The Veiled Man
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Martial Arts Vs Magic - Chapter 144
🕑 Added 2025-07-17 23:30:15 +0000 UTCChapter 144: Edicts and Emperors
The desert heat fell on my hair as Lailah and I materialized outside the Leviathan Cult. The Bifrost was less chaotic this time, a controlled shimmer of stellar energy as if to announce my current status. Not a refugee stumbling through portals, but a sovereign making a state visit.
I was surprised to find the cultists already standing in their ceremonial formation, faces hidden beneath ritual veils that did nothing to mask their wariness.
Lailah must have promised them that I’d accept her request, and so they were waiting for me even though it’d been nearly half a day since Lailah left. Which immediately made them look better in my eyes, compared to some people who played politics by delaying meetings.
At their center, Senna Korthalis waited with the patience of stone.
[Senna Korthalis, Leviathan Worshipper, Level 153]
She’d leveled up twice in the last two months. Which was slow by my stupid standards but quite decent for someone at the 8th Ascension. She stepped forward, her movements carrying the fluid grace of someone who'd learned to make water dance in a desert. The bow she offered was precisely calibrated, respectful enough to acknowledge my power, shallow enough to remind me she served another.
"Sovereign of Nevaramis," she said, her voice carrying the weight of centuries. "Your reputation precedes you like thunder before lightning."
"High Priestess," I returned the greeting with a nod. "Though I suspect my reputation varies wildly depending on who's telling the story."
"Indeed," she agreed, raising her head. Her pale eyes studied me with the intensity of a scholar examining a particularly dangerous specimen. "Some call you the Demon who toppled Aethelgard. Others name you the boy who made an Arcane King bleed. Which version stands before us?"
"Both. Neither." I let a smile touch my lips. Make an Arcane King bleed? I nearly died. Not that I was complaining. It upscaled my power level more than necessary, and for a Demonic Cult leader, that wasn’t a bad thing. "I'm simply a man offering sanctuary to those the world would rather forget."
“Saintess Lailah has delivers her words, I’m impressed,” she circled me slowly, and I stood still, letting her take my measure. The other cultists shifted nervously, but Lailah remained calm beside me. She'd grown into her confidence these past months, no longer the shy desert flower but a woman who understood her worth.
"All sanctuaries have a price," Senna finally said, completing her circuit. "What do you ask of the Leviathan in return for this... paradise?"
"I'm pretty sure you're ready to sacrifice quite a bit, given it's the legendary city of Nevaramis we're speaking about." I met her gaze directly. "Regardless, can I talk to Lailah's mother instead?"
The words landed like stones in still water. Several cultists frowned at how brazen I was, and even Senna's composure cracked slightly.
"Heavenly Demon, just because–" She caught herself, glancing at Lailah. "I apologize. Of course. As this is a matter about moving to a land where another cult already rules, it must be discussed with our Goddess rather than myself. The will of our revered ancestor must indeed be honored. If the Saintess permits..."
So they consider the Leviathans their ancestor and Lailah’s mother their Goddess…? It was expected of a cult, but that made me think of Lailah for a moment longer. The daughter of a Goddess. Turns out the desert rose of a Devil Princess, instead.
Lailah nodded, her chin lifting with quiet pride. "I'll serve as her vessel."
A minute later, we were led into the temple's inner sanctum, where shadows danced between pillars older than memory. The ritual preparations were swift. A silver chalice was filled with water that glowed with its own inner light, herbs that filled the air with the scent of deep oceans despite being harvested in endless sand.
Lailah drank without hesitation.
The transformation was breathtaking and dramatic. Her body trembled as her aura underwent a change. My Sovereign’s Gaze saw it all. Since that skill could see the “source” of a devil’s power, I saw more than necessary. The Abyssal Echo.
In Lailah’s case, a cold fire burned deep within her, the vital force that animated her. By focusing, I could almost see the threads linking her to the larger fabric of existence. Her mother was different. The fire was greater, and the ‘cold’ of it might as well have been a titanic glacier. Many threads connected her to the people across the cult, for she was their Goddess; she was what they worshipped. She was the source to which Lailah was connected.
