A few days later in Camelot, a sanitation worker went about his routine, hauling bags of waste into the cart. He exhaled sharply, wiping the sweat from his brow, exhaustion settling in. Just as he reached for the next pile, his eyes caught something unusual—something wrong.

  A body.

  An elderly woman lay crumpled among the refuse, her lifeless eyes staring blankly at the sky. A deep gash ran across her throat, blood still seeping into the cobblestone street. But what sent a chill down the worker’s spine was the message scrawled across her body in crimson:

  “ALL HAIL ATLANTIS.”

  For a moment, the world around him stood still. Then, his breath hitched, his stomach lurched—

  And he screamed.

  The next morning in Auroria Dominion, loud, relentless knocking pounded against Mel’s dorm room door. He groaned, rolling over in bed before dragging himself up. As he shuffled toward the door, he nearly tripped over Althara, who was sprawled out on the floor.

  "Ow—damn it, Althara," he muttered, stepping over her and then maneuvering around Bimoth’s large, unmoving form before reaching for the door. When he opened it, he was met with the sight of King Percival, Draven, Kai, Jasper, and five wardens standing in the hallway.

  Mel blinked, still groggy. "Good morning?" he mumbled.

  Draven shot him a sharp look before glancing at the others. "A body was found in Camelot," he announced.

  Mel leaned against the doorframe, unimpressed. "Camelot’s known for murder and crime. Why are you at my door?" he grumbled.

  King Percival stepped forward, holding up a photo. The image displayed five corpses, their bodies defaced with the words Hail Atlantis scrawled in blood.

  "They were the board of directors of Camelot," Percival added.

  Mel’s eyes narrowed as he examined the photo, biting his lip in thought. "And you came to me why?" he asked flatly.

  Draven scoffed. "Let’s see—you hate Camelot, you hate King Liam, and I distinctly remember you saying you wanted to kill him. Do the math."

  Mel exhaled through his nose and handed the photos back. "I didn’t kill anybody."

  Draven clicked his tongue. "Nobody said you did. But you’re the number one suspect. So, where were you at ten o’clock last night?"

  Before Mel could answer, Althara stirred and stepped into the doorway, rubbing her eyes. "He was here. Helped me with the shower and tucked me in," she said sleepily.

  Mel cleared his throat. "That… sounds way worse than it actually was," he muttered.

  Draven rolled his eyes. "Your alibi means nothing, Althara. You’re still a criminal in our eyes."

  King Percival, however, studied Mel and nodded. "His alibi checks out."

  Draven sighed, clearly frustrated. "Fine. Maybe someone’s trying to frame you. But you are still the King of Atlantis, and the fact that Hail Atlantis is written all over the bodies isn’t exactly a coincidence."

  With that, they turned and left. Mel quietly shut the door, his expression unreadable.

  In the grand halls of Camelot, King Liam stood before the five lifeless bodies of the board of directors, his expression eerily composed. He studied the scene in silence, then exhaled through his nose, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

  “Well, this is... intriguing,” he murmured.

  Bruno approached with measured steps, bowing respectfully before his king. Liam barely acknowledged him, crouching down and prodding one of the director’s stiff faces with a gloved finger. His gaze darkened, sharp with calculation.

  "King Melanthius wouldn’t be this reckless," he mused under his breath. "Unless... it was the work of former King Bimoth."

  Straightening, he clasped his hands behind his back, eyes narrowing as he considered the implications.

  “Perhaps this is retaliation for Goldman’s attack,” King Liam murmured, rolling his shoulders before cracking his neck. His expression hardened with resolve. “I know what must be done.”

  Moments later, in the heart of Solstice City, King Liam stood alone, yet the sheer force of his aura made it feel as though an army stood behind him. Across from him stood King Melanthius, flanked by Bimoth, Althara, Mark, and Lucy. Behind them, the full might of the Steel Pact—one hundred elite warriors—stood ready, alongside King Percival, the headmasters, and every warden in the kingdom.

  The air was thick with tension, a clash of kings imminent.

  “Is this about the board of directors?” Mel asked, his fists clenching as he glared at Liam.

  Liam exhaled, unfazed. “Something like that. But I know you didn’t—”

  Before he could finish, Mel’s leg crackled with black lightning and swirling cloud magic. In an instant, he swung a devastating kick toward Liam’s head.

  Liam barely had time to react, crossing his arms to block the strike. The sheer force of the impact sent a tremor through the entire city, buildings rattling from the shockwave. As the dust settled, Liam flexed his arm, shaking off the lingering pressure, while Mel straightened up, his gaze sharp.

  “Now that that’s over with,” Liam said, his voice steady, “I want a one-on-one meeting with you, King Melanthius.”

  A collective gasp swept through the city at the display of Mel’s raw power. He met Liam’s eyes, his expression unreadable.

  “A summit…” Mel murmured.

