Not the Lord of the Black Sun, but the Lord of Mad Love

Four days later. In the northern reaches of the Holy Polant Theocracy, the capital of Hersalem had finally regained its tranquility after the turmoil. Immediately following the upheaval, the city-state threw itself into frantic preparations for a grand coronation ceremony. This beleaguered realm was about to welcome its new leader. Beneath the Papal Hall perched at the pinnacle of the terrain, the city-state's architecture predominantly embraced a classical style of deep gray and white. The air was suffused with floral fragrance and solemn, resonant music, while wide, immaculate avenues bustled with merchants, knights, and clergymen clad in splendid vestments. In every street and alley, citizens gathered in small knots, murmuring about the tidings drifting up from the southern Horning Empire. "I hear the situation down in the Horning Empire is dire. Chaos and slaughter everywhere." "They say a man in a black robe commands several unimaginably powerful demons cloaked in black. Like a demon king descended from the heavens, an earthly god of wrath..." a citizen whispered warily. Another swiftly cut him off. "Watch your tongue! The root of the horrors consuming Horning is none other than the wicked side of our former Pope Lanclos..." Before he could finish, a bystander snapped, "Mind your words! Our reigning Pope is Her Venerable Majesty Xigelei St. Anastasius!" Had Xigelei not vanquished and banished the maddened Lanclos, the ones subjected to indiscriminate butchery might very well have been the people of Hersalem. At the very least, on this account, every last soul in Hersalem was profoundly grateful. With catastrophe having barely grazed past them, the entire city was immersed in a festive cheer. Fresh blossoms and silk ribbons adorned every thoroughfare and window ledge. Indoors and out, people spoke eagerly of the momentous occasion ahead. Even though the recent news of upheaval from the Horning Empire made it clear that the fourth anniversary celebration of peace and revival across the land of Sevilla would likely be canceled, they would not succumb to the same despair they had felt over a decade ago, regardless of whether war engulfed the world once more. Success was not final; failure was not fatal. Only the courage to march forward endured. The ember in their hearts had been kindled many years ago; in dire straits, they had merely to let it blaze fiercely once more. And today, the Holy Polant Empire was far from lacking a pillar of strength. That was where their faith resided— The most magnificent and crucial edifice in the Holy Polant Theocracy, the Papal Hall of Hersalem, served as today's coronation venue. After days of diligent scouring and repair, the scars left behind by combat had been completely erased, and the Papal Hall once again radiated its former grandeur. Outside the grand hall, priests in white cloaks trimmed with blue were drawn up in ranks, orderly, uniform, and commanding. At their head, paladins hoisted the holy standard of Polant emblazoned with the unicorn crest, letting it flutter proudly in the wind. Well before the formal commencement of the ceremony, an immense sea of people stretched from the plaza fronting the Papal Hall down avenues reaching miles away, a churning ocean of bobbing heads. Tens of thousands of citizens flocked from every direction, packing the plaza so tightly that not even water could trickle through, all yearning to witness this historic milestone. In the heart of the plaza rose a circular dais draped in crimson carpets. Three tiers of pristine marble pillars encircled it, entwined with alternating ribbons of purple and green. Standing proudly in the center, a statue of the Moon Goddess held a staff and wore a gossamer veil, while flanking the steps before the dais stood rows of upright, battle-ready knights. Clad in silver-white armor with azure plumes fluttering atop their helms, their spears glinted with icy menace like an impenetrable wall of steel. The church's orchestra was assembled below the steps, poised at any second to sound jubilant fanfare. Until the hour hand on the Hersalem clock tower pointed precisely to twelve o'clock noon. The bells pealed in unison, and exuberant music abruptly burst forth. Accompanied by the lilting melody, a grand procession of bishops filed out from the Papal Hall. Under the gaze of the throng, they surrounded the gorgeously robed Xigelei as she slowly made her way toward the raised dais. She possessed a tall, graceful figure, her pale hair cascading down her back. Her eyes sparkled like stars in the night sky or blooming spring violets, yet the ambitious aura she radiated was nothing less than that of a queen commanding this land— The moment they laid eyes upon her, many ordinary citizens could not help but be awed into silence. "Her aura is completely different from the old Pope's." Anyone could see that she was not content merely to rule over what lay before her; she intended to conquer everything within her sight. "Far sharper and more ferocious than the senile, conservative old Pope. She truly looks as though she intends to sweep south and conquer the world. It inspires an instinctive, biological dread." "Legend had it that Saint Xigelei was a powerful yet gentle lady. Why does she feel even more pope-like than the Pope?" "What kind of person did you expect could topple the old Pope from his throne..." Citizens farther back murmured in hushed tones. Yet none of them could perceive the faint thread of loneliness lingering in Xigelei's eyes. "Such a splendid sight, yet you cannot share it with me," Xigelei murmured in silent thought as she took in the magnificent spectacle. She still remembered when she had first spirited the Holy Son away to her private gallery, and Lanqi, wanting her to infiltrate the Silence Branch with him, had asked her: When one reaches the summit only to find oneself perpetually alone, with no one to speak to and shivering in the desolate winter, what was the point of standing so high? She had refused to admit it at the time. After concluding her grueling duties, she had always been left to appreciate her gallery in solitude; no matter what heights of achievement she attained, there was never anyone to share the joy. Back then, the boy had subtly piqued her playful streak, and things had spiraled out of control from there. By the time she came to her senses, she already understood the true reason for standing at the summit. Sigh. Experiencing the ceremony of ascending to the very top was fine and well, but without Lanqi beside her, she failed to see what meaning it truly held. She loved the realm, but she loved her darling even more. Her priority remained marrying Lanqi first. In that case, she would inevitably have to plan a visit to the Wilfort residence to meet the parents once she returned to the mortal realm. There was no rush, though; first, she would rendezvous with the Holy Son to give him a delightful surprise. Lanqi certainly would never dream that so soon after