There were physical changes as well. Her black hair gained streaks of blue and gold, representing the water-dwelling and sand-diving aspects of her heritage. Scales like black pearls traced her cheekbones, and her eyes... her eyes held depths that had never known sunlight.
[Zarielle Al-Mazhara, Devil Leviathan, ???]
"Iskandaar Romani." The voice that emerged wasn't quite Lailah's anymore. It carried the weight of oceans, the patience of tides. "The boy who gave my daughter strength when the world would have crushed her."
I bowed, deeper this time. This wasn't just a matter of political courtesy; it was a genuine respect for a mother who had sacrificed herself for her child.
"Lady Zarielle. It's an honor."
"Is it?" She tilted her head—Lailah's head—studying me with ancient eyes. "Most humans would call it foolishness, inviting one of the Archdevil’s attention. Even one reduced to speaking through spiritual echoes."
"Forgive my lack of fear, but most haven't spent months teaching your daughter to harness winds in a desert. From the stories I’ve heard about you, you wouldn’t be too difficult on me." I said with a smile, meeting those impossible eyes. "It’s my turn to be surprised, honestly. Most can’t tell I’m actually a human."
"Hmm." She moved closer, and I felt the temperature drop despite the desert heat. "It is a peculiar thing, yes. I was unsure at first, but after a closer look, I became certain you are indeed human, in the end. Your body reeks of demon, but not exactly. And your core… cores… contain a form of Demonic Energy. That’s quite odd… Tell me, Heavenly Demon, what do you know of the Seventy-Two?"
"Less than I should," I admitted. "More than most."
She laughed, the sound like waves breaking against stone. "Diplomatic. Very well. Let me educate you, since you seem intent on messing with devils in the future as well."
She gestured, and water rose from the chalice, forming shapes in the air. Sigils and symbols that hurt to look at directly.
"The gates to Heaven and the Underworld were open to Earth a long time into history. A long time even before that, seventy-two clans ruled the Underworld before your kind learned to name us devils and demons." The water shifted, showing great cities that defied geometry. "We were not fallen angels or corrupted spirits. We were our own people, with our own pride. The ‘Jinn’ is a very correct term."
"Were?" I prompted.
"Even we Jinns have a lifespan, alongside wars that can kill us. Few of the original 72 Devil Pillars exist, less so among the Archdevil families. The Archdevils aren’t part of the 72 Devils. You might have heard that there used to be Seven Origin Sins, who were refined into the Arcane Crowns. Those damned crowns aren’t the only thing they left behind; they left behind children of their own, families of their own. The Leviathan Family is one of those ancient Devil Clans. Three of the Ancient Lines are extinct. The Lucifer Clan, which was pride itself. The Satan Clan, who were all wrath. And the Mammon Clan, who ruled over greed and desire." Each name made the air heavier. "Gone, erased by heavenly hosts who feared what we might become."
"And the Leviathans?"
Her smile was sharp as broken glass. "We? Who commands the waters, who remembers when the world was young and wet? We survive. Barely. Scattered and hunted, reduced to cults and whispers. But we survive. Once, the Seven Ancient Lines controlled the Underworld. Now, the Seventy Two Pillars do. Even so, we survive."
Even among the Devils, Jinns, there was a lot of politics going on. "Must be related to you fleeing to the mortal realm," I said softly. “Now you’ve returned, and given how you’re still alive, you haven’t lost to your persuers.”
"Yes," she agreed. "The Leviathan Clan will return. Previously, it was just me and a few others, but now I have Lailah. Her potential is endless, and I must thank you for bringing it to light. Which brings us to the business." The water coalesced into a perfect miniature of Nevaramis. "You offer sanctuary. Safety. A chance to rebuild. I’m grateful for that. But… what price do you place on this help?"
I took a breath, choosing my words carefully. "I don't command, Lady Zarielle. I negotiate. I offer your cult a home your ancient enemies cannot touch. Resources to rebuild your clan to its former glory. In return, I ask for two things."
