Sovereign IX Crueltal lounged upon her throne of fused bone and starlit silk, chin propped daintily on the back of one hand. Her eyes, half-lidded, stared not at the present but somewhere far behind it. Memories crawled in like phantoms.
She had once stood beside the greats. Not as some dainty princess ruling a cracked-to-dust realm, but as Lorgagore's First Seat. She had been the enforcer. The executioner. The immaculate face of ruin. All that before the masks, before the performances, before her exile draped in ribbons and deceitful satin.
"The Omega V…" she breathed, sugar-sweet and venom-loaded.
Omega V. The five titans of Zeldritch supremacy.
She could still hear Gheja's laugh like rusted saws waltzing in sunlight. How she remembered the Plant-Xensect Omega: arrogant, swollen with intellect, smug in her fungal hungers. Her roots had threaded through worlds, strangling cities the way weeds strangle bone.
Crueltal's lip curled in a dainty mimic of disgust. Oh, how she longed for Gheja to be gone—slain, preferably by Crueltal's own hand. What a perfect fate for that Zeldritch weed-queen. She could almost taste the satisfaction of feeling the fracture ripple across the Zeldritch's pompous collective consciousness the instant Gheja fell. She would have savored it like candy.
And how delicious it had been when Gheja's Thirteenth Seat, Vaerilith, swallowed some trembling humanoid boy whole—only to die from the inside out a breath later. Crueltal had laughed for hours. A pathetic, gorgeous little demise for a so-called colleague—though truly, Vaerilith had always been far too low on the ladder to matter.
Crueltal's nails scraped delicately across the armrest of her throne. She remembered that boy's name.
"Monsters slain by meat…"
Then came Brigran. The Beast Omega. A brute she respected, though never loved. They had fought side by side. One of the few who ever dared to bare his back beside her and not worry. The Third Seat, until the First and Second fell. The MereChieftain, twisted beast of carnage, had once held the Second Seat… then left, granting Brigran his rise.
Left.
Why?
Crueltal's fangs bit gently into her bottom lip, golden blood blooming across her porcelain skin like sun on snow.
Grimvex. Lorgagore's 4th Seat. A commander of monsters. Loyal to a fault. Cut down like vermin by the same MereChieftain during the Species War.
Merecrittian against Grimgemian.
Her lips curled. A shame. A loss. A threat.
Slain. Ripped apart by the MereChieftain during the wars—one of the few who ever put Grimvex down and lived to crawl away. That betrayal still burned. Not just because Grimvex died.
But because Lorgagore never avenged him.
"He left the old rat to rot."
Then, her own name. Crueltal. The First Seat. Lorgagore's blade, strategist, muse of horror.
She had burned realms from the inside out. Turned civilizations into songs. And then… she was replaced. No ceremony. No duel. Not even death. Just shifted from the table to a throne in the dark. Tucked away like a forgotten blade.
Why?
Because she lived when Grimvex died.
Because she questioned the direction.
Because Lorgagore changed.
Because Zeddrex became too formidable in her final bout against his legions.
Most of all, because Lorgagore had begun to think like a god.
Her hand tightened into a fist. The tendons of her perfect arm cracked like glass trying to contain lava.
"I bowed once," she whispered, voice guttural, seething with venom. "Not again."
A flicker of memory: Chromatascourge, the Xeno Omega. Mauled, disemboweled by the mighty Sargasol and Vestella Yae-Fae. Though the Wanderans perished in that exchange, the damage remained. Chromatascourge hadn't moved the same since.
Crueltal exhaled slowly, eyes glowing dimly. "And still, Lorgagore remains." She closed her eyes. There had been a time when she stood beside him—not behind. She was his second—a whisper in his ear, the strike that came before the roar.
Now? A mask. A "princess." A rotting title of Sovereign IX, caged in the bones of DreaGoth while Lorgagore played with avatars and warlocks and new toys.
But she remembered.
She remembered the wars. The thrones. The taste of power.
And somewhere in that perfect porcelain shell… the General still stirred.
"Let them climb their ladders," she whispered into the night. "Let Jalkra dream. Let the Wanderans fight. Let Lorgagore pretend."
Her eyes raised to the glass cracks that formed in the moonlight above her tower.
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"I remember the Omega Vs. I remember what we were."