parting ways with Cardinal Sigrid in the Shadow World, she would reappear before him in the mortal world. I've heard... the Dimension Branch possesses spells capable of ultra-long-distance teleportation, but the farther the distance and the higher the target's tier, the greater the mana consumption... I truly want to see the Holy Son the instant I return to the mortal realm, Sigrid sighed inwardly. Imagine if the Holy Son emerged from the Shadow World, arrived home, sat down, and suddenly heard a knock at the door. And upon opening it, found her leaning against her luggage. What a romantic sight that would be. The intelligence, navigation, and passports for her southern journey had all been bundled into a comprehensive service provided by the Dimension Branch. As for top-tier spatial teleportation, that was fundamentally out of the question. It wasn't a matter of money. Teleporting an eighth-tier powerhouse at her peak, the Cardinal of Domination, across vast distances required too much mana. Even the only spatial mage capable of performing such a scale of teleportation—the Cardinal of Dimensions—would be completely incapacitated in combat immediately afterward. The cunning Toliado would never be foolish enough to drain his mana pool to zero in front of a fellow Cardinal. Her daydream ended as the thundering cheers of Hersalem hauled Sigrid back to reality. Behind her, the colossal double doors of the Papal Hall swung wide open. The midday sun slanted through the rose window, casting a kaleidoscope of dappled light upon the red carpet, like a radiant stairway to heaven. Bells chimed in chorus and cheers surged like the tide as the people welcomed their new Pope from the bottom of their hearts. Xigelei waved with a gentle smile to the crowd, acknowledging the adoration of her subjects. Every look at this era is one less I will ever have, she thought. "Glory to the Goddess! Praise be to our Pope!" The Temple Knights swiftly formed an impenetrable cordon around the dais to guarantee the seamless execution of the coronation. White-robed bishops followed closely, bowing deferentially to Xigelei before assembling neatly along the right side of the steps, displaying the unified resolve of the Holy Polant Church to assist the new Pope in governing the land. With every step Xigelei took, sacred hymns echoed across the plaza. She ascended the dais with measured grace, the roars of the populace below weaving into an electrifying symphony. Reaching the platform, Xigelei gently raised her right hand, signaling for silence. The plaza fell deathly still, everyone holding their breath in rapt anticipation of the new Pope's coronation address. "Beloved citizens of Holy Polant, today, in the name of the Goddess of Fate and all our people, I swear here and now: I shall devote my utmost strength, with a sincere heart and a fervent soul, to inherit the will of the founding Pope and guide our nation toward a brighter future," Xigelei spoke deliberately, her voice resonant and resolute. "Having endured countless trials, we have finally welcomed the dawn of rebirth. Yet the true test may only just be beginning. Let us march forward hand in hand to carry forward the legacy of our forebears and forge a magnificent tomorrow for Holy Polant!" Though she recited the words aloud, internally she felt that this sort of task should have fallen to the Holy Son. He was far better at speeches. Back in the Northern Continent, she had generally preferred letting him handle public matters while she backed him up from the shadows. Indeed, even after they wed, they would be a match made in heaven in their careers—the perfect partners. As her pledge concluded, thunderous applause and roars of acclaim rolled like waves. "Long live Xigelei St. Anastasius!" "Long live Holy Polant!" The shouting coalesced into an earth-shattering deluge. Countless petals and colored ribbons fluttered through the air like dancing butterflies. Clear bells rang, sacred hymns soared, and the shafts of sunlight pouring through the stained glass coated the solemn hall in dreamlike hues. "Diligence and devotion, conquest through virtue, governance through justice! Let Holy Polant restore its former glory!" Xigelei's voice rang through the heavens, each syllable striking with iron conviction. "The great catastrophe draws to a close, and the dawn is breaking! This battle-scarred land shall surely walk into a more radiant and glorious tomorrow!" Amidst the deafening cheers, thousands upon thousands of white doves fluttered their wings and took to the azure sky, merging into a pure white cloud soaring through the golden midday sun. The grand celebration made the hours fly by. When all had concluded smoothly, the setting sun gradually sank beneath the horizon, draping all creation in a mantle of rosy twilight. The lively clamor of Hersalem faded into the distance as the new Pope of Holy Polant, Xigelei, returned to her Throne Room. Behind heavy oak doors lay dazzling golden magnificence. The frescoes on the soaring dome depicting the Church of Holy Polant had been restored, and the walls were inlaid with emeralds and amethysts personally selected by the new Pope. "I've finished all the work I was supposed to do. What a Holy Son, bossing his Cardinal around like this." At the end of the steps sat the unchanging Papal Throne of Holy Polant. Sigrid took her seat upon the throne, softly closing her eyes as she offered a quiet prayer in her heart. Do your best. The rest is up to you. Perhaps from this day forth, she would never again suffer nightmares about this era. Lanqi had surely brought it to its final closure. *** Several hours later, elsewhere. The southern reaches of the Horning Empire. The capital. Sentrick. On a night shrouded in dense fog, a scarlet blood moon hung high above the city, illuminating the ancient, breathtaking holy capital below. The outlines of the architectural sprawl flickered within the darkness, the spires of the Moonlight Towers and the spiral stone towers casting elongated shadows beneath the moonbeams. Carriages rolling across the cobblestone streets had their curtains drawn tight, faint silhouettes shifting inside. Flanking the roadways, shuttered shops and barred windows infused the air with an uneasy hush. Viewed from thousands of meters in the sky, the golden glow resembled dazzling specks of light reflected on the city's mirrored surface. And this vantage point overlooking Sentrick by night was like the calm eye of a typhoon. Their figures streaked through Sentrick's night sky like shooting stars. The surrounding clouds brushed past them like silk ribbons. With every layer of cloud they pierced, the city lights below mirrored countless stars strewn across the ground, laying a glittering road for their descent. Plunging through the heavens, the city grew increasingly distinct as they drew nearer. Enveloped in the boundless night, the twinkling lights turned into pearls scattered upon black velvet, bathed in the crimson radiance cast down by the blood moon. After a long while. Boom!! Upon a midnight