"Name them."
"Your absolute loyalty to the Heavenly Demon Divine Sect." I held up a hand before she could object. "Not servitude. Partnership. Your people would be a division within my structure, maintaining your traditions while contributing to our shared strength."
"And the second?"
"Your knowledge. Your networks. Your eyes and ears across the realms." I gestured at the temple around us. "The Leviathan Cult has survived centuries through information, through knowing what others would keep hidden. I need that intelligence network."
She considered this, the water dancing between us in patterns that might have been calculations or prophecies.
"You seek to build more than a cult," she said finally. "You seek to place yourself at the top of the world’s food chain and rule. Am I wrong?"
"Looking at the pages of history, I feel like the world is changing far too fast lately, far too much," I said. “The current Demon King is strange, different from the previous one. Above us in the heavens, the Twelve Gods are no different than normal people who simply reached a high level, unlike the narrative the common man believes. I’ve also heard about the prophecy of the Greatest Generation.” I knew all this from the Game and… from living in this world as a real person. “All of this combined, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that there are dangers I know will come, but I don’t know how to stop them. In that case, I just have to prepare for the worst. And also ensure my people survive the change."
"Your people." Her gaze sharpened. "Does that include my daughter?"
The question crept behind me like an assassin’s blade. I could feel Lailah's consciousness beneath her mother's, waiting, hoping.
"Lailah is under my protection," I said simply. "Whether as friend, ally, or... more. That's her choice. But regardless of what she chooses, she has a home in Nevaramis for as long as she wants it."
"Pretty words." Zarielle moved closer, and I smelled salt and storms. "But I'm a mother, not a diplomat. So I'll ask you plainly… will you protect my daughter?"
"With my life."
The words came without thought, without calculation. They were simply true. Her expression softened, and for a moment, I saw not an ancient Archdevil but a mother who'd been forced to abandon her child.
"Then you shall have the loyalty of the Leviathan,” she said. “Motherly protection aside, I am tasked with the protection of my cult as well, but I have a feeling it will be better to move to Nevaramis with some compromises rather than stay hiding in this little hole. In the end, if you call yourself the Heavenly Demon and are looking to build a Pantheon to go against those Deities above, you’d need other people to fill the chairs around you. A pantheon can’t be run by a single God, not unless you’re omnipotent. So I just hope you will keep your word and see us—Lailah—as a partner. She’s my daughter, as well as the Cult’s Saintess, after all." The water fell back into the chalice as her presence began to fade. "Care for her, Iskandaar Romani. She is the last pureblood of our line, yes, despite being half human. She’s the hope of our resurrection."
"I will," I promised as Lailah's eyes returned to their normal brown. "I swear it on the Heavenly Demon's name. I look forward to this alliance."
The transformation reversed slowly, leaving Lailah swaying on her feet. I caught her before she could fall, holding her steady as she found her balance.
"Did you mean it?" she whispered, too quiet for the others to hear.
"Every word."
She smiled, exhaustion and joy warring on her face. "Then let's go home."
I turned to Senna, who'd watched the entire exchange with the stillness of deep water. "As far as meetings go, that went smoothly. I think we still have to discuss the details, but we can delay that for a bit since two more strong groups will be joining us soon. For now, please choose five among you. You’ll be allowed to bring everyone soon, at a later date. We leave immediately."
"...Can you give us until morning, then?" She gestured, and the cultists looked around at each other. "I apologize for wasting your time, but we have to prepare quite a few things."
"Sure thing. Be quick, we shouldn’t keep paradise waiting."
****
Next morning, we stepped out in the open under the sun, and I reached for Nevaramis in my mind, feeling the city's eager response. The Bifrost crashed like a gentle rain this time, enveloping us in light that tasted of home.
We materialized not in the grand plaza or the crystalline corridors, but in the middle of Rafin's impossible farm. The cultists' first sight of their new world was golden grain swaying in an artificial breeze, fruit trees heavy with bounty that shouldn't exist, and streams that flowed upward in cheerful defiance of the laws of physics.
