CHAPTER 73

In a remote village of northern giants, a place so secluded that even Siegfried had never bothered to visit, sixty peak Warlord-level giants were tearing apart a massive mammoth, preparing it for their feast. The laughter and stomping of the giants as they ate made the ground tremble—until a distant thud disrupted the merriment. A giant, who had wandered off to relieve himself, had fallen. Such a heavy collapse did not go unnoticed by the keen senses of Warlord-ranked beings. Immediately, both male and female giants rose, grabbing their crude yet deadly weapons in alertness.

The fallen giant's corpse belonged to a young hundred-meter-tall warrior, barely visible through the thick mist and raging snowstorm. But then, before their eyes, the body was dragged away, vanishing into the depths of the fog—triggering the anguished cries of twelve of his kin. Witnessing such a scene drove them into a frenzy. With war cries, they charged into the mist, setting off a chain reaction.

Giants, a race known for their relentless warfare, saw death in battle as the ultimate honor. However, a stealthy ambush and the assassination of one of their own was the greatest insult to their warrior pride.

Only five female giants remained behind to protect ten young ones while the others disappeared into the fog. The sounds of battle—thunderous clashes and roars—echoed through the storm, yet after ten minutes, all fell silent. Then, out of the mist, a single blood-soaked giant sprinted back, screaming with all his might:

"RUN!"

He spun around, attempting a desperate punch toward the unseen assailant, but four massive claws pierced through his back. Blood poured from his chest as the life drained from his eyes.

The five female giants turned toward the ten young ones.

"Run to the Mother of Winter's tribe and tell them what happened! Hurry!"

The young ones hesitated at first. As giants, they were born Warlords and wished to fight. But when the fallen giant's body collapsed and the monstrous killer emerged, they obeyed without hesitation, fleeing as fast as their legs could carry them.

Standing like an unbreakable wall between the fleeing children and the approaching horror, the five female giants gripped their heavy stone hammers and axes.

"May the Mother of the Mountain cleanse this evil!""Mother of the Mountain, lend me your strength!"

They prayed to their deity and then charged.

Their opponent—a single creature—stood ten meters tall, its entire body shrouded in shadowy mist. Five-meter-long claws extended from its fingers, its shark-like teeth gleamed, and hundreds of glowing red eyes twisted and spun across its shifting form. It cackled madly.

The battle lasted only ten seconds.

All five giants lay in pools of their own blood. Above them, the Abyssal Spirit loomed, absorbing a pale white mist from their bodies—draining their very essence and leaving behind nothing but husks.

"Let them gather…"

It wanted to savor the terror of those young giants, feeding on their fear. But time was against it. One by one, slaughtering an entire tribe would be too slow. It needed to evolve, to rank up—quickly.

This being was one of the rarest among the Abyssal Spirits—devourers that consumed the souls and emotions of their victims, draining life force as though it were demonic nectar. Any battlefield they passed through left no trace, no remains. Even within the Abyss, these entities were feared. They were nightmares—avoided even by their own kind whenever possible.

Now, the North was about to experience a true Abyssal nightmare.

And all the while, Siegfried and the giant army had not even reached the battlefield against the Empire yet—they were simply marching southward through the chaos.

Meanwhile, Dietrich found himself in a predicament. The war against the Empire had greatly weakened the North's forces. Archduke Lancelot, a master of both strategy and frontline combat, had repeatedly challenged Dietrich, forcing him into grueling one-on-one duels. His reputation as a Legendary-ranked warrior was being questioned, as Lancelot—despite being at the Warlord peak—continued to fight him on equal footing.

Only a handful of elites knew the true secret behind Lancelot's power—the potent bloodline running through his veins. No one truly understood its full extent, but all knew of its origin: the Lady of the Lake, the one who had bestowed the legendary sword Excalibur upon mankind.

Now, standing before an army of heavily armored snow dwarves, Dietrich raised his mighty war axe. His eyes locked onto the enemy commander—his rival through endless battles.

On the other side, clad in silver armor, Lancelot gripped his slender sword and cast his gaze upon the Empire's banner flying over his forces. He spat on the ground and glanced back at his troops.

"Once again, the sea of blood shall flow…"

War raged across every corner of the land. But one battle was about to set the entire Central Continent ablaze.

A colossal fleet had anchored offshore—an army belonging to a Demon King.

Standing at the prow of his warship, a man of Abyssal Fallen Angel descent gazed upon the mainland. These beings, even stronger than ordinary fallen angels, possessed divine beauty and legendary power. Behind him, ten massive black wings spread wide.

An army of Abyssal Fallen Angels disembarked—beings not merely tainted by darkness and sin but corrupted by the very essence of the Abyss itself.

Millions of elves, hailing from various sub-races, followed.

Demon King Caesar needed to slay just one more Legendary-ranked opponent to ascend into the Mythical tier. But he was in no rush. According to his intelligence, the other Demon Kings at best commanded a hundred Legendary warriors.

Yet he?

Due to the abundance of heroes in the Elven Continent—where humanoid races naturally produced champions due to their soul compatibility—he had successfully summoned two hundred Abyssal Fallen Angels, each at the pinnacle of the Legendary tier. Their bloodlines, superior even to demons and dragons, filled Caesar with unshakable confidence.

"If I had emerged in a human-dominated continent with this army, I would have conquered the world ten times over by now…"

If the other Demon Kings had heard those words, they would have been furious. Not all of them had been so fortunate as to summon a race as powerful as his.

Caesar, however, held nothing but disdain for the other Demon Kings. Like Lucas before him, he had no mercy for them.

Meanwhile, Hazard had finally secured a meeting with two Demon Kings in the kingdom of Plenor—ones who could safely convene with him.

And thus, the true nightmare was about to begin.