  Moments later, Mel sat upon the throne of Atlantis, his posture regal yet brimming with barely restrained fury. Behind him, Bimoth stood like an unshakable sentinel, his presence a silent declaration of loyalty. Across from them, King Liam sat unfazed, despite the hundred spears poised at his throat.

  ice laced with cold menace. “The only reason I don’t kill you where you stand is because you know where Elowen is.”

  Liam barely reacted. Instead, he turned his gaze to Bimoth, his expression twisting into something between disgust and disappointment.

  “I could almost throw up,” he muttered. “A warrior like you, Bimoth, reduced to playing second fiddle? A reliant—wasting your strength on someone else?” He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “Reliants are always above their opponents. I know one who reflects twice the damage of every hit he takes. Reliants are blessed—and you’re throwing it away.” His voice was a low growl, his grimace deepening.

  Then, with a chilling calm, he added, “I murdered my own father, King Arthur—because he looked sad after killing your father, Melanthius. And nothing sickens me more than wasted strength.”

  Mel exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple, his patience wearing thin.

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  “Let’s get to the point,” Liam said, his voice steady but laced with underlying menace. “Someone was bold enough to slaughter my directors. I don’t believe it was you—because if you had killer in your eyes, you would’ve used it on me first.”

  Mel’s gaze hardened. “This murderer dragged Atlantis into it. So what do you really want?”

  Liam chuckled, leaning back slightly. “I just wanted to deliver a message.” His expression darkened. “If this is you… and I find out—” his voice dropped to a razor’s edge, “I will kill you.”

  Mel stepped forward, closing the distance between them, his presence crackling with barely contained fury. “And if you so much as touch Elowen… I will kill you.”

  Without hesitation, Liam rose to his feet, and in a single motion, shattered every spear at his throat. The air in the room grew heavy as the two kings faced each other, the weight of their words thick with unspoken violence.

  Moments later, Mel and Althara strolled through the bustling streets of Solstice City.

  “Getting tired of Camelot,” Mel muttered, his tone laced with quiet frustration.

  Althara trailed behind him, cracking her knuckles absentmindedly. Back then, I’d have reduced Camelot to rubble without a second thought… she mused.

  Lost in thought, she accidentally bumped into a passerby.

  “Oh, so sorry!” she said quickly.

  The man gave a slight bow. “It’s fine,” he replied before continuing on his way.

  As he passed, a foul stench wafted through the air—something sickly, rotting. Althara grimaced but shook it off, dismissing it as just another city smell.

  Althara caught up to Mel, her expression tense. “What are you going to do about the murders?”

  Mel let out a frustrated sigh, clenching his fist. “I don’t know. It’s confusing.” He ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts tangled.

  Althara exhaled, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. We could always just—”

  “Althara, what is that?!” Mel’s voice cut through the air as he grabbed her hand.

  She looked down—her entire arm was smeared with blood. A cold chill ran down her spine as she realized Mel’s shoulder was stained too.

  Their eyes followed the crimson trail leading into a dark alley. A woman standing at the entrance let out a terrified scream, her hand shaking as she pointed.

  There, sprawled against the alley wall, was a man—his body battered beyond recognition.

  Mel and Althara sprinted into the alley, their hearts pounding. The moment they saw the man’s lifeless, battered body, a collective outcry erupted from the gathered crowd.

  “THEY KILLED HIM!”

  “I TOLD YOU WE SHOULDN’T TRUST THEM!”

  The accusations came fast and furious, voices laced with fear and anger.

  Mel swiftly raised a hand in front of Althara, trying to de-escalate the chaos. “Wait! This is a misunderstanding—”

  Before he could finish, heavy hands wrenched his arms behind his back. The sharp click of handcuffs snapped into place.

  Draven slammed Mel to the ground while Althara thrashed against Jasper and Kai, her fury barely restrained.

  “Althara! Don’t resist!” Mel shouted, his voice firm.

  She took a deep breath and stilled.

  Draven’s cold gaze swept over them. “Melanthius Shadowbane and Althara… Shadowbane, you are both under arrest!”

  In the dimly lit holding cell of the castle, Mel and Althara sat side by side, their wrists shackled to the heavy iron table. The tension in the air was suffocating.

  Draven strode in, rubbing his hands vigorously with sanitizer before slamming the bottle onto the table. He took a seat across from them, his glare razor-sharp.

  “I have over one thousand students under my watch. Fifty wardens to pay. And now King Liam himself is breathing down my neck over the murder of his directors.” His voice was a slow, simmering growl before it exploded.

  “And then there’s literally blood on your hands, Althara—and on your shoulder, Mel.”

  Draven leaned forward, his eyes burning with accusation.

  “AND YOU’RE TELLING ME YOU HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH IT?!”

  Mel and Althara sat in silence, staring back at him, their expressions unreadable.

  Althara leaned back in her chair, her expression flat with defiance. "Like I said, Headmaster," she drawled, lacing the title with sarcasm. "I bumped into some foul-smelling guy, and suddenly, my hand was covered in blood. I don’t even remember what he looked like."