And at the center of it all, Rafin himself, dirt under his nails and joy on his face as he tended to seedlings with the care of a man who'd found his purpose.
Senna stood frozen, her ceremonial composure shattered. One of the other cultists actually dropped to their knees, overwhelmed by the sheer life force of the place.
"This is..." Senna's voice cracked.
"Tuesday," I said mildly. "Wait until you see what Stratos does with the weather on weekends. Ah, Stratos is the island's Spirit Administrator. Call for her if you need anything."
She turned to me, understanding dawning in those pale eyes. "Lailah was right. You're not building a cult."
"No?"
"I thought since it’s a flying city it’d just have buildings and weapons, but if you can self sustain this entire place, this is a whole kingdom. This immediately makes the Heavenly Demon Cult one of the most influential cults in the world, just by existing." She looked back at the farm, at the mechanical drones tending crops alongside human hands, at the impossible abundance that mocked everything she knew about desert survival. "This… this is like a separate world. A world where the old rules need not apply."
"Now you're getting it." I clapped her shoulder, feeling the tension in her muscles. "Welcome to Nevaramis, High Priestess Senna. Let's discuss how your intelligence networks can help us find some wayward werewolves and vampires, shall we?"
As we walked toward the administrative district, Lailah fell into step beside me. She didn't say anything, but her hand brushed mine, a question and a promise all at once.
I caught her fingers, squeezing gently before letting go. She had the world’s time to figure out what she wanted us to be. For now, it was enough that she was home.
Behind us, the Leviathan cultists explored their new world with the wonder of children, their whispered prayers mixing with the mechanical hum of progress. The old world could keep its traditions, its ancient feuds, its careful balance of power. Here in Nevaramis, we were writing new rules.
And I had a feeling we were going to need them for what was coming.
****
Far from the flying city of Nevaramis, the throne room of the Erebian Empire was a monument of the controlled power that ruled the old world. Full of ostentatious displays of wealth, flowing with unnecessary ornamentation, with stark stone that had weathered centuries and iron that had tasted the blood of pretenders.
Sikandar Romani stood at its center, feeling the weight of that history pressing down on him heavier than a mountain. Dozens of eyes observed his chained self.
To his left, the Gold Dragon delegation stood with barely contained fury. Their elaborate robes and gleaming scales seemed gaudy in this austere space, peacocks strutting in an eagle's nest. To his right, Qadir stood with the easy grace of a man who'd learned to find comfort in uncomfortable places, even with his arms tied behind him.
And before them all, on a throne that had been carved from a single block of meteoric stone, sat the Emperor.
[Zulfiqar Talib Shah, Emperor Ruler of Erebia, Level 279]
Age had touched him lightly, the Arcane Crown of Stillness saw to that, but Sikandar remembered when that hair had been black instead of silver, when those eyes had held dreams instead of calculations.
"Sikandar." The Emperor's voice carried the weight of skies, though Sikandar caught the slight rasp that spoke of sleepless nights. "For nearly a century, you have been the unbreakable sword of this Empire. You have crushed rebellions and held back gods."
“....”
He paused, and in that silence, Sikandar heard the echo of every battle, every victory bought with blood. "Explain to me, old friend. Explain this... deviation."
The word hung in the air like an accusation. Sikandar's mind drifted, not to the boy on the throne but to his father, an older, more idealistic Emperor who'd stood in the ashes of the War of Broken Crowns.
"The world is changing, Sikandar," that long-dead voice whispered across the years. "We need more than warriors. We need builders, dreamers, people who can imagine peace."
Sikandar had nothing. He was a nobody. Sikandar Romani wasn’t born a powerhouse, nor was he born a noble. He was born a slum rat with Qadir, and after being caught as thieves, they were sent to the military, and the military granted his life purpose. Power, too. At first, he had nothing, and he was just another weak soldier destined to die. One achievement changed his life, and he received an honor medal from the previous Emperor.
"Then let me be your fist," Sikandar had replied, young and stupid and full of fire. "So others can afford to dream."