The throne room of DreaGoth Castle lay suspended in eerie silence above the swirling image of Gladia Coliseum, disturbed only by the slow, ghostly swing of chandeliers crafted from molten bones and glass. A cold mist drifted through the ribcage-like arches of the ceiling.
Crueltal stood before her massive obsidian window, her back to the door, her fiery hair glowing like trapped fireflies beneath her tiara. But her reflection in the black glass held no warmth—only rage, buried beneath elegance.
She hadn't moved in hours.
Until—
Clank…
Clank…
Clank…
Heavy metal footfalls echoed behind her. They carried with them a calm, somber gravity—like a funeral procession that had marched for a thousand years. Crueltal did not turn.
"You're late," she said coldly.
"I always am," came the reply, dry and toneless, yet impossibly respectful.
He stepped into the light.
A knight in decayed silver armor, tall and broad-shouldered, with a regal red mantle stained by time and ichor. His head floated just above his neck stump, suspended by faint magical chains that shimmered when he moved. The head—a simple orb of purple fire—hovered slightly off-kilter, giving him a constantly askew perspective on the world.
This was Hansel—Gru Crueltal's brother. Her loyal second. Her shadow.
He came to her side and stood in silence.
Crueltal finally broke the quiet. "Do you remember when I wore armor?"
Hansel gave a small tilt of his head, floating slightly closer to her shoulder. "You still do. It's just prettier."
A soft snort of breath escaped her. Not quite a laugh. Not quite annoyance.
"They think I've softened. The Warlock. That… bookish Szylla. The others of the Sovereign IX. Even my precious Jalkra—he thinks of me as Lorgagore's discarded jewel. A princess in need of polishing." She curled her fingers tightly around the obsidian window's edge, cracking its surface with a sharp snap. "Fuck them."
Hansel looked out with her, his armor creaking ever so slightly. "Jalkra's clever. But he's also young. And men drunk on potential forget to look behind them."
"That's why I broke one of his arms." Her lashes fluttered sweetly. "Am I not gracious?"
"And you?" she asked suddenly. "Do you think I've softened?"
Hansel paused. Then moved his floating head until it hovered in front of her, looking her directly in the eyes.
"No. I think you've tempered."
Crueltal looked away sharply, giggling—cheeks tinting red, as the light in her eyes flashed with restrained emotion.
Hansel continued. "There's a difference between power that burns everything it touches… and power that waits to consume."
She studied him for a moment. "That tongue of yours always surprises me, for someone who once thought poetry was heresy."
Hansel gave a slight bow. "Sister, I've had centuries to read. Ghosts need hobbies."
"Pathetic."
They stood in silence again. Somewhere, a distant Zeldritch roared. The world outside was shifting.
"Do you think it's time?” she asked finally, her voice loud, excited.
Hansel tilted his head slowly, considering. "If you must ask… then no. Not yet. But soon."
She nodded. Then, almost too softly for anyone else to hear—
"I want my seat back. But a little higher."
Hansel turned toward the chamber doors. "Then you will have it." He drew his ghastly greatsword—a blade longer than most beasts were tall, forged from a fallen, voidsteel warship of a tyrant rival—and let it rest on his shoulder. "The only question, dear sister, is how many must bleed for it."
Crueltal's grin returned, wicked and regal. Her fangs gleamed under soft candlelight.
"Let's start with a few."
The skies above the Taurvault Plateau split with flickering streaks of gold, as though the heavens themselves had caught fire and simply refused to die. Jalkra's territory—his blasted wasteland of jagged cliffs and shattered mesas—trembled as he crossed into it, striding back from the convocation of the DreaGoth Alliance.
He was tired, but victorious. The kind of victorious that came with swagger. The kind that should have had him marching straight up the steps of his keep, cape flaring behind him, ready to bark orders and polish his throne with his enemies' bones.
But before his foot touched the stairs of his keep, it hit him.
A pressure.
Monstrous. Suffocating. Divine.
The air congealed into something syrup-thick. Heavy. Intelligent. His vision trembled at the edges as if the world itself had flinched. His balance collapsed, and the mighty, ever-composed Jalkra found himself forced to one knee, fingers digging into the stone for support.
His breath caught. Every instinct screamed—not battle-readiness, but submission.
Hell no, he thought. Not again. Not her. Not here!
A scent like rotting lilies and crushed bone seeped into his lungs.
He looked up.
And there she was.
Sovereign IX: Shuten Doji Crueltal.
