Chapter 89: black bloodline

“What madness is this?” declared Fhajo. Even with the sharpness of his words, the people of the realm still held him in high esteem. He was, after all, the son of Sapar and the half-brother of Matar. Whispers circulated that Fhajo was the rightful heir to the Ossibian throne, and were it not for Sapar’s decree, Fhajo might have been the people’s chosen king. Sapar’s reign had been steeped in brutal violence. In truth, Fhajo was a bastard son of the King (Matar’s father), making them half-siblings. Only Matar’s mother was ever officially recognized as the King’s consort, thus the line of succession passed only through her. Nevertheless, Fhajo’s mother had been granted a portion of power, giving him a voice within the palace walls.

“Does the son of a King, once renowned for his savagery, now shrink in cowardice?” scoffed an elder amongst the gathering, a man well past his prime. “I cannot believe this treachery!”

“The Ossibians are no breed of faint-hearts! Why have you rejected the challenge of the King of Thallerion?” demanded Adamoth, a celebrated warrior, a brute who had felled countless foes. He had yet to be named a leader of the guards, his temper too swift to flare into rage.

“Silence, Adamoth! Who do you imagine yourself to be, to address your superiors in this council? You are a renowned soldier, yes, but I still deem you ordinary,” countered Thuweruz, a man of impeccably dressed attire, the steward of the collected treasures of the Ossibuz lands. This man was a babbler, unable to hold his tongue.

“I should like to feed you my great weapon, that you might know I am no ordinary man!” Adamoth hissed in fury. Yet, Thuweruz merely laughed him off.

“Cease your quarrel, both of you!” commanded Laniro, Matar’s trusted aide, who stood beside the youthful guard, Gallexe, the King’s sworn protector.

As the attendees for the council arrived, Matar remained aloof, watching from the window. His throne lay empty, for he stood fixed to the view, observing the flight of crows. He listened in silence to the pronouncements echoing from the council table. As he gazed outward, he held his pet crow, whom he had named Corvys.

Matar sensed the impatience of the assembled leaders, all waiting for him to begin the council and explain his sudden refusal of the war against Thallerion.

It was Fhajo who had called this summons, for he loathed Matar’s action, deeming it an act of cowardice. The truth was, Fhajo craved the war to commence, believing that if Matar were defeated and slain, he would ascend as the next King of the Ossibians. He yearned to present a strategy that would win the admiration of all. But Matar saw through Fhajo’s ambition and showed no interest in the proceedings.

Only Laniro was privy to the entirety of Matar’s plan. Before the King halted the preparations for war, they had conferred on the strategy, so Laniro alone knew the true reason.

“My Lord King,” Laniro called out. “The hour for the council is upon us.”

Matar first released his crow, Corvys, to the wind before approaching his seat. As he drew near, all rose in a silent tribute to their sovereign. He sat in silence. “Be seated.”

“I am gladdened that you have all answered my summons,” Fhajo began. “You have heard my call concerning the grievous truth that now shakes our realm.” His gaze swept courageously across his audience. “The King of the Ossibians… shrinks in fear before Thallerion!”

“That is unacceptable!” muttered voices among the crowd.

“I was born to Ossibuz, and never once did I shirk from a war in those days,” Sapar growled, his brow furrowed as if ploughed. “You are a coward!” He pointed a finger in his extreme ire, ash from his tobacco scattering across the table.

“His father was a lion, so why does the son inherit none of his bravery? Can it be true?”

“If this is the nature of his rule, we shall surely face inevitable doom,” asserted another. Fhajo inwardly rejoiced, sensing that the hearts of the great leaders were turning against Matar.

“This is the very essence of this gathering…” Fhajo continued. “His actions will lead all other nations to believe we are weak, quick to retreat!” He spat the words with disgust. “Matar has cast a vile image before the King of Thallerion!”

The King remained silent, even as Fhajo hurled insults.

“Esteemed leaders of Ossibian, grant me leave to speak, as the right hand of the King…” Laniro addressed them. “I find your discourse deafening, for you rush too quickly to judgment. Why do you not first ask the King, who sits before you?”

