Chapter 2988: Patricide - II

Date: Unspecified

Time: Unspecified

Location: Myriad Realms, Dark Realm, Gelid Alps, Snow Elven Region, High Snow District, Snow Capital

"No! I am done listening to you! The council was right—we should have gotten rid of these mutts and that filthy race that is a subpar imitation of us long ago!" the Elven Empyrean roared, his face contorted in absolute rage. Turning his eyes toward the elite Elven Royal Guards standing by, he barked an uncompromising command. "Take all the available units and kill them all! I don’t want to see anyone from their race alive ever again—"

Before the Elven Empyrean could even finish his sentence, his voice choked out.

A flash of condensed, freezing rule power flickered in the room. With a clean, sickening slice, the Empyrean’s head detached flawlessly from his shoulders. It fell to the ground with a heavy thud, rolling over the frosted floor before coming to a stop right at the Crown Prince’s feet.

The Crown Prince slowly stood up, entirely devoid of his previous desperation. He reached down, casually wiped a stray splash of blood off his palm, and turned his gaze toward the Royal Guards. His voice was completely calm, commanding, and filled with an iron authority that had been hidden for centuries.

"Take all available units and apprehend them all," the Prince ordered, stepping right over the corpse of his predecessor. "Call additional units if needed. Make sure none of the rebels are able to escape."

The Royal Guards didn’t even flinch upon witnessing the brutal death of their Empyrean. Bound by deep-seated protocols and perhaps a pre-arranged coup that ran far deeper than the Empyrean had ever realized, they simply saluted in perfect unison, instantly shifting their allegiance to the new sovereign.

Yes, the Crown Prince had long planned this coup. Because of the Froslings’ sudden, catastrophic move, he had been forced to execute his grand design far ahead of schedule, committing patricide instead of the bloodless transition he had meticulously mapped out.

His original plan had been to force his father into an early, quiet retirement by presenting a unified front: demonstrating that the entire House of Commons and a staggering two-thirds of the House of Lords actively supported his modern vision for the snow elven empire. As for the stubborn, traditionalist remaining third of the House of Lords? They would have been gracefully exiled, forced to leave the Gelid Alps to seek their future somewhere else.

But the Froslings had shattered that delicate political timeline.

The irony was profound: the Crown Prince actually hated the Froslings more than any other Snow Elf alive. He despised them with a passion—a hatred that burned ten times hotter now that their sudden rebellion had stained his hands with his own father’s blood. Yet, he hadn’t wiped them out over the millennia.

He kept them alive because, in his cold, calculating brilliance, he saw the Froslings as the single, definitive key to the Snow Elves ascending to become a true Ruler-class race.

The very half-bloods currently rioting in the Capital were the living proof of his grand vision. He didn’t want to just use the Froslings as mindless beasts of burden; he wanted to systematically harness their celestial immunity, blending the bloodlines to conquer the forbidden zones. Unfortunately, his father had been a stubborn relic of the past who completely failed to share or support this vision, viewing hybrids as nothing more than a disgusting stain on their pure lineage.

If only the old Empyrean had supported his son from the beginning, the Snow Elves wouldn’t be frantically defending a crumbling territory right now. They would already be a terrifying, newly minted Ruler-class force that the Dark Realm would have to respect.

He had deep-seated issues with his father, certainly, but under normal circumstances, none of them would have driven him to patricide. He was a politician and a tactician, not a mindless butcher.

However, he absolutely could not stand by and watch as his father’s outdated prejudices erased the single, golden chance for the Snow Elves to ascend into a true Ruler-class force. The old man was about to slaughter the very foundation of their future empire out of sheer spite.

So, he acted.

In those split seconds of chaos, the Prince had weighed his options. Maybe he could have just subdued the Empyrean, binding him with rule power and locking him away in the deep glacial vaults. But he knew his father. The old Empyrean wouldn’t go down easy, and he wouldn’t stay quiet.

A living, imprisoned monarch would only rally the traditionalist House of Lords, sparking a prolonged civil war while the district burned. If he planned to strike, he had to make sure the blow was absolute. His father had to die on the spot; otherwise, it would only add a catastrophic vulnerability to an already massive headache.

A clean cut, a rolling head, and an immediate transfer of power. It was brutal, but it was efficient.

He saw the death of his father as the necessary evil required for the Snow Elves to climb the ranks of the true Ruler-class forces in the Dark Realm. That was the script he repeated flawlessly in his mind, desperate to suppress the suffocating wave of guilt and manic rage threatening to rip him apart from the inside.

He told himself he should have done it sooner. He told himself anybody in his position would have done the exact same thing. He told himself that if he hadn’t reacted in that split second, both he and his father would have gone down in history as the greatest sinners of the entire elven race, locking them into eternal mediocrity.

But no matter what grand lies he fed his conscience, the heavy weight in his chest didn’t subside. The phantom smell of his father’s blood clung to his senses, fueling an explosive, volatile acceleration.

His flight speed increased to a terrifying, desperate velocity. He flew so fast that the sheer kinetic and rule-force tore the spatial fabric of the atmosphere in his trail, leaving a jagged, weeping scar of fractured space behind him. Today, he wasn’t looking to negotiate, and he wasn’t looking to enslave. He planned to kill until his guilt faded, kill until his rage subsided, and drown the entire Frosnow city in blood: destroy one city to take control the other thirty six.

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