Kingdom Building Game: Starting Out With A Million Upgrade Points!

Seraphine stepped forward, her boots clicking softly against the polished marble as she approached Lord Damarion and his remaining guards. The flames from the shattered doorway cast long shadows across the lavish hall, their flickering light dancing on the bloodied steel in her hand.

The guards flanking Damarion gripped their swords tightly, their eyes darting between one another. Fear. It was thick in the airundeniable. They had seen what had happened outside. They knew the battle was already lost.

Seraphine exhaled slowly, shifting her stance. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword, her body sinking low as if she were about to step into a flowing river.

She moved.

The first guard barely had time to react before her blade slashed through the air in a sweeping arc. She twisted her wrist, guiding the steel like a coursing wave. The man's throat split open, blood spraying across the marble floor. His body collapsed with a sickening thud.

The second lunged for her in desperation, thrusting his sword toward her chest. Seraphine side stepped effortlessly. She guided his strike past her, stepping into his open stance. Her blade whistled through the air—once, twice. The first slash severed the tendons in his wrist, his sword clattering to the floor. The second carved through his ribs, tearing through armor, flesh and bone. He gasped, blood bubbling at his lips before he crumpled to the ground, twitching.

The final guard tried to flee.

Seraphine did not allow it.

She intently closed the distance and swung her sword diagonally across his back, slashing through his spine. The force of the impact drove him forward, his body skidding across the blood-slicked floor. He let out a single, strangled gasp before going still.

Silence.

Only Damarion remained.

He looked at her, anger and desperation burning in his eyes. Yet behind that rage, there was something else—an understanding that this was the end.

With a roar, he charged.

Seraphine sidestepped him with ease, her blade snapping out like a whip. The tip of her sword met his wrist, slicing tendons and forcing his fingers open. His weapon clattered to the floor. Before he could react, she brought her boot up, slamming it into the back of his knee. He collapsed forward, landing hard on the cold stone.

"Hold him down," she ordered.

"Yes Captain."

The knights surged forward, grabbing his arms, forcing him onto his stomach.

Damarion thrashed, his face pressed against the bloodstained floor. Seraphine stood over him, tilting her head as she observed him—like a scholar examining an insect before crushing it beneath her boot.

"You'll burn for this," he spat. "You think the Empire will stand behind this massacre? You think you can just wipe out my house—"

"Burn it to the ground," Seraphine ordered, cutting him off.

The knights did not hesitate. Torches were flung against the drapes, onto the fine wooden furniture. Fire erupted, climbing the walls, devouring the estate slowly. Smoke curled toward the ceiling, filling the grand hall with the scent of charred wood and flesh.

Damarion let out a furious howl, his struggles growing more violent. "You won't get away with this! Do you hear me, Seraphine?! You are a dead woman!"

The doors burst open again, and more knights entered, dragging three figures behind them—a woman and two young men, both barely of age.

"Lady Damarion and the sons," one of the knights reported. "What do you want us to do with them?"

Seraphine eyed them. The two boys were trembling, their faces pale with terror. The woman, however, managed to keep herself calm and dignified, her chest rising and falling in controlled breaths.

Seraphine's blue eyes looked so cold as she spoke.

"Kill them."

A sharp gasp broke from Lady Damarion.

Her mask of composure cracked, and she stumbled forward, her hands clasped together. "Wait—please! I beg you! I had no part in this!" Her voice trembled. "I tried to stop him! I told him not to act against the Emperor!"

Damarion, still pinned beneath the knights, turned his head, sneering. "Treacherous woman," he spat.

Lady Damarion's expression twisted into something venomous. "Fool!" she hissed. "Did you truly think you could rebel against Emperor Arkanos and live? You have doomed us all!" She turned back to Seraphine, desperation flickering in her eyes. "Please, if you spare me, I swear my father will reward you handsomely. Lord Aldric Voss of House Voss holds great influence in the imperial court—he will see to it that you are well compensated!"

She said, not even knowing the emperor hasn't summoned the entire imperial court in a while.

Seraphine tilted her head, gazing at the woman. Then, in a voice as cold as the steel she wielded, she spoke.

"Lady Amara Voss-Damarion."

The woman stiffened.

"When a the head of a house makes mistakes, the burden does not fall on him alone," Seraphine said, stepping closer. "It falls on all those who follow him, his wife and sons of his house. Or have you forgotten how imperial law works?"

Amara's lips parted, but no words came out.

"Your husband swore his allegiance to Emperor Arkanos when he took the throne. Yet he dared to plot treason, to take his head." Seraphine's voice did not waver. "You could have sent word of his betrayal long before tonight. You remained silent. That makes you just as guilty."

Amara shook her head frantically. "No—I had no choice! He would have killed me if I—"

"Then you should have died," Seraphine said flatly.

Tears welled in the woman's eyes, but Seraphine did not waver.

"Finish them," she ordered. "Leave their corpses to burn with the estate."

The knights obeyed.

"Yes Captain."

Amara screamed as steel flashed. The boys barely had time to cry out before their bodies collapsed onto the blood-streaked floor. The fire roared around them, going up the walls, consuming the house of Damarion.

Seraphine turned back to Damarion. His face was twisted with horror as he watched his sons and wife bleed out, faces frozen in terror, his rage replaced by something hollow.

"Tie him up," she commanded. "We're done here."

The knights bound him, dragging him to his feet. The estate burned behind them as they stepped outside, smoke rising into the night sky like the dying breath of a ruined house.

….

….

The Storming of Frostveil

The Snowy Northern Border, The Stronghold of Frost veil.

The wind howled through the Frostveil Mountains, a bitter, unrelenting force that carried the taste of ice and blood. Snow draped the jagged peaks like a funeral shroud, and below, nestled within the valley, lay the northern stronghold of Frostveil—Lord Adrian Velmont's seat of power. The town, built against the cliffside, was a grim fortress of dark stone, its walls thick and jagged like a beast's spine.

Its banners—deep blue and silver wolf—flapped in the icy wind, though their defiance would soon mean nothing.

Fires burned behind its ramparts, flickering in the snowfall, their glow revealing rows of archers in heavy furs and steel helms, poised like specters above the gate.

Beyond the stronghold, the land stretched into the Veilwood, a dense tangle of frostbitten pines, and to the west, the Gorge of Aedwyn, a treacherous canyon where the cliffs dropped hundreds of feet, a narrow path that lead to the highlands. It was through this gorge that Velmont's forces could escape if the battle turned against them.

Laris knew he could not allow that.

…

The Night Before The Fall of House Velmont

Inside a secluded cave within the mountain pass, Laris stood before a fire, his pale blue gaze sweeping over the hardened faces of his knights. The cavern walls flickered with shadows, and the air smelled of wet stone and oil.

"Velmont is no fool," Laris began, his voice steady, measured. "His forces may be undisciplined, but they are numerous, and his rangers are the deadliest in the north."

A grizzled knight, Sir Edric Halver, shifted where he stood. "The terrain favors him," he said. "His men know these mountains, and his rangers will cut us down before we reach the gate."

Laris nodded. "Which is why we will not march blindly."

He turned to a group of cloaked men—his scouts, who had spent the past three days charting the paths through the mountains. One of them, stepped forward, brushing snow from his furs.

"We tracked his patrols," Roderik said. "He keeps a rotating watch on the eastern ridges, but he's left the northern approach lightly guarded. His forces are focused on the western gorge, likely expecting us to block his retreat. But—" Roderik hesitated, glancing at the others. "There's something else."

"Speak," Laris ordered.

"The northern riders," Roderik said. "Velmont's beastmasters. They ride Direwolves—great creatures, larger than horses. His shamans will be among them, using their spirit arts to strengthen the beasts."

Laris absorbed the news without flinching. Then he turned to his assembled knights.

"Velmont will not go down easily," Laris began. "He has numbers, archers, and beasts at his disposal. But we have something greater—skill, discipline, and the advantage of strategy. We do not attack as a single wave. We strike as the sword of the Empire—precise and lethal."