The Grand Procession
The morning sun, gilded and magnificent, cast long, dramatic shadows across the sprawling Royal Square.
E.g. ：Gala Shock: Tycoon's Fiancée Humbled as Socialite Severes Her Hair in Public Humiliation Plot.
- 1、The Grand Procession
- 2、An Unforeseen Obstacle
- 3、The Serpent and the Crown
- 4、The King's Desperate Act
- 5、Whispers of a Banished Oracle
- 6、The True Bloodline and the Shadow Blight
- 7、A Desperate Plea for Salvation
King Aric, a figure of imposing majesty in his crimson robes, rode a white warhorse at the head of a formidable royal guard.
Fountains shimmered, banners snapped crisply in the breeze, and the air thrummed with the anticipation of the annual Blessing of the Harvest.
Thousands of subjects, from the lowliest commoner to the highest noble, lined the grand processional route.
They cheered, they waved, their faces upturned, seeking a glimpse of their powerful monarch.
Yet, despite the outward display of opulence, a heavy pall hung over the kingdom.
A mysterious blight, known only as the "Shadow Blight," withered the crops across the fertile plains.
Its tendrils spread slowly, inexorably, turning green fields into barren dust and sparking fear in every village.
Whispers of discontent grew louder with each passing week, questioning the king's divine right and ability to rule.
King Aric, though outwardly regal, carried the immense weight of a kingdom teetering on the precipice of despair.
His own advisors, usually full of schemes and strategies, had offered only silence or futile remedies.
The annual blessing felt less like a celebration and more like a desperate, final prayer.
An Unforeseen Obstacle
Suddenly, a figure appeared, frail and gaunt, directly in the hallowed path of the royal advance.
An old man, his clothes mere rags, his white hair a wild, unkempt halo, leaned heavily on a gnarled wooden cane.
He seemed oblivious to the thunder of hooves, the shouts of the crowd, or the impending danger of the royal cavalry.
Two burly royal guards, their faces etched with impatience and disdain, spurred their horses forward.
"Out of the way, old fool! Back off now! The King is here!" one barked, his spear tip glinting menacingly close to the old man's face.
The crowd gasped, anticipating a swift and brutal removal, a harsh lesson delivered for such impudence.
They expected the old man to be swept aside, perhaps even trampled, for daring to impede the king's sacred progress.
But the old man remained rooted, his calm, piercing gaze fixed not on the menacing guards, but on King Aric himself.
There was no fear in his eyes, only a profound, ancient knowing that seemed to challenge the king's very authority.
The Serpent and the Crown
King Aric, his initial annoyance quickly fading, watched the unfolding scene with a flicker of distant recognition.
His formidable mother, Queen Elara, had always warned him against "distractions" and "superstitions" during his upbringing.
She had instilled in him a rigid belief in the absolute power of the crown, free from old tales and prophecies.
Yet, as the guard moved to roughly push the old man, a glint caught Aric's eye.
Clutched tightly in the old man's weathered hand was a small, crudely carved wooden idol.
It depicted a serpent, its coils entwined around a miniature, rough-hewn crown.
A chilling memory, long suppressed and dismissed as a child's nightmare, surged with unexpected force to the forefront of Aric’s mind.
His old nurse, a kind woman named Lyra, had been banished abruptly when he was a boy.
She had once shown him a similar carving, identical in its unique imperfection.
She had whispered tales of ancient prophecies, of true kings chosen not by lineage alone, but by destiny.
She spoke of a powerful Royal Oracle named Elias, who held the keys to the kingdom's true fate.
Queen Elara had swiftly replaced Lyra, branding her a "madwoman spreading dangerous fables" and silencing her forever.
Aric, as a child, had been told to forget such foolishness, to believe only in the power of his mother and the throne.
But now, seeing that carving, his mother's stern warnings felt like desperate attempts to bury a truth.
Aric's expression, previously stern and regal, transformed into one of profound, disquieting uncertainty, bordering on dread.
The King's Desperate Act
The guard's hand was outstretched, ready to shove, when King Aric’s booming voice cut through the square.
"Stop! Do not touch him!"
The command echoed, raw and urgent, slicing through the air, instantly silencing the murmurs of the crowd and freezing the guards in their tracks.
All eyes, thousands of them, turned from the defiant old man to the king, whose gaze was now fixed solely on the old man and the carving.
Aric dismounted from his warhorse with an uncharacteristic urgency, his heavy crimson robes rustling as he moved.
He strode purposefully, almost frantically, towards the frail figure, ignoring the shocked faces of his own royal guards.
A palpable tension, thick and electrifying, consumed the square; surely the king intended to personally punish this defiant old man for his audacity.
Instead, a collective gasp ripped through the onlookers, a simultaneous exhalation of utter disbelief that shook the very foundations of royal custom.
King Aric, the absolute monarch, reached up slowly, deliberately, and with trembling fingers, removed his magnificent gilded crown.
The heavy symbol of his power and authority rested in his hand for a moment, a mere ornament suddenly devoid of meaning.
Then, with a movement that defied all royal protocol, all expectation, and centuries of tradition, he lowered himself.
He knelt, one knee pressing into the cold, pristine marble of the square, before the ragged old man.
His head, once proudly crowned, bowed in a gesture of profound, desperate supplication, almost reverence.
Whispers of a Banished Oracle
The royal guards stood utterly stunned, their spears forgotten, their faces contorted in a mixture of confusion and horror.
The vast crowd, usually boisterous and lively, was utterly silent, save for the faint, disbelieving gasps and murmurs that spread like wildfire.
The old man, Elias, still held the carving, his expression unchanging, a profound, almost timeless calm in his ancient, knowing eyes.
He simply watched the king, who now knelt before him like a common petitioner.
"Elias," King Aric's voice was barely a whisper, thick with raw emotion, "I have made a grave, unforgivable mistake."
He looked up, his eyes suddenly red-rimmed, glistening with unshed tears, reflecting the sunlight and the weight of his confession.
"The blight... the prophecy... it has returned precisely as you foretold, consuming our land."
The name "Elias," spoken by the king himself, sent a new wave of shock and murmuring through the noble section of the crowd.
Many of the elder lords and ladies remembered the scandalous banishment of the Royal Oracle, two decades past.