street, the descending shadows slammed into the ground in succession, the impacts unleashing sudden shockwaves that reverberated down the once-bustling road. The wide stone pavement bore deep indentations from the brunt of their landing, and dust billowed amidst subtle tremors in the air. This abrupt commotion swiftly drew the attention of nearby pedestrians in Sentrick. Bordering the southern shore, this district was relatively prosperous. Dropping from high altitudes was inherently hazardous, but this flock of enigmatic figures clearly bore ill intent. Pedestrians were sparse on the street. "What is that..." Seeing the silhouettes descending from above, an instinctive sense of dread gripped the citizens. "Demons! The demons have reached Sentrick!" Instinctively sensing danger, people bolted in terror, crying out for the Sentrick City Guard. The uninvited guests were cloaked in pitch-black robes, their faces concealed beneath the shadows of their hoods, revealing only eyes that gleamed with cold light. The black-robed man at their head silently surveyed the city-state. Though this was technically his first time setting foot upon the final battlefield of the Blood Moon Ruined World, it felt as though he had seen it many times before. [Mission Objective 1: Read the letter from your old friend Caliera; head to the Demon Realm's Purgatory City Pasqual & safeguard the little spark left behind by Caliera; comprehend the Mirror of Tyberius; write the final chapter for the era of the Blood Moon Ruined World. (Completed)] [Mission Objective 2: Comprehend the mindset of Lanclos of the Black Sun: 49.32%. (Completed)] [Mission Objective 3: All challengers must survive until the 21-day time limit expires. Remaining time: 0 days, 00 hours, 41 minutes.] Just as the Shadow World's objective panel indicated, they had less than an hour remaining. Because Lanqi's departure time in this run was later than in all three simulations—more than half a day later than the final simulation—even with the various Great Demons assisting him in wiping out provinces and rushing toward Sentrick at full tilt, the clock was running down. Yet this time was ample. With three simulations under his belt, Lanqi knew the route and timing like the back of his hand, all well within his calculations. "Shall we level this castle?" Upon the pitch-black street, several companions robed in black stood beside Lanqi, exuding tyrannical demonic power like debt-collecting fiends. "No need. We will be entertained shortly," Lanqi replied, his detached gaze seeming to pierce far into the distance. "Honestly, after slaughtering so many Horning folk along the way, even I'm getting a little spooked," the scorpion-tailed demoness leading the pack beside him, Melogas, remarked with a self-deprecating chuckle. She possessed an exquisite figure, her curves tightly hugged beneath a leather outfit visible under her black cloak like a drawn bowstring, her tail poised to strike with lethal venom at any moment. Even during wartime, the Lord of Blasphemy, Melogas, had never slaughtered Horning citizens on such a scale. A massacre numbering in the hundreds of millions had genuinely broadened her horizons. The Pope had granted them permission to engage in wanton, indiscriminate slaughter from the south onward. Even as demons, they felt a twinge of unease—would such butchery truly go unpunished by the Goddess of Fate? "I assure you, you are all my familiars right now. All merit and karma fall squarely upon the instigator. You need not harbor any psychological burden," Lanqi promised the Great Demons. "The outside world is corrupt. Their so-called 'plunder' and 'cruelty' are mere lies they have woven. Only we possess the true revelation, for we understand the truth of love." He lectured the Great Demons with a look of boundless benevolence. "Lord of the Black Sun, what a pity you couldn't continue working with us in the Demon Realm. You are the one who is truly cold-blooded and ruthless, an exemplar for us all." Several figures chuckled with derisive praise. "...?" Only Melogas felt something was off after hearing Lanqi's words. She studied Lanqi, her venomous scorpion eyes seeming capable of piercing his heart. Her lips, coated in a smoky purple gloss, appeared exceptionally enchanting in the dark. She lightly licked her lips, her every gesture exuding seduction while failing to conceal the innate savagery deep in her bones. What caught Melogas off guard was that the Pope didn't believe this docked merit at all—he thought it added merit! This madman was truly something else. Standing before the Pope, Melogas felt as though she were the normal demon. "Hey, Pope." She tapped him lightly with her scorpion tail like a delicate whip. "What is it, Melogas?" Lanqi turned his head toward her. "I was thinking, once we're done killing in the Horning capital, you won't be able to return to the Holy Polant Theocracy anyway. Why not consider coming to Naica—" Right then, an abrupt crimson light enveloped them, blinding scarlet illuminating every face in the gloom. Before Melogas could finish her sentence, the spatial gravitational pull of a boundary erupted from the ground out of thin air, swallowing them in a burst of glaring fire and a deafening roar. Before Lanqi and the Great Demons could react, a crushing gravitational force seized them, dragging them into a violent plunge! Space twisted and deformed, alternately stretching and compressing. Howling winds shrieked in their ears like the shrieks of ten thousand demons. The surrounding scenery safety plummeted upward at dizzying speed. Within the pitch-black void, countless vibrant hues suddenly materialized, whirling and shifting like a kaleidoscope. Buildings resembled Rubik's cubes embedded in the dark, flashing past their eyes—some inverted, some tilted, entirely flouting the laws of gravity. Opulent wooden structures alternated with fortress-like stone walls, glinting with radiant crimson luster, forming a bizarre and contorted world. "Pope!" Melogas's voice cut through the wind, shrill and piercing as she reached out, striving to grasp him. She had been the closest to the Pope when the boundary ensnared them; the other Great Demons were already nowhere to be seen. "Don't worry, Melogas," Lanqi shouted back. The Blood Moon City possessed no absolute boundary barriers separating them; they were merely scattered across different spatial pockets during their descent. If no other vampires intercepted the Great Demons, they would reunite shortly. It was only because of this influx of intruders that the Blood Moon City had shifted into an assault-defense siege mode rather than its previous encirclement mode. By scattering the foes, the Vampire Progenitors could maximize their home-field defensive advantage, shunting enemies into arenas favoring specific defenders to eliminate them one by one. Only if a lone adversary recklessly barged in would they converge to slaughter the intruder en masse. The mastermind behind this layout was undoubtedly the Seventh Progenitor, Heretier. As