Many things have changed since then. The fire lessened. Sikandar was even granted nobility by being adopted into a noble house, his new father all too happy to have a young war hero in his family. However, things changed when disagreements arose between him and his greedy new family, and Sikandar chose to flee to Ethenia under a disguise. That’s when he met her. That Romani girl.
Someone who he fell for so hard that he still carried her name beside his to this day. Sikandar Romani, rather than going by the name of his Sharumein noble family.
A lot had happened in these eighty years of his life, he realized. When he was young, he never even thought he’d live this long. One such instance was when he heard about the previous Emperor’s death, which prompted him to return to the battlefield. He made the same promise to the Emperor’s son, the current Emperor, to stop him from using the Arcane Crown to head into an all-out Arcane War against Ethenia.
The promise had seemed so simple then. Be the monster so others didn't have to be. Take the blood on his hands so theirs could stay clean.
He'd kept that promise through six wars, three rebellions, and more assassination attempts than he bothered counting. In the end, he’d even chosen duty over family, empire over love, until those choices had carved him hollow.
And then his grandson, that brilliant, reckless, and impossible boy, had looked at those same choices and said no.
“There’s nothing to explain, Zulfiqar,” he replied, taking his name where no one else would dare to in this court. But nobody was surprised. If Sikandar Romani had been a greedy man, that Arcane Crown would be sitting on his head instead. Arcane Kings didn’t die so easily, but when they did, everyone jumped to grab the crown. The weak Prince was destined to die back then. Sikandar kept him safe.
Everyone on the planet knew. If Sikandar wanted the throne, he could have long had it.
"Your Majesty," one of the Gold Dragons stepped forward, his voice dripping with outrage. "This so-called 'Titan' of yours allowed his demonic grandson to abduct a princess of a sovereign nation. He assaulted our King. This is an act of war!"
Sikandar turned his head slowly, fixing the dragon with a gaze that had made gods flinch. “So-called? What do you mean so-called?’
The creature, Level 162, respectable but not remarkable, took a step back.
What about his titanic power was so-called? Foolish lizard bastard. You attacked my blood, Sikandar thought, the words thundering through his skull. In front of me. You breathe only because killing an Arcane King isn’t as easy as it sounds. And the results would be bothersome.
Aloud, he said simply, "I protected my family."
"Your family," the Emperor said, raising a hand to silence the dragon, "has just shattered an alliance that has kept the peace for five hundred years. Your grandson is now wanted by three empires."
"Zulfiqar. My grandson did what I could not." Sikandar said, his voice a low rumble that made the windows tremble, "He chose love over duty."
The words fell into silence like stones into deep water. The Emperor's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. Memory, perhaps, or understanding.
They'd been there, after all, when Sikandar had made the opposite choice. When word had come of Ananya's death, of a daughter who'd grown up without a father, of a life sacrificed on the altar of imperial necessity. The Emperor had apologized then, and to show he meant it, he took Sikandar by himself to attend the funeral. An Arcane King going to another region unannounced could spark a war. The Erebian Emperor didn’t care for such a thing, and showed his friend the respect he deserved.
Unlike what his daughter thought in her hate, the Emperor did not see Sikandar as a tool. He respected the man who could have killed him if he wanted back then, but rather fulfilled his duty with more honor than any noble knight.
"Love." The Emperor's laugh was bitter as winter wine. "Fair point. Love topples kingdoms, Sikandar. Love starts wars."
"Fear ends them," Sikandar countered. "Which is why you've kept me leashed all these years. Your attack dog, ready to bare teeth at any threat."
"You were never leashed." Real heat entered the Emperor's voice for the first time, he sounded a little hurt. "Every choice you made, you made freely."
"Did I?" Sikandar thought of his daughter's last words, the venom in them sharp enough to cut even through a communication crystal. "Or did I just tell myself to sleep at night? If I’m so free, why the HELL am I being questioned for protecting my grandson?!"
The entire courtroom fell silent. Even the Emperor’s eyes widened.
