The hall rose like a forgotten temple, carved from living black stone. Twisted columns, like ancient bones, held up a ceiling lost in shadow. The air was heavy, carrying the scent of iron and distant rain.

  At the top of a long stairway, the Black Throne waited. Silent. Empty.

  A sound broke the silence… footsteps. Slow. Precise.

  From the shadows, a short hooded figure emerged. A torn cloak drifted with a wind that did not exist. In his right hand, a black gladius reflected golden light on one edge… and deep purple on the other.

  The throne shuddered. Not like an object… but like a heart recognizing something that should not exist.

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  When the figure reached the final step and laid his hand upon the throne’s cold armrest, black and golden sparks exploded across the hall. The walls shook.

  From the flanking shadows, nine pairs of eyes opened. Eyes of impossible colors, belonging to colossal presences — the Disasters.

  A grave, distorted voice echoed:

  — The blood… has returned.

  Another, hissing like poison, answered:

  — So… the perfect link does exist.

  The figure sat. The throne pulsed. The Black Tower itself seemed to breathe.

  Among the echoes of those voices, two whispers came from a place that did not belong to that world:

  Caesar: — This changes everything…

  Morgana: — …incredible.

  The hall fell silent once more.

  Then, the oldest voice spoke like a verdict:

  — The heir… lives.

  End of Volume IV