the vampire astrologer, she would match the falling Great Demons to different sub-palaces to face the vampire marquises. The entrance to the Blood Moon City lay to the west, the Blood King Palace sat at the center, and the sub-palaces governed by the marquises occupied the east, south, and north. Meanwhile, the weakened Pope of Holy Polant would be dispatched to the most perilous Blood King Palace to face the Third Progenitor, Rasheal, in a duel. "You'd better win! Your head is mine to take!" Melogas screamed, offering Lanqi a clumsy blessing for victory. Her scorpion tail instinctively tried to snag the hem of Lanqi's robes, but the chaotic gravity within the boundary and the space-warping forces pulled them apart in an instant, like two leaves scattered by a tempest. They vanished from each other's sight. "Thank you, Melogas," Lanqi muttered as he continued his solitary plunge. The buildings around him grew denser, inverted cityscapes bearing down upon him. "Lord Pope, whatever brings you here?" A mocking voice resonated through the surroundings, ringing like a divine decree. The voice was all too familiar to Lanqi; he had heard it countless times in the Mirror of Tyberius, to the point of feeling a bizarre nostalgia. "What, am I not welcome?" Tumbling head-over-heels, the black-robed Pope pressed a silver-white mask onto his face as he plummeted toward the Blood King Palace. He had already shed his disguise, fully primed for battle. He would treat this as a dress rehearsal for the siege of the Blood Moon City in the Crete Empire. Although he wouldn't have such a luxurious lineup of Great Demon generals at his side in the mortal realm—and because the Crete Empire was in its prime, the mortal realm would likely present the true hard-mode version of the Blood Moon City— Lanqi knew this decaying Blood Moon City at the twilight of the Blood Moon Ruined World inside and out. "Hehe, you are naturally welcome. I merely wonder if Your Holiness will maintain such insolence moments from now," the Progenitor's voice echoed through the darkness like a phantom. Suddenly, an ornate sliding door parted before him. Without hesitation, Lanqi passed through, his descent decelerating. This was the place. The ultimate destination of the Blood Moon Ruined World: the Blood King Palace. He took in his surroundings. As his boots finally touched solid ground, he found himself descending gently onto the center of a circular plaza. Paved in black-and-white marble, the plaza was ringed by thirteen hundred-meter-tall stone pillars. The mocking voice drifted through the air once more— "Welcome to the Blood Moon City, Pope of Holy Polant." The voice originated from the bottomless fog at the plaza's edge. A figure stepped out slowly, clad in a pure black velvet suit, the lapels embroidered with the golden crest of Horning nobility. He appeared no older than twelve or thirteen, his skin porcelain-fair, smooth brown hair falling to his shoulders. "I truly didn't expect you to come. I have been behaving myself in the Horning Empire all these years, after all," Duke Rasheal, the Third Progenitor, offered a playful smile, his tone casual, as if catching up with an old acquaintance. Yet his eyes were steeped in derision and scorn, mocking Lanqi's folly and ignorance. "Still, since you are here, let us have a proper chat, Lord Pope of Holy Polant." Rasheal performed an elegant, archaic noble's bow, pressing his right hand to his chest, drawing his left foot back, and leaning slightly forward as if greeting an honored guest. "Rasheal, you're actually in the mood to chat with me?" Standing alone in the center of the plaza, Lanqi asked the Third Progenitor. He was well aware that Rasheal greeting Lanclos—a Horning native whose homeland had been stolen—with Horning etiquette was blatant mockery. "Why wouldn't I be? Would you rather have me personally erase you, weakened as you are to barely... the sixth tier? Or should I simply watch the final minute hand of your life run out while you savor your own utter impotence?" Rasheal's tone remained gentle. "To be frank, I can hardly bring myself to lift a hand against you." Rasheal narrowed his smiling eyes and opened his arms wide. Yet the gesture reeked of arrogance and defiance. It was the proclamation of an absolute victor. The three vampire marquises and their sub-palaces to the east, south, and north were functioning normally, and he even enjoyed an immense damage-reduction blessing from the Blood King Palace. Even if the Pope had some desperate trick up his sleeve for a final burst, it posed zero threat to him. "Rasheal, why did your True King abandon you?" Lanqi asked with genuine concern, completely ignoring Rasheal's boast and changing the subject out of nowhere. "...?" In that split second, the blood vessels near Rasheal's temples began to twitch. Veins bulged violently across his forehead. "...What... did... you... say?" Rasheal's crimson pupils twisted into a ferocious glare that bordered on madness, grinding out each word through clenched teeth. "Could it be that you are all just discarded failures?" Lanqi stared at the Third Progenitor with an earnest, inquiring expression. "Lanclos, you court death!!!" Rasheal roared at the top of his lungs. His outstretched hands unleashed a surge of blood mist. Countless deep-red tendrils erupted from the haze, whipping toward Lanqi like venomous serpents to drag the desiccated husk of the Holy Polant Pope into an abyss of blood and damnation! *** Scores of kilometers away, on the southern side of the Blood Moon City. In the Hall of Annihilation, governed by the Eighth Progenitor, Somerset. The clash between the Vampire Marquis and the Great Demons had already erupted. This hall resembled an endless colosseum, surrounded by pitch-black crags studded with crimson gems that flickered with eerie brilliance in the dim light. The blood gems were carved from the bones and blood of those who had fallen to Marquis Somerset, and the air was thick with a suffocating stench of gore. The sprawling floor of the hall was traversed by meandering fractures from which scarlet magma seeped and flowed across the ground, the earth shuddering beneath the fury of the battle. Two Great Demons stood back to back, locked in an encounter with the vampires' mightiest warrior, Marquis Somerset the Eighth Progenitor. "Careful. The terrain of the Hall of Annihilation allows him to conceal his presence," warned Mishio, the Lord of Quicksilver, whose skin was entirely silver like a being of liquid metal, yet shaped in the silhouette of a demon woman. Specializing in alchemy and healing, she shielded Demongate, the Lord of Skeletons, remaining vigilant against surprise assaults that could come from any direction. Behind her, Demongate cut a slender figure in a black suit embroidered with silver fractures. His black hair was smooth as satin, fluttering lightly in the wind of the hall, and goat-horned skeletal bone clung to his cheeks like a mask. "Mishio, just look after yourself. You don't need to block for me," Demongate