  Draven exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "Let’s be real, Althara. You were a criminal five minutes ago, running with a pack of killers and causing chaos. And now you’re with Melanthius—who lets anyone be his friend—so don’t act like you’re not a prime suspect."

  Althara lowered her gaze, her jaw tightening.

  Mel’s eyes flicked to her before he turned his attention back to Draven, his voice firm. “Althara was with me all day. We just came back from the meeting with King Liam. Don’t waste your time trying to pin this on us—we don’t kill people, and you know that’s not even part of my agenda.”

  His glare met Draven’s unwaveringly, daring him to challenge the truth.

  Draven slammed his fists on the table. “Someone’s going down for this. One of you fess up!” he barked.

  Before anyone could speak, a voice slithered from the shadows.

  “It’s me.”

  A figure stepped into the dim light—Mordrain the Hollow, the most notorious serial killer in history, a monster thought to have been slain by the late King Arthur himself.

  Draven’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening in disbelief. Without hesitation, he turned to run—but his shadow betrayed him. Mordrain’s own darkness stretched forward, snaring Draven’s shadow by the neck. The headmaster gasped as an invisible force constricted around him, locking him in place.

  “Nobody move,” Mordrain commanded, his voice dripping with malice. Mel and Althara sat frozen, their muscles tensed.

  Mordrain grinned. “I’m sure you’ve heard of me. Mordrain the Hollow. I was supposed to be dead. But here I am, very much alive—and with a plan.” He tilted his head, watching them like a predator savoring its next move. “And just so we’re clear, I will kill more innocent people.”

  Draven clawed at his throat, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. “What do you want?!” Mel demanded, his teeth clenched.

  Mordrain flinched. His orders had been clear—Donatello wanted him to make Mel attack Camelot. And yet…he hesitated.

  “I, uh… I…” He scratched his head, mumbling under his breath. “Shit.”

  Mel’s sharp gaze locked onto him, suspicion flaring in his eyes.

  Draven groaned, struggling against the invisible grip. “Come on! Where’s your pride? Can’t even fight me one-on-one?!” he spat.

  Mordrain blinked, and suddenly, his face lit up with realization. “Oh, right! I am from the Pride Kingdom!” he exclaimed as if he had genuinely forgotten.

  Mel and Althara exchanged a glance.

  This guy was dangerous. But he was also an idiot.

  “Pride Kingdom?!” Mel’s eyes widened in shock.

  Althara stiffened, her mind racing. Why would Carter suddenly attack Auroria Dominion? She brought a hand to her mouth, unease creeping into her voice. “He… he can’t resurrect people… can he?”

  Before either of them could press for answers, Mordrain tightened his grip on Draven’s shadow. The headmaster gasped, his struggles weakening—then, with terrifying force, Mordrain slammed him straight through the table. The wood splintered, debris scattering across the cell.

  Mel and Althara’s cuffs shattered from the impact, and without hesitation, they surged to their feet, magic crackling to life around them.

  But Mordrain was already gone.

  Draven lay on the floor, gasping for breath, his eyes darting wildly as he tried to process what had just happened.

  Mel reached down, pulling Draven to his feet as his sharp gaze swept the room. “Who is Mordrain?” he demanded.

  Althara raised her hands, and a soft glow spread through the dim space, illuminating every corner with a shimmering cloud of light. “Mordrain the Hollow,” she began, her voice steady yet grim. “A notorious serial killer from our parents’ era. He terrorized Camelot, leaving bodies in his wake, until King Arthur finally put him down.” She exhaled, eyes narrowing. “Everyone knows his name. But for him to reveal his identity so openly… he’s planning something. And it’s not just for us—it’s for someone specific.”

  She flicked her fingers, intensifying the glow. “His magic is shadow-based. Keeping the room bright will make it harder for him to hide.”

  Draven, still catching his breath, glanced at her in surprise and reluctant admiration.

  Mel’s gaze flickered around the room, scanning every shadow as if expecting Mordrain to emerge again. “We should keep this from the public,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “No one’s going to believe a serial killer came back to life.”

  Draven crossed his arms, watching him carefully. “You came back,” he pointed out.

  Mel stilled for a moment, his eyes dropping to the floor. “…Still, I’m not exactly normal.” His voice was quieter, but only for a second before he shook off the thought. “Anyway, what do we know? How does he kill? Who does he target?” His fingers curled into a fist. “There were plenty of serial killers in Caldara. I met them. I listened to them.” He exhaled sharply. “Soldiers, assassins, mercenaries—they kill with purpose. Orders. Goals. But serial killers?” His gaze darkened. “They kill because they want to. No loyalty, no higher reason. Just… desire.” His voice lowered. “And the worst ones? They make you think they have a reason.”

  Althara and Draven exchanged uneasy glances as Mel straightened. “So let’s figure out what he wants—before we get dragged into whatever twisted game he’s playing.”