Only the whisper of wind through stone could be heard for a whole minute. When was the last time they’d seen the Titan this enraged? Guards shifted nervously. The Gold Dragons muttered among themselves. Even Qadir seemed to hold his breath.
Sikandar’s second wife, the woman his adopted father had forced him to marry, whom he hadn’t made eye contact with since entering the court, scowled in shock. His children looked stunned at their father’s rage.
Finally, the Emperor sighed, the sound loud in the vast space. "Sikandar Romani, I cannot punish you without risking civil war. The people name you hero, the knights worship your shadow. But neither can I ignore what your grandson has done."
He stood, the Arcane Crown pulsing with subtle light. "Sikandar Romani, you are hereby confined to the Imperial Capital until this matter is resolved. Your grandson is declared a global fugitive. The Empire will not hunt him, but nor will we protect him. What you did this time was your own choice, let the Gold Dragons hear, and hopefully it won’t be repeated. He has made his own kingdom. Let us see if he can hold it."
Sikandar nodded once, accepting the judgment. He knew the game, within a fortnight, public pressure would force his release. The Emperor knew it too. This was theater, a sop to the Gold Dragons' pride.
"One question, Your Majesty," Sikandar said as the court prepared to disperse. "Don’t misunderstand, I’m not talking about myself here. When you were young… if someone had stood between you and the throne, what would you have done?"
The Emperor's smile was sharp as a blade. "Burned the world to ash."
"Then you understand my grandson perfectly."
The Gold Dragons stormed out in a flutter of silk and barely contained rage. Courtiers scattered like leaves before a storm. Soon, only Sikandar, Qadir, and the Emperor remained. Sikandar stopped holding his arms so close, letting them loose, and the chains binding him shattered. Qadir followed suit.
"He can't hold it," the Emperor said quietly, all pretense dropped. "A floating city, a handful of lovers, dreams of a better world, it's not enough. Not against what's coming."
"Maybe not," Sikandar agreed. "But he'll try. And that's more than we ever did." The Emperor did not reply. Sikandar turned to leave, pausing at the great doors. "Zulfiqar, your father would have liked him. Iskandaar. He has the same stupid courage, the same belief that the world can be better than it is."
"My father died believing that," the Emperor said. “Even with the Crown.”
"No," Sikandar corrected gently. "He died making it true. The only question is whether we learned the right lesson from it."
He left the Emperor alone with his crown and his doubts, Qadir falling into step beside him as they made their way through corridors that felt more like a tomb than a palace.
"Think the boy can do it?" Qadir asked once they were safely away from listening ears.
Sikandar stared out a window toward the distant horizon, where somewhere beyond sight, his grandson was building impossible dreams on a foundation of defiance.
The Titan of Erebia, who'd broken armies and made demigods kneel, who'd chosen duty over love and spent a lifetime regretting it, allowed himself one moment of pure, terrible hope.
The boy might actually pull it off.
And if he does, Gods help us all.
Sikandar Romani let out a laugh.
**
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The Veiled Man Note: Other character POV’s are pretty rare in this story, and the ones we do see basically cover the same area/scene where Iskandaar is present, so this was a bit different. I loved writing this chapter because of that, and because of Sikandar. Tell me your thoughts on it!!
And sorry for the late chapter!! I did write it in time but didn't have the time to proofread it, and since I feel like this a vital chapter with the lore and all, I decided to take my time with it.
Comments
The Hand Behind the Veil
I'm glad I managed to convey my vision for Sikandar. Truly a cool badass gramps
The Hand Behind the Veil
Hahahaha truly a grandpa moment 🔥
Brian McDonald
I love the fact that Iskandaar has gone most of the series acting and believing that he can’t and shouldn’t rely on Sikandaar even by reputation and Sikandaar himself proves to be a much more reliable supporter
Ron1990
That was a really cool chapter. I like the POV of Sikandar. It added much life to the chapter. Not only a hero, but a man with his own history. A man you can write books about 😉. And Iskandar? If only he could know. Honestly, who doesn't want his grandpa to be proud of him?