said, his face handsome yet frigid as he communicated through demonic telepathy, his eyes scanning the gloom for the ambushing Progenitor. Though Mishio could liquefy her body to withstand numerous physical strikes and possessed absurd vitality, both were fundamentally scholarly court officials of the Demon Realm; she too could be incapacitated. The instant the wind stirred, Demongate raised a hand. Black mist surged from the ground as legions of undead summons rose in formation. Mishio's magic intertwined with the skeletal army, clothing the undead in quicksilver flesh to intercept Somerset's thundering punch before swarming toward him in a frenzy. "To possess the strength of a general yet resort to sneak attacks," the Lord of Skeletons sneered, eyeing Somerset like trash. Standing before them, held at bay by the skeletal army, was one of the Vampire Clan's mightiest warriors—Marquis Somerset. Towering nearly two meters tall, he had a burly, colossal frame, his muscles as unyielding as tempered steel. "Heh, only the victor has the right to speak." Somerset's fists drove forward, bulging with raised veins. Every punch carried the weight of a mountain, the crimson light and sonic booms shattering the quicksilver undead legion summoned by the two demonic scholars. "Ugh!" Facing such a dreadful opponent, Mishio and Demongate felt the pressure redouble. They had managed to guard against Somerset's attack patterns using the pre-battle intel provided by the Lord of the Black Sun. Even so, two support-oriented court officials working together could scarcely match Somerset in head-on combat. If Somerset landed an ambush, the outcome would be unthinkable. After falling into the Blood Moon City, their role as scholars was meant to complement frontline generals for maximum combat effectiveness. The Vampire Progenitors naturally wouldn't grant them that luxury. The spatial boundary had deposited both scholars into the Hall of Annihilation to face Somerset, the most troublesome opponent for magic casters. Mishio channeled her mana, blue light lancing from her fingertips to wash over Demongate's summons, providing a ceaseless stream of healing and warding. Demongate could hardly endure Somerset's onslaught for long. With a grim expression, Demongate sowed patches of necromantic mana across the floor. Corpse stench blanketed the ground, threatening to open a conduit to the Nether Abyss at any second, devouring everything nearby like a black hole from which even light could not escape. For any entity below the seventh tier, being swallowed meant leaving behind nothing but bleached bones in the next breath. Yet though it constantly corroded Somerset, it failed to inflict substantial harm upon his immortal frame. Relying on his sheer regenerative power, he pushed through the corpse aura and lunged toward Demongate. "Weak, far too weak!" Marquis Somerset threw his head back and laughed, his roar reverberating like muffled thunder. He lunged forward with blinding speed, almost imperceptible to the naked eye. In the next instant, he materialized before Mishio, driving a fist toward her face. Mishio instinctively raised her mana to resist while Demongate's bone shield unfurled before her. Yet Somerset's fist carried crushing force, effortlessly shattering the shield and slamming square into Mishio. Mishio felt a monstrous impact, and her entire form was blasted apart into scattering droplets of quicksilver. Seeing this, Demongate instantly summoned abyssal chains to bind Somerset's limbs, buying time for Mishio to reassemble. In the blink of an eye, the scattered quicksilver converged into several miniature versions of Mishio, retaliating against the Marquis as a barrage of silver needles pierced clean through him. "Intriguing. Seems I can play with you two a little longer." Seeing Mishio rise again, Somerset narrowed his eyes. In a match where victory was guaranteed, the fact that it wouldn't end swiftly only heightened his pleasure. Pure indulgence. The moment the words left his lips, Somerset's figure vanished again, reappearing behind Demongate. His fist crashed toward Demongate's back. Demongate felt a gale tearing at him, and his hastily raised summons failed to halt the strike. He was hurled like a cannonball deep into the cliffside of the Hall of Annihilation. "Demongate!" Mishio shrieked, desperately casting support magic. Yet Somerset's pursuit was too swift. Forcing himself to stand through excruciating pain, Demongate found Somerset already towering before him before he could mount a counterattack. *** Meanwhile, on the eastern side of the Blood Moon City. In the Hall of Bitter Cold, guarded by the Seventh Progenitor, Marquis Heretier, another fierce battle unfolded. The hall sat atop a frozen lake, surrounded by biting gales and fluttering ice crystals. The ice sheet spanning the lake was several meters thick, its surface smooth as a mirror, reflecting the silhouette of the hall. Beneath the ice lurked countless undercurrents, ready to drag intruders into the lake's bottomless depths at any moment. The hall itself was a sculpture of blood-colored ice, the vast space adorned with translucent icicles—the outer ring resembling sharp spears, the inner ring delicate butterflies. "Get out of my way, Marquis Heretier!!" Melogas slashed wildly with her metal claws, leaving afterimages in the air as she sought to plunge her scorpion tail into Heretier and drain her marrow. "..." Heretier merely maintained her incorporeal state, raising her black staff to trace a star chart in the air. She paid no heed to Melogas's rage, refusing to clash head-on, aiming solely to stall her. The more impatient Melogas grew, the more openings she revealed. The star chart rotated lazily, stars drifting out to orbit Melogas. Whenever the scorpion tail struck, the stars adjusted their positions, guiding Heretier along the optimal evasion path while throwing Melogas off balance. And when the barb of the tail struck close, the stars erupted with blinding light, neutralizing the venom entirely. "I should be the one by his side, showing him my power!" Seeing her attacks fail time and again, Melogas roared in frustration. Her eyes burned with frantic bloodlust, her speed ramping up until she became a purple blur of venom. "Weren't you the one who wanted to kill the Pope? Why are you so desperate to protect him?" Heretier asked, her expression cold. Though her divination magic was formidable, its mana cost was equally steep. Stalling Melogas was proving far harder than anticipated. Furthermore, Melogas wasn't supposed to enter a berserk state; only under extreme emotional agitation could she grow even stronger. "He is my prey, and I am his! Until we slay one another, no vampire has the right to interfere!!" With a piercing shriek, Melogas's tail whipped forward as if rending space itself, darting straight for Heretier's heart with terrifying speed. Heretier swung her staff, silver light deflecting the tail. Yet in that very moment, Melogas's claws struck from another angle, swift as a falling