Twenty years ago.
Flames blazed high, an eye-searing crimson.
On Bloodbath Day, the city of Brillda was engulfed in a sea of fire.
The celebratory atmosphere of the National Day festival had long since been supplanted by fury and riots.
Across the usually bustling streets echoed cries, screams, and roars.
Mobs surged like a tide toward aristocratic manors, clutching blades, cudgels, and clubs, their eyes burning with flames of hatred.
Most of the city's major landmarks had come under attack. Billowing smoke choked the sky, and tongues of flame licked at ancient timber beams. Occasionally, panicked nobles attempted to flee by carriage, only to be intercepted by the furious populace wielding heavy weapons. Women adorned in gold and silver were dragged from their carriages, stripped clean of jewels and ornaments, and soon lay lifeless on the ground, their faces drenched in blood.
The Twelve War Gods of that era were fractured in dissent. Those who were supposed to receive the protection of the God of War and Swords on this day had all joined the battlefield, fighting one another—some shielding the royal family, some aiding the commoners, others helping the nobility suppress the unrest.
The muzzle flashes of imperial mechanical armaments and magic-energy particle cannons crisscrossed above the city defense barrier. The agonized screams of imperial soldiers never ceased, and commoners were inevitably caught in the crossfire; even the city defense barrier struggled to remain effective under severe overload.
Any aristocratic mansion unlucky enough to be breached was soon set ablaze, crimson-tiled roofs collapsing with thunderous crashes.
The entire city of Brillda had plunged into frenzied self-destruction.
In just a single day, the heart of the vast Creti Empire was reduced to crumbling ruins. The splendor of past golden ages vanished like soap bubbles, leaving only a purgatory of blood and fire.
Why the conflict raged without end, and when it had first taken root, was a question no one could answer.
Not far from the city hall stood a mansion befitting great lineage and power.
Deep red tapestries hung on the walls, their exquisite embroidery displaying the history and glory of the family and the Creti Empire.
"..."
Having just turned nine, he propped himself up with his elbows and crawled out from between the floorboards of the bedroom.
His urine-soaked trousers clung stickily to his skin, but it was not unbearable.
Compared to that, his stiff joints ached fiercely, and the struggle to keep the floorboards from creaking was far more excruciating.
Fortunately, those people had scoured the entire place without finding him, but taking extra care never hurt.
The lessons he had learned in childhood taught him that any living creature would starve without food. Curiously, though he had eaten almost nothing all day, he felt no hunger whatsoever.
Perhaps it was a protective mechanism to keep him from vomiting at the smell of his loved ones being roasted.
It was late November, the dead of winter, yet his throat was as parched as if he had run wild on a sweltering summer afternoon. His head throbbed violently, and a relentless ringing filled his ears.
After checking the state of the room, he crawled across the floor, stripped off his aristocratic coat, and made himself as disheveled and filthy as possible, hoping his grime-streaked appearance would make him look like a commoner—no, a refugee.
He carefully avoided making any sound in the house, trying to slip out to the backyard from where no one could see, and flee this mansion that was now nearly stripped bare.
No matter where he looked, the mansion that had brought him happiness and security since birth was ruined beyond recognition.
Anything of even slight value had been looted.
Even the vases and the flowers inside them had not been spared.
The cage had been ripped open, leaving only ragged canary feathers and a severed wing smeared with blood.
He found a shattered vase and shoved his head into the base like a dog, desperately gulping down water to moisten his throat, heedless of whether the muddy water was clean.
At last, he felt alive again.
Immediately after, without even wiping his mouth, he surveyed the room.
The cabinets were smashed and thoroughly ransacked; even the maid's uniforms had been dragged out and scattered across the floor, stamped with bootprints.
Perhaps because they were stained with too much filth, no one had bothered to take them.
Pressing his hands against the battered floor, he slowly rose from his crouch and listened closely to the sounds outside.
The corridor glimpsed from the corner of his eye was a chaotic mess, smeared with mud, blood, and sticky grime.
"..."
Once he was sure it was safe, he took careful, hesitant steps forward.
Yet as he prepared to step outside, he trod on something soft.
He looked down, and as if possessed, bent to pick it up, completely disregarding whether this was a dangerous, unnecessary action.
It was his sister's ribbon.
He recognized it.
It was his sister's favorite hair accessory.
Though not particularly lavish, she had cherished it deeply because he had given it to her as a birthday present.
As he held the ribbon, the pungent stench clinging to it made his hands tremble.
After a brief struggle, he tossed the ribbon aside as if electrocuted and looked forward again.
Peering through the window crack in the corridor toward the backyard, he confirmed that those people had temporarily moved away from the vicinity. Holding his breath and steadying his heart, he vaulted nimbly over the three-foot-high window sill.
The sky was a murky red.
It was impossible to tell whether it was morning or dusk.
His shadow stretched long. Using the postures taught to him by the family knights, he flattened himself against the wall to conceal his shadow.
At five or six years old, he had been recognized as extraordinarily gifted, quickly surpassing even the knights who trained him.
Were it not for that, he would have had no hope of hiding himself today, let alone finding an opportunity to flee.
He moved slowly along the wall, glancing toward the neighboring courtyard.
As expected.
The neighboring estate was likewise a sea of fire belching black smoke.
Instinctively, he dared not look up.
Because looking up meant seeing that inhuman thing hung atop his own family's mansion—
"He can't have gotten far! He's just a child of a few years old. There's no way he escapes today!"
"When we catch him, disembowel him just like his parents! Hang him on the roof of the manor for everyone to see!"
