**Chapter Eight: What the Devil Himself Could Not Imagine 

  

The golden rays of sunlight shimmered on the high black walls of Kuandor Palace, revealing its terrifying majesty and silent grandeur. The palace stretched across a vast expanse, surrounded by small protective fortresses like petrified giant guards, soldiers spread across every corner like moving shadows in uniform.  

Linder stood atop his white horse, contemplating the scene before him with eyes that carried the wisdom of a thousand years. King Nork stood before the wide-open main gate, his ministers and senior military commanders lined up behind him in a precise pyramidal formation. A deep crimson carpet stretched from the king’s feet into the depths of the palace, like a river of blood inviting its guest to plunge into its depths.  

Linder dismounted his horse with a graceful motion, handing the reins to a guard. He strode confidently toward King Nork, his eyes capturing every detail around him: the guards’ hidden tension, the evaluative glances exchanged between ministers, the subtle gestures the king shared with his prime minister. His mind worked like a complex calculator, analyzing every signal, every glance, every movement.  

Linder bowed slightly, a calculated gesture—not deep enough to show submission, nor shallow enough to imply disrespect.  

“I greet the great King Nork, Lord of Kuandor and protector of its northern borders,” Linder said in a clear, resonant voice, carrying a carefully measured tone of respect. “I bring you greetings from my father, King Edward, and am honored to represent him in this historic meeting.”  

King Nork smiled broadly, but his eyes remained cold and scrutinizing. He was a burly man dressed in black robes embroidered with golden threads, his crown studded with black gemstones casting strange shadows over his harsh face.  

“Welcome, Prince Linder, to Kuandor,” the king replied in a deep, majestic voice. “Though we expected your father’s presence in person, we welcome you as his representative.”  

Linder noted the faint undertone of disappointment in the king’s voice and stored it in his mind. This was the first weakness to exploit—disappointed expectations, wounded pride.  

The prime minister stepped forward, a slender man with a meticulously trimmed gray beard and hawk-like penetrating eyes. “Let us enter the palace now, for the sun grows harsh, and our discussions will be lengthy,” he said in a soft, composed voice that concealed sharp intellect.  

They entered the palace through spacious corridors adorned with paintings of ancient battles and victory banners. Linder walked beside the king, his eyes darting between the palace’s architectural details and the faces around him. He noticed the whispered exchanges among the courtiers and the questioning glances. It was clear the prime minister held significant influence; everyone awaited his signal before moving, and even the king occasionally glanced at him for counsel.  

“The kingdom’s true mind,” Linder whispered to himself. “The man I must win to my side.”  

They reached the grand throne hall, where Linder sat beside King Nork, with the prime minister seated opposite. The scene was majestic: nobles and commanders lined the hall’s sides, servants moved like silent ghosts, and light seeped through high windows to cast golden patterns on the marble floor.  

The gift-presentation ceremony began, with ministers stepping forward one by one to offer Linder precious gifts: jeweled swords, rare manuscripts, ancient jewelry. Linder accepted them with a humble smile, responding with carefully chosen words of gratitude, displaying deep appreciation for each gift—a performance that impressed those around him.  

“You speak with eloquence beyond your years, Prince,” said King Nork, studying Linder with growing curiosity. “Tell me, how is your father? Why couldn’t he attend himself?”  

“My father is in good health, Your Majesty,” Linder replied calmly. “But affairs on the eastern border require his personal attention these days. He honored me with this representation, considering it an opportunity for me to gain diplomatic experience.”  

The king nodded, seemingly convinced by the explanation, but the prime minister narrowed his eyes slightly, exchanging a quick glance with the king. Clearly, he doubted the story, his sharp mind probing for true motives.  

The event lasted hours, interspersed with musical and dance performances, and lavish dishes from across the kingdom. Linder engaged in conversations intelligently, listening more than speaking, observing interactions among attendees. He noted hidden alliances, suppressed rivalries, and clashing ambitions—all stored in his mind like puzzle pieces that would later form a complete map of Kuandor’s power dynamics.  

As the event concluded, guests gradually dispersed until only King Nork, his prime minister, and Linder remained in the hall. The king signaled the guards to leave, waiting until the heavy doors closed behind them.  

“Now,” the king said in a low voice, his tone entirely changed, “let us speak plainly, Prince Linder. What truly brings you to Kuandor?”  

Linder smiled serenely—the time had come to reveal the first part of his plan. “As previously agreed, Your Majesty, I am here to present a plan for securing the trade route.”  

“But first,” the king interjected sharply, “why would you help us? Is this reasonable?”  

“No. By helping you, I help myself,” Linder replied, his eyes glinting dangerously. “I want you to help me become king.”  

A heavy silence filled the hall. The prime minister observed the scene with eyes that missed nothing, as if he had anticipated this development from the start.  

“Become king?” King Nork asked with genuine surprise. “How would we achieve that?”  

“If I become king,” Linder said confidently, “I will grant you the trade route you’ve sought for decades. Not part of it—all of it.”  

Here, the prime minister intervened for the first time, his calm voice masking a mind working at astonishing speed. “Very well. We have no objection, but how do we ensure you’ll fulfill this promise once crowned?”  

Linder smiled inwardly. He had anticipated this exact question and had his answer ready. “You’re absolutely right. To secure our mutual interests, we must take risks together.”  

Linder then detailed his plan in a low, steady voice, his eyes shifting between the king and prime minister. His words were meticulously chosen, playing on the strings of greed, fear, and ambition in their hearts. The meeting lasted a full hour, punctuated by the prime minister’s sharp questions and the king’s skeptical remarks, but Linder had convincing answers and solutions for every potential problem.  

As the meeting concluded, King Nork ordered his prime minister to escort Linder on a tour of the kingdom. Linder smiled inwardly again—this was precisely what he wanted: a chance to be alone with the prime minister, Kuandor’s true mastermind.  

Linder spent an entire day with the prime minister, touring the kingdom. Their conversations ranged from deep philosophy to practicality. Linder realized the man was testing him, probing his mind and character, assessing his trustworthiness. In turn, Linder sowed seeds of doubt and ambition in the prime minister’s mind, hinting at opportunities he could never dream of under King Nork’s rule.  

At sunrise the next day, Linder returned to his kingdom, carrying a secret agreement that would alter history’s course. King Edward welcomed him with joy and pride, unaware his son had returned as a wolf in sheep’s clothing.  

“I’m glad you returned safely,” King Edward smiled, embracing his son warmly.  

They entered the palace together, and Linder recounted his visit to Kuandor, carefully selecting what to share and what to omit. He described the grand reception, generous gifts, and friendly talks, entirely ignoring the secret meeting and the dangerous pact he’d forged.  

Linder’s days resumed their apparent normalcy: morning training, afternoon city strolls, evenings at the tavern, then sleep. But beneath this calm surface, his mind worked tirelessly, weaving the threads of his intricate conspiracy with precision and patience.  

The only noticeable change in his routine was bringing his brother Ned to the tavern. The day after returning from Kuandor, he invited his middle brother to join him.  

“The tavern?” Ned asked in surprise, raising an eyebrow. “What could possibly compel me to visit such a place?”  

“Experience,” Linder smiled. “Don’t you want to know how ordinary people live? What they think? What worries or delights them?”  

Ned initially refused, deeming the idea absurd and beneath his station. But Linder persisted, using logical arguments that appealed to Ned’s curiosity and strategic sense.  

“A good leader knows his men,” Linder said quietly. “A future king must know his people.”  

Finally, Ned agreed, albeit reluctantly. They went to the tavern disguised as ordinary merchants. The tavern owner, a burly man with a scarred face and intelligent eyes, knew Linder’s true identity but respected and protected his secret.  

At first, Ned was tense, uncomfortable in this alien environment. But over time, with Linder’s subtle guidance, he relaxed, listening to people’s conversations, sharing drinks and stories. Linder watched his brother with satisfied eyes, seeing his worldview gradually shift.  

These visits became a daily routine. Linder insisted Ned accompany him each evening until Ned grew accustomed to the place and its people, even looking forward to these hours of freedom and simplicity. Then, one day, what Linder had long planned occurred—Ned asked to go to the tavern alone, and Linder refused.  

“I have matters to attend to tonight,” Linder said with feigned regret. “But don’t let that stop you. You know the place well now.”  

Ned went alone, deepening his bond with the tavern owner, who now knew Ned was also a prince. Yet, contrary to expectations, the man didn’t exploit this knowledge, treating Ned with the same quiet respect as Linder.  

