Deep within the twisting asylum, where echoes screamed louder than thoughts, Ezra stood alone.

The lunatics circled him like wolves. Their eyes glowed with madness—not theirs, but borrowed. From him. The Warden.

Ezra raised his voice, commanding them like a true king. “Kneel. Obey.”
But they only laughed. Mocked him.
And somewhere beyond the walls, The Warden’s laughter came—calm, ancient, victorious.

"They are not yours, boy," the Warden whispered, his voice crawling along the floor like a fog. "You have no dominion. Your crown is paper. Your name... still dust."

Ezra’s knees buckled.

His mind was fraying.

What use was this crown if no one recognized it?
What was the point of being a King… with no kingdom?

The lunatics surged forward—
And then—

He remembered.

The stage. The blood. The moment he fell.
The moment Livia reached out not to save—but to acknowledge.

And the fire in his chest ignited.

He stood up—slow, defiant, head lifted like it bore something divine.

The Warden’s voice hissed: "You will kneel."

And Ezra answered, roaring through the broken asylum:

“I only bow… to my Queen!”

A silence dropped like a guillotine.

Then— The asylum shifted.

The lunatics halted mid-charge, trembling, eyes flickering.

Ezra’s presence expanded—no longer asking for obedience.
He was claiming it.

   King’s Supremacy activated.

They heard the voice again.
Not the Warden’s.
Ezra’s.

“Rise… and serve your King.”

And they did.

The Asylum turned.

The Warden stirred.

The asylum had stilled.
Lunatics bowed in eerie silence—not to Ezra, not yet… but neither to the Warden.
The balance had shifted.

Ezra stood—ragged breath, but standing tall beneath the crumbling chandeliers. His words still echoed:

“I only bow to my Queen.”

A quiet laugh reverberated through the bones of the asylum.

Then, with the slow creak of ancient chains and bone-laced gears, the throne at the end of the farthest wing moved.

Atop it sat a figure draped in tattered ecclesiastical robes, gold filigree twisted into spines and antlers.
The Warden.

For the first time since Ezra entered this hell, the Warden stood.

Dust fell like ash. The chains binding his throne snapped.

“So be it,” the Warden murmured, voice like a ruined hymn.
“Let this generation die screaming at the feet of the last.”

He stepped down.

Every footfall bent the floor like stone warping under divinity. His hands burned with psionic sigils. Shadows writhed from his spine like forgotten saints crawling to escape.

Ezra instinctively summoned his mental blades—crimson-etched, shaped by the hollow void where his pride once burned.

They faced each other.

The Warden raised one skeletal hand.

“Come then, imposter king.”
“Let us see which crown fate remembers.”Walls collapsed from sheer psychic pressure.

The asylum twisted—no longer corridors, but a cathedral of mirrors and madness.

Ezra lunged first, blades clashing with arcane scripture the Warden conjured mid-air. Sparks of mindfire erupted. Screams of forgotten lunatics echoed in reverse.

Every strike from the Warden struck not just Ezra’s flesh, but his memories.

One hit—Ezra relived his failure to protect his younger brother.
Another—he saw himself mock his mentor, whose eyes begged for understanding.
A third—he was a child again, alone in a cold hall, shouting into silence.

Ezra staggered. His blade flickered.

The Warden’s smile widened.
“Look how easily it crumbles.”

Ezra spit blood—but laughed.

“You mistake regret… for weakness.”

He surged forward, eyes glowing with eldritch fire.

As the battle intensified, their forms began to shift—symbolic transformations of their Pride:

• The Warden grew wings of glass, robes swirling into a thousand whispering tongues. The Throned Prophet.

• Ezra stood as a fractured statue—half royal, half shattered. The Broken Crown.

Every blow from Ezra now burned the Warden’s own past.

“You abandoned your Queen.” “You clung to a crown after your reign was over.”

And now—Ezra's blade pierced memory.

The Warden screamed.
His throne cracked.

The battle raged on…