“That coward!” Fhajo spat the insult again.

Chapter 28

As Matar silently absorbed the insults of his father, Sapar, and the venomous words of Fhajo, his half-brother, the Corvus Entity suddenly spoke within the King’s mind. Matar could distinctly hear its voice, steeped in annoyance.

“Why do you not simply teach Fhajo a lesson? All he desires is to steal your throne.” The Corvus Entity whispered in his ear.

“He is powerless to stop me. Be patient, I will show you how I will stun them all soon enough,” Matar thought to himself.

He then heard an elder’s voice. “Indeed. We judge our King too quickly and harshly.”

Others concurred, and they questioned Matar as to the reason for his refusal of the King of Thallerion’s challenge to war.

“Answer us! What is your reason for rejecting the Thallerion challenge?” Adamoth demanded. Matar did not answer immediately.

“If he cannot answer, it is proof that he is a coward!” Fhajo proclaimed.

Laniro was about to intercede, but the King stayed him. At this juncture, Matar finally spoke.

“A few days hence…” he announced, his face and tone utterly calm. All eyes turned to him. “We shall journey to MOONATORIA!” He amplified his voice on the final word, ensuring all heard his destination. The revelation struck them, filling the hall with astonishment and fear.

“WHAT!!!” A collective cry erupted.

“Moo—Moona… MOONATORIA!??!” Fhajo stammered in shock.

“Son, are you mad!” Sapar roared. “You balked at the challenge of Thallerion, and now you speak of Moonatoria?” He almost choked, struggling to suppress his laughter. But suppressing his feelings was not his nature, and he burst into a booming, derisive laughter. “Truly, you have lost your senses, hahahha!!”

The people laughed, some scratched their heads, bewildered by the chaos Matar was inviting.

Matar rose, heedless of the uproar amongst the people at the council.

“Perhaps the King is simply drunk,” whispered some.

“Did he partake of wine last night?” asked one leader. “If he were drunk, he would move sluggishly!”

“He must be jesting!” asserted another.

“Since the defeat of the Ossibuz nation…” an old voice began. “When our land was first establishing its civilization! A King swore that the Ossibuz nation would never again wage war against Moonatoria. After that bloody conflict, many suffered, and the Ossibian race was nearly annihilated.”

“Now, tell me, who is the coward you speak of?” Laniro asked, but none dared to answer. He, too, rose to his feet.

“This council is concluded,” Laniro declared as he stood. “Come, Gallexe, we must find the men to join us on the journey to Moonatoria.”

“Am I to be chosen by Matar?” Adamoth grinned, his face alight.

“No,” Laniro answered sternly.

“Impossible! All know that for every mission that looms, I am the one always sent forth?” Adamoth questioned in disbelief.

“I regret to inform you that this is not the King’s intention at this time.”

As Laniro reached the door, Fhajo chased after him for a final word. “Do you truly believe you will survive Matar’s scheme? I tell you, you are like men who have taken a great stone and hammered it against your own heads!”

“Matar is brave and wise! I have no need to doubt his plans.”

“Truly? Well, in that case…” Fhajo’s face lit up with a sneer. “Very well, I shall prepare your graves for your act of self-slaughter.” Fhajo mocked.

“Ensure the graves you prepare are not too wide, for should they be, you might well be pulled into your own pit,” Laniro retorted with courage.

Laniro recalled their conversation before Matar halted the preparations for the coming war.

….

Temporary

Matar and his bloodline was a raven, every time they died, their consciousness, their soul will transform into a raven. This is the second life, a form of bird.

Matar was capable to transform into a raven even he is not dead, but, he can turn into a flock of raven, that flitting and creating illusion.

He can even enter the mind of their human. Sometimes, he can teleport into a different location.

Matar, usually, seated on his throne watching vision from the visual of other raven all around the world. He can communicate with other raven.

Deep within his void. He can project virtual reality, as if he is touching the aur.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep