By the sacred right of blood and steel, I, Jpaul—First of His Name, Scourge of the West, and Unconquered Sovereign of Igala—issue this proclamation to all who dare stand against our dominion:

Behold the land of Igala: where obsidian citadels pierce the sky, and our black-drake war galleys stalk the seas like hungry leviathans. Our legions—clad in armor forged from the heart of fallen stars—march in iron ranks that blot out the sun and shake the earth with every thunderous step. Upon our banners, the twin rivers of our realm flow like veins of living emerald, feeding the endless fields of sharpened pikes and the dark engines of siegecraft that grind empires to dust.

Know this: any realm that falls within our shadow will feel the sting of Igala’s wrath. We unleash the Nightwind Riders—silent assassins who slither through the darkness, leaving entire garrisons to crumble from within—and the Emberforged Warbeasts, whose fiery breath turns even the stoutest fortress to molten ruin. Our sorcerers command the storm itself: they call lightning from black clouds to smite your armies, summon phantoms from the void to feast upon your courage, and dye your rivers red with fear.

O petty princes and trembling kings, raise your walls and muster your finest hosts—but know that walls shatter before our hammer, and hosts perish beneath our blades. We have no mercy to grant, no quarter to offer: in Igala, only dominion or oblivion endures. Repent now, bend the knee, and swear fealty to Emperor Jpaul—lest your name be forgotten and your lands cast into the endless dark that is Igala’s triumph.

Let this be the last whisper you hear before your world is consumed. Igala waits.