Standing at the edge of his citadel's broken balcony, her silhouette glowed like a painting in the moonlight, framed by tattered banners that dared not brush her. Hair like fiery smoke shimmered in the windless air. Her eyes—twin suns of sweet, catastrophic horror—rested on him as though she had been waiting.
She smiled delicately. A princess. A goddess. A monster.
"Rise... Jalkra," she said, her voice at first like music before it deepened into a guttural reverberation that cracked the nearby pillars with its weight. "Or is kneeling before me your preferred state?"
Oh, she was in a mood. Fantastic. Exactly what he needed. He grit his fangs, rising slowly.
"Ah—an honor, Lady Crueltal," he said, bowing with what he hoped looked like respectful poise and not fear-puking hesitation. "I did not expect you to grace my dominion."
Why are you here, why now, and how do I get you out without dying? He mused.
She descended the steps without touching them, every move choreographed to perfection—too perfect. Like an imitation of life rather than life itself.
"Oh, darling Jalkra... of course I would come. The air itself sang of your rising status. I felt your name ripple through the crust of DreaGoth like a warm shiver. The boy-king of muscle and magic, now daring to juggle serpents."
Her tone coiled around him, both mocking and… proud?
Jalkra nodded. "I proposed the alliance to draw the Venolisks toward us, not against us. The Alliance agreed."
A flick of her wrist, and the skies above twisted into a spiral—an eye that blinked, and vanished.
"I know," she said. "I watched. I listen to whispers even the Grimgore Warlock cannot hear. I see venom swimming in the future, Jalkra. And I see you wading through it."
Her grin split wider, teeth far too sharp, far too many.
"But..." she purred, suddenly circling him like a lioness, the hem of her dress dragging shadows across the floor, "the question, dear little idol of Lorgagore, is this—who do you truly serve?"
The question hit like a blow.
Jalkra tensed. "I serve you. I serve the DreaGoth. I serve our survival."
Her eyes lidded slightly—a warning. "And Lorgagore?”
He hesitated; just a breath. Too long. Damn it.
"Lorgagore… is my beacon. But his fire is distant. You, Lady Crueltal… are my benefactress. My path is forged with your patronage."
She leaned close—so close he could smell the perfume of blood beneath her false aroma.
"Good answer," she whispered, before her grin turned fanged once more. "But remember, dear pet: I do not share my toys easily. If you give your loyalty to another Sovereign… I will take your horns for my collection."
He swallowed. She absolutely would.
Crueltal turned away, already bored. "Prepare a feast. Something with wings and regret. I'll be staying in your castle for a time. I wish to observe the serpent talks myself."
Jalkra bowed—lower than he intended, which annoyed him deeply.
His guards scrambled like frightened animals around him. The oppressive presence began to fade, but the tension clung to his bones.
The Venolisks were dangerous.
The Alliance was fragile.
The coming negotiations could spark a war.
But Crueltal… she was something else entirely.
Jalkra exhaled, watching the dark spires of his keep welcome a nightmare dressed in silk. He bowed lower, silently cursing the universe, "This will be... delicate."
ENTER THE SANCTUM: CHAOS CHIMERA AWAKENS FEB 22
Monster-LitRPG Clan and Guild Building Isekai Fantasy Overpowered MC
A human life lost. A monster life gained. When she awakens in a brutal world ruled by creatures stronger and hungrier than anything she has ever known, survival should be impossible. Yet she refuses to break. She chooses to build something better for those who cannot protect themselves.
Welcome to Chimeron Sanctum. A dream forged by determination and compassion. A refuge rising in a world shaped by dominance and fear. KiAera stands at its heart, a mythical-class chimera scribe who refuses to bow.
But the world shifts. Ancient powers turn their gaze toward her. Sovereigns watch. Systems stir. The Ultimatum approaches. The path she walks demands courage and sacrifice and the future of her sanctuary may depend on every choice she makes.
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What to Expect
- Guild and clan building in a monster ruled world
- A sanctuary forged from compassion and strength
- Political intrigue and rising tension as the Ultimatum nears
- LitRPG mechanics and monster evolution themes
- An underdog who rises to legendary heights
Featuring
- Monster society and cross species politics
- Friendship, loyalty, and found family bonds
- Isekai and LitRPG progress ideal for system lovers
- High stakes tension and world shaping power struggles
Chaos rises Feb 22. New monsters. New power. A new beginning.