star. Heretier felt a cold bite on her shoulder. Looking down, a chunk of flesh had been ripped away by the Lord of Blasphemy. Blood welled from the wound, staining her sleeve crimson as she retreated in haste. "Vampires taste quite delectable. Or perhaps you're simply sweeter than the rest," Melogas licked her fingers, swallowing Heretier's flesh as though that were the only way to vent her fury. "Having partaken of your flesh, I ought to return some bodily fluids of my own so our nutrition stays balanced. Consider it basic courtesy." Melogas flicked her tail, the deep-purple venom on its barb quivering on the verge of dripping. "If I had the choice, I would never face a creature like you," Heretier muttered, enduring the agony of her wound and the revulsion churning in her gut as she raised her staff once more. Fighting the Demon Realm's Regent, Melogas, meant not only confronting the pinnacle of demon might, but also enduring visceral disgust at the endless lust and depravity radiating from her. The Seventh Progenitor knew full well she couldn't defeat Melogas in a straight fight. Her duty was to pin Melogas down in the Hall of Bitter Cold, preserving the advantage for the Hall of Annihilation, the Hall of Souls, and, most critically, the Blood King Palace. Heretier waved her staff. The four walls of the hall shifted, and countless icicles erupted from the floor and walls, forming an ever-shifting phalanx of ice spears that descended upon Melogas. "I have no patience to brawl with you! Get lost if you know what's good for you!" Melogas sneered and lashed her tail. A purple mana cannon enveloped in lightning erupted with a deafening blast, shattering the ice array into dust. Just then, the ground split open, and frigid air surged from the fissures, instantly engulfing Melogas. Melogas felt as though countless razor-sharp blades of ice were slicing across her skin, the bone-chilling cold making her skeleton shudder. Her movements slowed until she was nearly frozen in place. Seeing Melogas frozen, Heretier knew the Blood Moon City's defensive mechanisms had taken effect. She pushed herself upright. The blood moon cast a gentle crimson glow through the dome of the Hall of Bitter Cold, washing over her. Beneath its rays, Heretier's mana began to recover, and color returned to her cheeks. *** To the north of the Blood Moon City, the Hall of Souls had become an Asura battlefield. Inside the pitch-black hall, countless wandering spirits wailed and groaned. The walls were hung with rusted chains and manacles, and the floor was littered with bleached bones. Outside the hall lay desolate earth scored by scorched fissures, as if the ground itself could not bear the malice gathered here. The sky was stripped of light, leaving only the blood-red moon glaring down like an evil eye upon the realm. The hall itself was a tomb, its walls and floor crafted from black stone carved with contorted faces, surrounded by scarlet will-o'-the-wisps flickering in the dark. In the center, an altar emitted an eerie violet glow. Suspended among the black stone pillars surrounding it hung an iron bell encrusted with rust and cracks; with every toll, intruders were weakened a fraction more. Within this Hall of Souls, the Ninth Progenitor, Marquis Bernhard, and the Lord of Infinite Might, Oglin, were locked in a duel to the death. Oglin, the demon sword saint clad in light chainmail, carried over a dozen weapons, specializing in slashing attacks and imbuing his strikes with diverse attributes through his arsenal. "General Oglin, let us see who possesses the greater repertoire! I have long wished to test the might of the First Army Corps commander of the Demon Realm!" When Bernhard transformed into a monstrosity covered in eyes, the entire Hall of Souls trembled. Fissures split the ground, and stones peeled from the walls. Countless ghosts surged from the floor and masonry, screeching as they circled above the hall. The runes upon the altar blazed brighter, purple lightning crackling across the chamber. The pillars shook, their chains clattering with deafening shrieks. "Power obtained by devouring others will never truly belong to you," Oglin said, drawing a translucent dagger from his waist. Every swing of his blade seemed to rend space itself. Wherever the edge cut, cracks appeared in reality, revealing warped reflections like a shattered mirror. No matter how many phantoms Bernhard unleashed upon him, the infinite sword aura swept them all aside, unable to graze Oglin in the slightest. "Lord of Infinite Might! In my eyes, ascetics like you are the most foolish of all! Surrender your strength to me!" The countless eyes covering Bernhard's body rotated ceaselessly. He threw his arms wide, and wandering souls coalesced into a colossal maw lunging toward the Great Demon general. "My strength is not something you can bear." The weapon in Oglin's grip had shifted to a silver-white maul, its tip crackling with lightning. Facing Bernhard's dozens of demonic eyes, he did not waver. He simply brought the blunt weapon straight down, unleashing a burst of electrical arcs. Every thunderclap cracked the earth. Paralyzed and stunned, Bernhard was forced to slow his offensive to guard against Oglin's fatal counterstrikes. Yet Bernhard commanded an inexhaustible array of innate spells. Soon, massive eyes manifested across the sky, their intersecting beams trapping Oglin. Oglin sheathed the thunder maul at his waist and drew a crimson longsword. His skin darkened to deep red, as though his body were ignited by the blade. The flames dancing along the edge flared brilliantly, the blade shimmering with fierce red light, as if forged from pure blaze. Oglin swept the sword, generating a wave of searing heat that pulverized dust and debris across miles into ash. His strikes resembled a dance, yet unleashed unimaginable destruction. Bernhard dodged Oglin's strikes, his eyes darting across the general to seek an opening. Whenever he spotted a flaw, Bernhard unleashed a rain of corrosive light from his eyes to strike at Oglin's vitals, only for Oglin to parry every volley. "Oglin, do you feel yourself growing weaker?" Bernhard laughed madly, his maw splitting open. "Do not forget, this Hall of Souls is my domain!" Countless black tentacles burst from Bernhard's mouth, lashing out like octopus tendrils toward Oglin, each covered in suckers and barbs reeking of rot. Oglin swung a silver scimitar, severing several tentacles, but more swarmed over, scraping across his chainmail to drain his blood and vitality. "What of it? Does being your domain mean I cannot kill you here?" Having finally been struck by Bernhard, festering wounds broke out on Oglin's body, oozing blood. Yet he seemed numb to the pain, merely knitting his brows. He knew that prolonging the fight against Bernhard's traits would spell his doom. He had to end this quickly. "Hehe, no matter what happens, our battle will not decide the final outcome," Bernhard remarked, a cruel smile spreading across his face as he observed Oglin's condition. He knew that with a little more time, Oglin would become his prey, reduced to his eternal thrall. Once the feeble Pope of Holy Polant fell to Duke Rasheal, all would be decided. *** The central plaza of the Blood Moon City. The divine flames of the Blood King surged from the palace, yet failed to singe the white-robed Pope in the least. Before arriving, he had consumed a draft of feral wolf blood. Like the blessing of the Moon Goddess, it manifested as a wolf's phantom, warding off the divine flames and rendering him immune to the fire. While a wolf shaman might possess more refined blessings against the divine flames, wolf warriors rarely used magic; the only way to harness a high-tier wolf warrior's power was to drink the blood directly. From the moment he struck, Rasheal had sought to obliterate the Pope, slicing him to ribbons. Ten million tendrils of black mist poured from the Blood King Palace, swirling like living things in the air. At the vortex's center, dark red lightning crackled, illuminating Rasheal's merciless face. "..." Facing Rasheal's onslaught, Lanqi remained entirely unfazed. Enveloped in a gale, he was granted absolute immunity, neutralizing Rasheal's ninth-tier spell. Clad in the sacred vestments of the Pope, his silver-white mask reflected dazzling radiance. In his state possessed by Talia, he could channel power slightly exceeding the seventh tier. Yet before the Third Progenitor, Rasheal, that was still vastly inadequate. Rasheal's eyes were like bottomless black holes, exuding boundless malice and insanity. "Pope, is this all the strength you have left?" The corners of his mouth curved in a smirk, mocking Lanclos's helplessness. As expected, the Pope retained a few residual tricks for a fleeting burst of vitality. Yet he doubted the Pope could deploy such defenses more than a handful of times. And as for ninth-tier spells, he had plenty more in store! He could not fathom any path to victory for the solitary Pope. "Rasheal, have you ever heard the tale of the legendary sealer Askson?" Even on the brink of defeat moments after stepping into the palace, Lanqi projected no papal majesty, merely muttering to himself. "Nonsense!" Rasheal had no patience for the Pope's riddles. The Pope's aura remained faint, showing none of the invincible might that had once defined him. His defensive ward was crumbling fast, signaling imminent ruin. Yet in that instant, four magic cards within Lanqi's sleeve dissolved into the wind. Wind roared and thunder boomed across the palace plaza! Behind him, four pillars of lightning pierced the heavens from the void. In the next moment, anything became possible. Blinding orange light flared like the first beam of dawn. Ancient pacts awakened, and an incomparable force gestated within the darkness. Amidst the storm of black mist and lightning, the true forms of four Great Demons descended. Shrouded in black mist, they appeared both living and spectral, their colossal phantom silhouettes terrifying to behold, their gazes fixed upon Duke Rasheal with unvarnished disdain. Though all were evil, theirs stemmed from a purer, primordial malice. With the four Great Demons appearing out of thin air, Lanqi stood behind them like a monarch before his throne, looking down upon Duke Rasheal. Ice walls intercepted the blood mist, while overlapping boundaries forced it to contract. A spellbreaker's counter-calculations unrolled like an invisible net, entangling Rasheal's magic and deconstructing it layer by layer into nothingness, its final cinders swallowed by abyssal magic. Fierce as Rasheal's offensive was, the united front of the four Lords successfully dismantled it. Every move was the optimal choice. The commander among the four demonic silhouettes analyzed each action in an instant, relaying instructions to the other three. They stood in distinct postures before the Pope, braced to battle Duke Rasheal. "Synola, do you still need to keep your eyes shut? Even our Lord Pope has donned a mask," Pranay, the Lord of Truth, finally awakened, straightened his tailored Demon Realm suit, his silver-gray pocket watch glowing softly as he glanced at his sister. "Little boys are the most repulsive," Synola, the Lord of Spellbreaking, kept her eyes lightly closed, perhaps deep in thought, making no secret of her disgust toward the Progenitor. "What if that black-haired, green-eyed ahem turned into a child? Would you feel like committing a crime?" Antanas, the Lord of Guardianship, with her striking wine-red short hair, teased Synola with lively cheer. As always, Antanas wore a tight leather hunting suit paired with knee-high boots. Being sealed inside a magic card had bored her to death. "Uh..." Synola hesitated. She trusted her noble Demon Realm upbringing to look without touching, but she feared Talia might commit a crime under the guise of tutoring. Synola had already noticed that Talia's self-control was far worse than any of them had imagined. "..." Almis, the Lord of Ice and Snow, kept her pale, icy-blue eyes fixed upon Duke Rasheal, refusing to join the banter of the other three. She alone remained serious. She couldn't fathom the relaxed nonchalance of her three old friends. The foe before them was the hidden final boss of a Shadow World, whose strength far exceeded what they could handle under normal circumstances. Four days ago, after arriving at the Demon King's city of Naicalis, Lanqi had sought out the four of them. Aside from those required to guard the city—or rather, those Melogas didn't fully trust—the reliable Great Demons had turned out in full force to join this crusade against the vampires. The Lord of Skeletons, the Lord of Quicksilver, and the Lord of Infinite Might were the core of Melogas's faction. Meanwhile, the four Great Demons Lanqi knew best had utilized an ancient ritual to transform into summons, sealing themselves onto Lanqi's person to face Rasheal in the end and ensure Lanqi was never left isolated. Though the four combined could easily defeat a general and stall two, confronting a ninth-tier entity was an unprecedented challenge. "Oho." Duke Rasheal tilted his head and smiled as he took in the four demonic silhouettes. He truly hadn't expected the Pope to conceal four Great Demons on his person through such bizarre means. Yet Rasheal showed not a shred of panic; instead, he looked increasingly relaxed, as if everything remained firmly under his control. "Lanclos, have you been reduced to relying on outside help?" Rasheal sneered mockingly. "What difference does hiding a few Great Demons make? They are the weakest among their kind, and you have plummeted to the sixth or seventh tier. You'll be dead momentarily." He gauged the measure of the four Great Demons almost instantly. Pathetically weak. Only the ice demon possessed combat power comparable to the Lords of Skeletons and Quicksilver; the other three merely met the baseline. As a ninth-tier Duke and absolute superior, the mana of eighth-tier demons held no secrets from him. "Perhaps you haven't realized that I am slightly different from