"A threat in your kingdom comes near." the Ice Dagger whispered again, its voice cold and echoing like frost creeping across glass. The Cruel King's fingers tightened around its hilt, hidden at his side.

What could that possibly mean...?

The throne room of the Blackrock Kingdom was unnaturally silent—an oppressive, heavy quiet that filled the space like thick fog. Shafts of pale blue light filtered in through towering stained glass windows, painting the checkered marble floor in ghostly shades. Frigid air drifted from the highest stone arches above, swirling around the towering form seated upon the icy blue throne. Cruel King.

"The kingdom will fall."

"They will betray you."

"Only we can save them."

He listened.

And he ruled.

Though they called him Cruel, his cruelty was never born of madness—it was born of clarity. Sacrifice must be made. Weakness could not be tolerated. Betrayal had to be silenced before it began. The Blackrock Kingdom would endure... even if it endured in ice and agony.

The grand doors of the throne room creaked. Ice spread like veins along their hinges. The guards shivered in place. And through them stepped a figure as strange and bold as the coming storm.

Builderman.

Guards flinched. Nobles gasped. Servants fled.

He walked like he owned the place. Not in the way of a fool, nor a delusional hero. He walked as if he had already burned it once and had come back for the ashes. Every step left a shadow behind. Not the absence of light, but the presence of something wrong. His hatred, heavy and alive, seemed to radiate off him in waves. The banners lining the walls rippled in a wind that didn't exist.

Cruel King rose from his throne.

His boots struck the steps like hammer blows. Slowly, he descended, his cloak dragging behind him, frost and jagged ice hissing across the stones. The guards didn't move. They couldn't. Builderman's eyes met his, and the room might as well have vanished around them. The world froze. The voices screamed.

"Speak your purpose, stranger," Cruel King growled. His voice was deep, regal, yet fraying at the edges—like a monarch trying desperately to believe in himself. "You stand in my throne room with no crown, no offering, and no fear. Are you mad, or do you simply wish to die?"

Builderman didn't flinch. Didn't speak. He just smiled.

And Cruel King hated that smile. That damn smile that cut through the cold. That mocked the burden he carried. That questioned the decisions he had made for the good of his people. The dagger pulsed with warning in his palm. The voices grew louder.

"He is the end."

"He will steal it."

"He will ruin everything."

"End him. Now."

"I've come to take what's mine." Builderman responded.

The Ice Dagger pulsed at the King's side. He drew it, the blade singing a mournful, eerie tone as it left the sheath—shimmering with translucent, ancient magic, its edge rimmed with frost so cold it burned.

And then Builderman smiled. Cruel King tensed, expecting violence. Expecting fire. Expecting a weapon drawn—

But instead... Builderman kissed him.

It wasn't soft. It wasn't warm. It was full of hatred, concentrated and deliberate. It was a statement. A brand. An infection.

And for the first time in what felt like years, Cruel King staggered. The dagger trembled in his hand. The voices screamed again—but now they were uncertain.

What had just happened? What was this... searing, boiling thing that had been pressed onto his lips, into his soul? The dagger slipped out of his hand. Crumpling to the floor.

What was this... Feeling?