Chapter 392: Alexandria's conquered (3)

Chapter 392: Alexandria’s conquered (3)

“Septimius,” Pothinus purred, his voice like venom laced with honey. “So nice of you to join us.”

There was no fear in his eyes at all despite being alone.

Nathan’s eyes scanned the man seated regally upon the gilded throne, noting every detail with quiet calculation.

The man’s appearance matched the description Nathan had memorized with cold precision—a face etched with pride and treachery, crowned with ambition and arrogance. There was no mistaking him.

“You must be Pothinus,” Nathan said at last, his voice steeped in disdain, a faint scoff escaping his lips as he stood tall, cloaked in steel and fury.

Pothinus’s brow furrowed, displeasure flickering across his aged features like a shadow disturbed by torchlight.

“You… are not what I expected,” he murmured, narrowing his eyes in cautious scrutiny.

He had heard rumors, of course—whispers and reports—but never had he seen Septimius in the flesh. In his mind, the traitor had been a man seasoned by countless battles, someone in his thirties perhaps, with the presence of a weathered warlord and the imposing frame of a mercenary hardened by the weight of command. Instead, before him stood a young man—no more than twenty, perhaps less—with a lean build and eyes that burned with purpose far older than his years.

Was it the armor, Pothinus wondered bitterly, that made Septimius seem more formidable in front of him? The thick plating, ever masking his youth, had been his disguise—his tool to inspire fear and earn false respect?

But Pothinus dismissed the thought with a sneer. None of it mattered because he had betrayed him. That truth overshadowed all else.

“You treacherous dog,” Pothinus spat, his voice sharp as a blade drawn in hatred. His eyes, dark and cold, burned with loathing as they locked onto Nathan’s.

Nathan stood firm, unmoved by the insult. His expression remained unreadable, but the tension in the air thickened as he took a deliberate step forward.

“You have two choices,” he said evenly, the words cutting through the silence like a dagger. “Die here by my hand… or die by Cleopatra’s, if she captures you alive.”

He paused for effect, letting the name hang in the air like a noose.

“I promise you,” he added, his voice turning low and grave, “my mercy will be the greater of the two.”

For a brief moment, Pothinus said nothing.

Then, he laughed.

It was not a laugh of amusement, but one of bitterness, mockery, and fading delusion.

“That little whore,” he snarled, his voice seething with venom. His fingers dug into the armrest of the golden throne, knuckles whitening with fury. “I should have slit her throat when she was still a child.”

There it was—the truth of his greatest regret, spoken like a curse upon his own tongue.

His grip on the throne trembled with the weight of his wrath. The regret of sparing her, of underestimating her, twisted inside him like a festering wound.

“And what about you?” he snapped, his voice rising. “Did she give you her body for one night in exchange for your loyalty? Is that what turned you? You betrayed me for a taste of her bed?”

His lips curled in disgust.

“She never deserved to be Pharaoh. She’s a spoiled, manipulative brat who—”

Nathan’s eyes hardened, a glint of steel in their depths. His patience shattered like glass.

“Enough,” he said coldly, interrupting him. “Insult her again, and you won’t even have time to scream.”

He took another step forward, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his blade, the promise of violence written in every movement.

“I had planned to make your death swift, clean… but now, I think you’ve forfeited that kindness.”

Nathan began walking toward the throne, the slow, ominous rhythm of his boots like a countdown to the inevitable.

But Pothinus, even cornered, smiled.

There was no fear in his eyes—only arrogance and defiance.

“You think you’ve won?” he asked with a laugh that chilled the air.

His right hand moved slowly to the small golden sceptre resting at his side. As his fingers wrapped around it, the ornate rod began to glow, a soft but intense golden light pulsing like a heartbeat awakened.

The room dimmed, shadows shifting unnaturally against the pillars as the aura of the sceptre spread.

Nathan halted mid-step.

Pothinus’s smirk widened.

“Let me show you what true power looks like,” he said, rising from the throne like a serpent uncoiling.

The scepter in Pothinus’s hand began to pulse violently, its golden glow intensifying with every heartbeat until it drowned the entire chamber in radiant, blinding light. The walls, the pillars, the throne itself—everything was washed in that divine shimmer, as if the sun had descended upon the palace to witness this moment.

But Nathan did not flinch.

He stood motionless in the heart of the storm, bathed in the golden blaze, his white hair fluttering behind him like silk caught in a breeze from the underworld. His expression was unreadable—calm, distant, almost unimpressed—as if this spectacle had failed to meet his expectations.

And then, just as swiftly as it had come, the light receded.

The throne room returned to shadowed stillness.

Pothinus now reclined once more on his ostentatious throne, a twisted smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. But before him now stood a towering figure—tall, rigid, and reeking of decay.

The being’s entire form was wrapped in age-old linen bandages, like the sacred dead of forgotten dynasties. His face was obscured behind an ornate, gleaming pharaoh’s death mask of pure gold, crowned with a cobra headdress and inscribed with ancient hieroglyphs that glowed faintly with cursed power.

Nathan’s gaze narrowed slightly.

The glimpse of flesh he saw between the unraveling bands was grotesque—blackened and rotting, like meat left too long in the sun. Yet despite his corrupted form, the undead Pharaoh radiated a power so ancient and vile that the very air seemed to recoil around him.

“A marvel, isn’t he?” Pothinus said with reverence, his voice dripping with malice. “This is the might of a true Pharaoh—an emperor among the dead. Not some dog like you, who jumps from master to master, grasping at glory without a spine to earn it.”