Lanclos?" Lanqi offered as a friendly hint. "He doesn't seem to realize the gravity of the situation," Talia's telepathic voice sounded in Lanqi's ear. She felt too embarrassed to face her four old friends wearing Caliera's new clothes, fearing they might see through her disguise, or perhaps because being soul-linked with Lanqi was simply too humiliating. She feared she couldn't explain it without causing a misunderstanding. Conveniently, Lanqi only needed her possession for protection, not her physical presence. Having used the Mirror of Tyberius three times, Talia knew full well that only Lanclos's attacks carried solar damage. In Rasheal's eyes, an eighth-tier Lanclos might have traded blows with a ninth-tier Progenitor for a brief period using his elemental advantage. Yet the only real threat, Lanclos, was now stripped of his combat power. Naturally, Rasheal assumed victory was assured. To threaten Rasheal, it would take the combined might of at least three Great Demon generals. "Can you undergo a metamorphosis before your death, Lord of the Black Sun?" Rasheal looked at the distracted Pope. A mixture of bewilderment, disappointment at unmet expectations, and the irritation of being mocked by someone boxing the air made Duke Rasheal chuckle. Lanclos truly was different. Not only did he open by claiming the True King had abandoned them, but he also maintained an uncanny composure, sending Rasheal's blood pressure spiking. "I told you, I am not Lanclos. If you truly believe the methods used against the Lord of the Black Sun will work on me, you are making an irremediable mistake," Lanqi stated calmly. A few offhand remarks had already rattled Rasheal. Presently, Talia's demonic hymns should have no trouble bypassing Rasheal's high mental resistance to take effect. "Very well. It saves me the trouble of heading to the Demon King's city to purge you remnants later!" With those words, Duke Rasheal's figure blurred into a long afterimage, his hands unleashing a flurry of phantoms that blanketed the demons before him—swift as the call of the Grim Reaper in the night! Turning to four court scholars in desperation was utter folly! The crimson in Rasheal's savage eyes deepened, turning so dark it threatened to swallow all light. Amidst the rising tempest, the immunity field shielded the four Great Demons as light began to coalesce from a dark singularity. Within Lanqi's palm, the void twisted and gathered like the birth of a cosmos. In an instant, the blinding radiance of a midday sun filled the plaza of the Blood King Palace, banishing the darkness and transforming the world into pure white light! The brilliance was so scorching it threatened to shatter the glass, blowing out the palace's rose windows and coating the castle in iridescent mist. The moment the sun unleashed its dazzling light over the plaza, the entire Blood Moon City was tinted by its glow. Even in the Halls of Annihilation, Bitter Cold, and Souls tens of kilometers away, the faint glimmer of the sun was unmistakable. Inside the Hall of Annihilation. Marquis Somerset was locked in a brutal clash with Mishio and Demongate. The sound of shattering rock and exploding magic shook the chamber, threatening to bring down the entire hall at any moment. Just then, a faint light filtered into the colosseum. Though weak, it appeared jarringly stark in this perpetually dim hall. Somerset keenly sensed this natural light, the bane of his kind. He whipped his head around, his face a portrait of disbelief. "What... is this?" Somerset muttered. Lanclos's light— How could it possibly reach this far? Though the distance prevented it from harming Somerset directly, he felt an instinctive dread. It felt as though dawn had broken at the far horizon, heralding the rise of an unstoppable sun. Battered and bloodied, Mishio and Demongate were equally stunned, yet a glimmer of understanding surfaced on their faces. "It seems a victor will soon emerge over there," Mishio murmured in relief. "Heh, Marquis Somerset, who do you think was stalling whom?" Demongate nodded, amusement gleaming in his eyes. Somerset's face darkened instantly. "No, impossible!" Somerset gnashed his teeth, his voice laced with indignation and fury as he bellowed to bolster his courage, charging once more toward the two scholars. To the far north, in the Hall of Souls. Seeing that light, a flash of terror crossed Bernhard's monstrous countenance. He took an involuntary step back, as if the light might scorch him. That single instant of distraction allowed Oglin to sever his head with a single stroke. To the east of the Blood Moon City. The battle between Heretier and Melogas in the Hall of Bitter Cold also paused at the sudden illumination. Staring at the light, despair seeped into Heretier's bewildered expression. She could feel it. This light harbored a power she had never encountered before! To an astrologer, anything beyond comprehension meant one thing: loss of control. Lanclos was supposed to be at death's door. How could he possibly unleash the radiant dawn at this very moment? "Well then, you succeeded in stopping me, and I've made peace with it," Melogas cracked her knuckles, her joints popping. "I might as well stay here and get intimate with you. I've always heard a female marquis's body is remarkably sturdy, impossible to break no matter what is done to it..." Her expression resembled that of a fiend as she advanced toward Heretier. *** Over the plaza of the Blood King Palace, an orb of light resembling the midday sun rose high. Under its blessing, even the frozen earth grew warm. "Rasheal, my name is not Lanclos. I am the one who will duel you here once more tens of thousands of years from now. I hope you will provide me with a little more amusement then," Lanqi's voice rang out, the brilliant white light illuminating his features. Duke Rasheal felt as though his skull were being split open by that deafeningly calm voice, as if he had been cast into high noon with day and night inverted! He could not fathom how Lanclos could summon such a vast expanse of solar power at the stroke of midnight! "You are not the Lord of the Black Sun! Who on earth are you?!" In that breath, though Duke Rasheal desperately wished to believe the blinding light was merely an illusion, the grim reality was that his power had instantly plummeted to a mere tenth of its peak. It was remarkably similar to Lanclos's power, yet fundamentally distinct. An allotrope of Lanclos. And this gap in intelligence regarding their differences proved utterly fatal. "If I were a demon, my title... would probably be..." Lanqi pondered before replying. Since his brand upon the Poet of Great Love had been devoured by Talia, turning her into the Demon King of Mad Love, if his true demonic name were to manifest, it would likely be— "The Lord of Mad Love." He snapped his fingers softly. "The Lord of Mad Love... What in blazes is the Lord of Mad Love?!" The Third Progenitor had never heard of such a demon in all of history. He refused to acknowledge such an absurd, aberrant existence!