unnervingly calm, a placid mask. All eyes were fixed on him. “…We will journey to MOONATORIA!” He raised his voice at the end, letting the word reverberate through the hall like a thunderclap, ensuring every soul present heard his destination. A wave of shock and fear rippled through the crowd.

“WHAT!!!” everyone shrieked, their voices a cacophony of utter disbelief.

“Moo—Moona… MOONATORIA!???” Fhajo stammered, his face drained of all color, a pallid canvas of terror.

“Son, have you lost your mind!” Sapar bellowed, his voice a booming wave of incredulity. “You wouldn’t even accept Thallerion’s challenge, and now Moonatoria?” He nearly held back a laugh, but true to form, he erupted in loud guffaws. “You’ve truly gone insane, hahahha!!” His laughter echoed like a booming gong, full of derision and triumph.

The people present dissolved into laughter, some scratching their heads, utterly bewildered by the self-inflicted chaos Matar was inviting.

Matar rose, disregarding the pandemonium erupting around him.

“Perhaps the king is simply drunk,” some muttered.

“Did he drink wine last night?” a leader queried. “If he were drunk, he’d be stumbling around!”

“He’s probably just joking!” another scoffed.

“Since the fall of the nation of Ossibuz…” an elder’s voice drifted through the air like a fading memory, heavy with history. “…During the dawn of our own civilization! A king swore that Ossibuz would never again war with Moonatoria, for after that bloody conflict, many suffered, and the Ossibian lineage was nearly extinguished.”

“Now, tell me, who among you is the coward you speak of?” Laniro challenged, but no one dared to meet his gaze or answer. He then stood.

“This meeting is adjourned,” Laniro declared, rising to his full height. “Let’s go, Gallexe, we still need to find those who will accompany us to Moonatoria.”

“Am I one of those Matar will take?” Adamoth inquired, a sly grin spreading across his face, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“No,” Laniro replied curtly, his voice firm and unyielding, leaving no room for doubt.

“Impossible! Everyone knows that for every upcoming mission, I’m always the one chosen?” Adamoth protested, his voice tinged with confusion and a hint of outrage.

“I regret to say that is not the king’s current intention.”

As Laniro reached the door, Fhajo pursued him, demanding an answer. “Do you truly believe you’ll survive Matar’s grand scheme? I warn you, it’s like picking up a massive stone and smashing it against your own heads!”

“Matar is both brave and intelligent! I have no reason to doubt his plans.” Lanero firmed at his word.

“Really? But on that note…” Fhajo’s face lit up like a struck match, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll prepare your graves for your inevitable suicide.” Fhajo quipped, his words dripping with a chilling sarcasm.

“Just ensure the grave you prepare isn’t too wide, because if it is, you might find yourself in your own hole,” Laniro retorted bravely, his voice sharp and defiant, cutting through Fhajo’s mockery.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep