The grand arena was alive with energy, a tapestry of colors and sounds swirling beneath the towering stone walls of King Ross's castle. Mammoth-fur carpets stretched across the arena floor, a testament to the king's grandeur and the abundance of his reign. The air was thick with the aroma of roasted meats and spices as laughter and cheers echoed from the stands. Amidst this jubilation, Kenji Dorn, a figure cloaked in shadow, watched from a secluded corner, his eyes locked on the regal figure of King Ross seated upon his throne.
Kenji Dorn, his heart a tempest of envy and ambition, gripped his bow tightly. He despised the democracy King Ross had fostered, believing it diluted the power that rightfully belonged to a sole ruler. "This will be the end of his reign," he murmured to himself, as he nocked the fatal arrow. The crowd's roar surged, a perfect cover for the treacherous act he was about to commit.
As the king rose to acknowledge his people, Kenji Dorn seized the moment. The arrow flew true, striking King Ross with deadly precision. A collective gasp swept through the arena as the beloved king fell. Panic ensued, a cacophony of screams and cries for help. In the chaos, Kenji Dorn leaped from his hiding place, his eyes wild with both fear and triumph.
Kenji Dorn fled, his heart pounding as he navigated the labyrinthine streets of the ancient city. But fate was not on his side. He stumbled, a sharp pain slicing through his leg as he tumbled down a steep staircase. Desperation lent him strength; he mounted a horse carriage, urging the beast into a gallop. Behind him, the shouts of an angry mob echoed, a relentless tide of vengeance.
For twelve days, Kenji Dorn eluded capture, hiding in shadows and surviving on whispers of news from the city. But the hunt was unyielding. He was discovered in the quiet of a forgotten barn, surrounded by Roman soldiers. Their spears gleamed in the half-light, a grim promise of justice. With resolve, they ended Kenji Dorn's life, his dreams of power extinguished in a moment.
Jeffock, son of the slain king, stood before the gathered mourners, his heart heavy with loss. A solemn memorial for King Ross unfolded, the air thick with incense and whispered prayers. "In my father's name, I swear to uphold his ideals of peace and democracy," he declared, raising his father’s sword high. From that day forward, Jeffock ruled Belrick, every day honoring his father's memory with the gleam of that sword, a symbol of resilience and hope for the future.