All this was part of Linder’s intricate plan. He was setting the stage, positioning actors, scripting dialogue they’d perform unknowingly.  

Two days before signing the treaty with Kuandor, Ned and Linder sat at a secluded tavern table in disguise. Suddenly, a masked man approached, his face hidden under a dark hood, only his eyes gleaming in the shadows.  

“Prince Ned, I wish to speak with you,” the man said in a low, firm voice.  

Ned froze, stunned that a stranger recognized him despite his disguise. “What nonsense! We’re not princes. Leave us!” Linder shouted angrily.  

“Don’t worry,” the man replied calmly. “I’m a minister from Kuandor. I learned Prince Ned frequents this tavern in disguise and wished to discuss an urgent matter.”  

Linder nearly lunged at the man, but Ned stopped him with a hand gesture. “Speak. What do you want?” Ned asked, regaining composure.  

“I must speak with you privately,” the minister insisted, casting a meaningful glance at Linder.  

Linder feigned anger but didn’t object. He knew Ned’s curiosity would drive him to agree—exactly what he wanted.  

Ned and the minister stepped outside. When Ned returned, his face was grave and pensive.  

“What did he want?” Linder asked with feigned curiosity. “Aren’t we finalizing the treaty?”  

“No. He wanted me to convince the king to soften the treaty’s terms, but I refused,” Ned answered truthfully.  

“Let’s continue drinking,” Linder said simply, as if the matter needed no further discussion.  

The day passed, and the eve of the treaty signing arrived. Ned was occupied with treaty affairs while Linder visited the tavern. As he sipped his drink, the owner approached.  

“Prince Linder, didn’t Prince Ned join you?” he asked quietly.  

“No. He’s busy. Is there something for him?”  

“Yes. A merchant from Kuandor left him a sealed message,” the owner said, producing an envelope from his pocket.  

“A merchant from Kuandor?” Linder feigned surprise. “How strange!”  

“Yes, I was surprised too,” the owner admitted. “But the merchant knew Prince Ned frequents this place. Said he had a deal with him.”  

Linder took the envelope with steady hands. “Perhaps he forgot. I’ll deliver it.”  

Linder finished his drink, eyes glinting with hidden triumph. The plan was proceeding better than expected. But at that very moment, events accelerated elsewhere, tragedy weaving its dark threads.  

Before King Edward’s palace, a massive man in black armor stood before a coffin-like object. Guards eyed him suspiciously as he claimed to bear a special gift for the king.  

A guard cautiously opened the coffin’s lid. Upon seeing its contents, he recoiled in horror as if confronting a ghost.  

“Wh-what is this?” the guard stammered, face deathly pale.  

The armored man spoke slowly, voice trembling: “Prince... Prince Cain...”  

The guard screamed, a shriek that shattered the evening’s calm and spread terror. Guards and soldiers gathered, all screaming in horror.  

News reached the palace, and King Edward rushed out, followed by Marcus, the chief servant.  

“Make way! The king approaches!” Marcus shouted, trying to disperse the crowd, but people stood frozen in terror.  

King Edward reached the coffin and froze. His eyes widened in shock, his features twisting into a mask of agony and horror.  

“Cain... my son...” he whispered brokenly before unleashing a heart-wrenching cry—a father’s scream for his brutally murdered child.  

The king collapsed, clutching his son’s severed head to his chest, weeping with a pain none had witnessed before.  

The coffin’s contents were indescribably gruesome: Cain’s dismembered body—head, arms, legs, torso—arranged like a diabolical painting. Dried blood coated the severed limbs, his face frozen in absolute terror, as if he’d witnessed hell before death.  

The coffin radiated an aura of darkness and sorrow, a gateway to a realm of suffering. All who saw it felt terror seep into their souls and cold pierce their bones.  

Had you asked any witness to name the most horrific sight of their life, they’d answer without hesitation, face pale with fear: “That scene... that scene even the devil couldn’t imagine.”  

As King Edward mourned his mutilated son, as the palace drowned in chaos and grief, Linder returned from the tavern, walking calmly with a cryptic smile. In his pocket lay a sealed letter; in his mind, a plan unfolding with terrifying precision.  

The great chess game had begun. Pieces moved across the board, the white king in peril, the black king approaching... and shadows danced in Linder’s eyes—shadows of a thousand-year wait.  

**To be continued...**