He raised his scepter again and pointed it toward Nathan like a war horn sounded.

“Bring me his head.”

The mummy moved.

In a blur that defied logic, the creature crossed the room in less than a breath, its grotesque hand raised high with inhuman speed, ready to crush Nathan into paste. The room howled with unnatural wind as it struck—

CRACK!

An immense wall of crystalline ice erupted in front of Nathan, catching the blow and halting it in place with a sound like mountains colliding.

But then the ice began to blacken.

A creeping rot spread from the mummy’s palm, eating away at the wall like acid on flesh. The very magic sustaining the ice screamed as it decayed under the vile corruption.

“Gahaha!” Pothinus threw his head back in manic laughter. “You see? You can’t defeat him! I told you!”

Still, Nathan remained utterly calm.

If anything, a glimmer of boredom crossed his expression. He had expected more. Much more.

Had he overestimated Pothinus? This pathetic display was hardly worth his full attention.

With a flick of his wrist, ice bloomed again—sharper, colder, stronger. The air crystallized as jagged spears of frozen magic surged from beneath the floor and encased the undead Pharaoh in a prison of unbreakable frost, locking him in place like a statue of the damned.

But again, the corruption surged.

Darkness oozed from the mummy’s body, melting through the ice like ink seeping into snow. Cracks formed, then widened. The ancient thing would not be held long.

Nathan exhaled softly.

He was done playing.

In one graceful motion, he raised his sword—the Sword of Alexander, the blade once held by the greatest conqueror of men. Its edge gleamed with the weight of empire, and when he swung it—

CRACKKK!

The ice shattered, and the mummy along with it.

Shards of frozen death rained through the chamber as the undead Pharaoh exploded into pieces, limbs and cursed fragments scattering across the polished marble like discarded relics. For a heartbeat, the world was silent.

And yet…

Pothinus continued to smile.

Because the scattered remains of his summoned guardian began to pulse again—glowing with an evil black light. The corrupted essence of the Pharaoh oozed like tar, crawling across the floor, pulling the fragments back together, piece by piece.

Nathan’s patience had reached its end.

From his open palm, a new light began to shine—not cold like the ice, nor merely bright like fire. This light was divine.

Holy.

It poured from his skin like dawn over the horizon, golden and absolute, illuminating the throne room with a celestial glow that could only come from one source.

The Light Magic of Apollo, God of the Sun.

Pothinus’s arrogant smirk faltered for the first time.

His eyes widened, recognition and horror striking him in tandem as he clutched his scepter tighter, as if that could shield him from what he was witnessing.

Nathan’s voice dropped to a whisper, heavy with finality.

“Destroy it.”

At his command, the divine light split into dozens of radiant blades, each one humming with holy energy. They shot forward with unrelenting speed, piercing the mummified remains in perfect unison.

A terrible scream echoed from the fragments—not of the mummy, but of the dark magic sustaining it—as the purity of Apollo’s wrath tore through every last vestige of corruption.

Within seconds, there was nothing left but dust, curling away like ash in the wind.

With the holy light having reduced the undead Pharaoh to ash, silence once again reigned in the throne room.

Nathan slowly turned his gaze back toward Pothinus.

The once-proud vizier sat frozen on his throne like a puppet whose strings had been severed. His mouth hung wide open in disbelief, as if words had abandoned him entirely. His eyes, bloodshot and bulging, stared at Nathan as though trying to convince themselves this wasn’t reality.

“I… Impossible…” he choked out at last, his voice barely louder than a whisper. His scepter slipped from his trembling fingers and clattered to the floor, its once-proud gold now seeming dim and powerless.

His complexion had gone deathly pale, drained of all arrogance and bravado. Sweat poured down his temples like melting wax from a candle. He had summoned a creature from the darkest depths of necromantic power—a Pharaoh of the dead—and yet, it had been destroyed in a matter of moments.

And the man before him stood untouched.

Unbothered.

Unimpressed.

From the rear of the throne room, a slow clap echoed. It was Marcus Antonius, leaning lazily against a polished pillar, a smirk playing across his battle-hardened face.

“Well, now that was entertaining,” Marcus said with admiration gleaming in his eyes.

Beside him stood Apollodorus, his expression far more sober.

The seasoned scholar and former spy stared at Nathan with disbelief etched across his face. The raw force he had just witnessed shattered every prior impression he held of Septimius. He now realized he hadn’t just underestimated the young man—he had been utterly blind to the reality of who he truly was.

Nathan ignored both of them.

With a flicker of light, he vanished from his spot—and reappeared directly before Pothinus in an instant.

The air cracked at his arrival, causing the elder vizier to jerk backward in instinctual fear. He fumbled for his scepter with a shaky hand, trying to summon what little magic he had left, but he was far too slow.

SHING!

Steel flashed.

Blood sprayed.

A strangled cry ripped through the throne room as Pothinus fell to his knees, screaming in agony. His severed hand thudded against the stone floor beside him, the once-majestic scepter now lying in a growing pool of crimson.

“GAARRRGHHH!!”

He clutched the stump where his hand had been, blood seeping between his fingers, his entire body writhing in pain. The sight of him—once a master manipulator of court politics, now reduced to a whimpering, broken figure—was almost pathetic.

Nathan stood above him, expression carved in ice.

No sympathy.

No hesitation.

Only purpose.

He lowered his blade, the edge of Alexander’s sword gleaming with silent menace, and spoke in a voice that was calm, yet cold enough to freeze the marrow in one’s bones.

“Now,” Nathan said, his tone like iron. “Tell me where Ptolemy is.”