CHAPTER 63

The rumors spread through the empire at a speed that mocked the wind itself—a rumor fanned by claims that Duke Percival of House Pellinore had slain the traitors within his own house and was now hunting down the rest. These were individuals who had conspired with the Demon King of the South, plotting to overthrow the empire in pursuit of greater wealth and power. Among House Pellinore, Marquis Tor and the eldest son, Duke Aglovale, had been executed, while Duke Lamorak was declared a fugitive. Meanwhile, Marquis Drian of House Pellinore was defending the empire in the north alongside Duke Lancelot, who had sworn not to surrender him unless they were willing to fight him for it—after all, Drian was known as Lancelot's sword-brother.

On another front, the only daughter of House Pellinore, Princess Dindrane, famed for her great beauty, was imprisoned in a tower in the capital. Duke Gawain, the judge appointed over the rebellion, was using her captivity to pressure the remaining fugitives of House Pellinore. Yet, at the same time, Duke Percival was hailed as a hero, for he had sacrificed his own house for the safety of the people and the empire. By establishing the Kingdom of Pellinore in the south and declaring war against the Demon King, he had become a shield for the empire. This, however, struck fear into the hearts of the southern populace, causing many to flee Pellinore's lands. In contrast, the people of other regions were reassured, seeing Percival's actions as a sincere effort to prove his loyalty and establish a new, noble House Pellinore under imperial rule, sparing them from war.

Nevertheless, in the south, despite the emergence of a nearly unified strategy, cities and castles were falling one after another to the tide of the undead.

Before a city that had, only hours ago, held nearly a million inhabitants—a number far exceeding the average for the dark cities and of immense strategic value—the King of Death walked through the main street, making his way toward the city's castle. A handful of defenders still resisted inside, but they did not have much time left. The city had only two warlords, while the undead army—despite being split into three divisions—boasted hundreds of warlords in each. In the King of Death's central army alone, there were warriors of legendary rank. The city had no chance to mount a proper response, for by the time they spotted their enemy, it was already too late. The foe stood atop the towering walls, once the subject of myths that told how they had repelled countless monsters and invaders, safeguarding the city.

Yet, as the King of Death arrived before the castle, where undead sorcerers were bombarding its activated magic barrier, he shattered it with a single swing of his sword. The terrified faces of the defenders behind the barrier became visible.

"This is impossible!""Wasn't the mana barrier connected to the crystal?!"

The King of Death paid no heed. With another slash, he cleaved two lycanthrope lords in half and stepped into the castle. He knew that such magical barriers were common in dark cities—barriers powered by handcrafted crystals forged from the mana-infused cores of monstrous beings.

Upon seeing the sheer number of these rare crystals, a flicker of concern crossed his mind. Beings born from mana were anything but ordinary; their combat prowess was on another level. The abundance of these crystals hinted at a looming crisis that troubled even the King of Death.

"If a mana surge erupts in the depths… If I am forced to fight them as well… Even ten years would not be enough to complete my conquest."

A mana surge from the planet's core—a catastrophe akin to an earthquake, where the planet's inner energy overflows, shaking its crust to release pressure. The core, to prevent its own explosion, must release energy in bursts, sometimes on an immense scale. No living being on this world wished for such an event—unless they could dominate it and reap its bountiful rewards. The King of Death, however, was one of the few who could quell such a catastrophe. But even he knew that doing so would rob him of precious time. The five-year deadline imposed upon him would not suffice.

"Divide the army into nine divisions. Take no survivors. I demand the fastest possible advance!"

At his command, his warlord-ranked undead generals bowed before swiftly departing. The King of Death, meanwhile, entered the castle's grand hall, where a young lycanthrope child sat behind his father's desk.

"You monster… You killed my father!"

Seeing the child stirred memories of the dead children in the streets, yet to his eyes, this boy was simply another future warrior—one who, fueled by such hatred, would one day stand against him with unwavering resolve. Without hesitation, the King of Death stepped forward and cast a death spell, granting the child a swift and painless end.

"My apologies, child, but the world is cruel."

Then, his gaze fell upon a freshly delivered letter on the desk. Though he had learned many characters of the Dark Language, the script defied his comprehension. Summoning Marquis Travis White Moon—a former lycanthrope noble who now served among his undead commanders—he had the letter read aloud.

**"Greetings,To Marquis Travis White Moon,

According to reports from the southern empire and the northern undead hellscape, the lands of Pellinore have claimed sovereignty and declared war upon the undead abyss.

Based on these movements, we believe the empire seeks to wage a proxy war against the Undead King through the Kingdom of Pellinore. Should they fail, they will merely sacrifice Pellinore's lands as tribute. However, should the Undead King fall, the empire will move under the guise of Pellinore's rule and invade our lands as their next target.

Prepare for war, for in the final strike, the darkness shall unite.

Archduke Dracula Blood Moon."**

The King of Death stared at the letter, surprised that neither he nor his army had been mentioned—until he turned it over and read the words on the back.

"Darkness shall not bow to disgrace! We are the ones who will stand to the end!"

"Dracula?" he murmured. "It seems I've found myself an interesting opponent."

Further south, within the grand hall of a massive fortress, hundreds of marquises stood assembled. The various dark races were all represented, though only a handful of dukes were present—most had perished in the war against the Demon King.

Then, the grand doors of the hall swung open.

"Archduke Dracula Blood Moon enters!"

At once, all the nobles knelt, including the remaining dukes. The man who entered was tall, with long golden hair and crimson eyes—a warrior of the highest warlord rank. He was now the undisputed leader of the dark races, the one rallying an army to stand against the undead.

And in return for their service, he promised them unimaginable wealth—mana crystals of immense power.

For the darkness, the man once known as the Blood Knight, a legendary warlord, was now their last hope against the butcher's army of the dead.