"Their family carried royal blood. Aren't we going too far?"
"We've already come this far! That's precisely why we must see it through to the end!"
"Never let a remnant of the Marquis house escape!"
The sound of searching footsteps echoed, making him hold his breath once more.
"..."
His eyes stung. At this moment, he wondered if simply giving up and ending his own life might be the best choice.
Then there would be no more fear, no more pain.
The inextinguishable fires sweeping from nowhere stung his cheeks.
The flames surged, echoing the catastrophe.
Just hearing these sounds made him envision his father being decapitated, his mother's clothes being torn away, and the memory of what he had heard with his own ears—his sister weeping and screaming on the floor, gradually growing faint, slowly losing her life until her breath ceased altogether.
He was only a nine-year-old boy. His shoulders could no longer bear the weight.
If he lost everything, it would all become so easy.
It should have been that way.
A single misstep was all it took to plunge into a living purgatory.
Why was he still clinging to life?
The boy's eyes reflected the boundless firelight as he observed the actions of those pillaging murderers.
His bloodstained lips were no longer clamped tight; instead, they curved into a released smile.
That sound, half sorrow and half joy, made him seem as if he were crying and laughing all at once.
...
Twenty years passed in the blink of an eye.
At the first glimmer of dawn, the streets of Brillda had already awakened.
Golden rays of sunlight pierced the clouds, scattering across the sparkling ripples of the Grand River.
This reborn imperial heart was no less prosperous or magnificent than any mountain or coastal city in the empire.
Statues of heroes stood solemnly, awaiting the grand annual celebration.
Towering architecture and a profound artistic atmosphere permeated every corner of Brillda.
At the center of the city-state, Creti Memorial Square was encircled by white monuments and the distinctly styled dark-grey statues of the original War Gods.
Every year in late November, a succession of festivals brought lively cheer to Brillda.
Across the wide streets, morning light shimmered, the fragrance of roses drifted, and gentle melodies played by street performers resonated like the chirping of birds in a greenhouse. Even at sunrise, this city-state looked like a pure paradise.
The sun climbed steadily higher.
Eventually, the ancient sundial inside the Great Monastery at the city's southernmost edge pointed to nine o'clock in the morning.
"What a wonderful day it is."
Many students from Saint Creti Monastery were bustling out of the monastery grounds, heading in groups toward Creti Memorial Square in the city center.
"I've been waiting an entire year for this day. I'm going to celebrate to my heart's content."
"You said it," an accompanying friend chimed in. "Today, His Imperial Majesty will review the cavalry regiment in person. It's the twentieth anniversary of that Day of Mourning. The spectacle is bound to be magnificent."
At the grand station of Saint Creti Monastery, a cluster of young students was engrossed in discussion.
"It's a pity Ursula and Elsa refused to come out today no matter how much we begged. They said watching the broadcast from the Brillda Broadcasting Corporation at the monastery would be enough. How great would it have been to see it in person?"
"Ursula is the eldest daughter of the Marquis Roland family, after all. Her family went through Bloodbath Day back then..."
"Let's talk about the new rumors regarding Professor Landry and his cat wife instead!"
Realizing they had touched on a sensitive subject, they coughed lightly to drop the topic of their friend's family history and pivoted back to the most lighthearted gossip.
"What? There's a new version already?"
Laughter and chatter erupted once more.
Their destination was the plaza before Saint Astri Palace in the center of Brillda, six hundred meters north of the Imperial Special Operations Division at Horwarth Crossclaw.
For that reason, the Imperial Special Operations Division had once been mocked as the "Royal Lapdog Guard." Compared to the Imperial Guard tasked strictly with protecting the palace interior, the Imperial Special Operations Division showed zero tolerance toward any enemy threatening imperial security, making them vastly more intimidating.
Royal Saint Astri Palace was originally commissioned by King Hofmann I of the Creti Empire. From the fifteenth to the seventeenth century of the Solar Calendar, Saint Astri Palace served as the primary residence of the Creti monarchs.
Constructed of red brick, Saint Astri Palace exemplified the architectural style of the Syros Dynasty.
The palace was divided into four wings: the Courtyard of Envoys, the Courtyard of Divine Cultivation, the Courtyard of Colors, and the Courtyard of Brightness. The main building housed the Throne Room, used for coronations and major state ceremonies.
The renowned Protection Ceremony of the Twelve War Gods took place in Creti Memorial Square before Saint Astri Palace, invoking the annual blessing of the God of War and Swords for the Twelve War Gods.
The palace's most celebrated interior was the Royal Inner Courtyard, where the Creti emperors once met ministers and received foreign emissaries.
The inner courtyard was adorned with lavish tapestries and paintings from the Syros Dynasty. Another vital hall was the Throne Room designed by ancient imperial artist Prince Jonville, featuring niches at both ends displaying busts of past Creti monarchs, corridor murals depicting divine-era settlements from the Book of Genesis, maid lounges, and a standing armory.
Many momentous ceremonies, such as state visit welcomes and royal wedding banquets, were held here. The coronation of the reigning Creti monarch, Emperor Saint Bardo, had also taken place within these walls.
"Did you know? The official Creti Empire National Day parade tradition is divided into morning and afternoon segments."
A passing Saint Creti Monastery student was lecturing his companions like a history teacher.
"The morning consists of the standard celebration and parade."
"Usually, after the morning celebration concludes, there's a midday break. The War Gods Protection Ceremony begins promptly at three in the afternoon along Grand Avenue before Saint Astri Palace."
"The entire ceremony lasts about two hours."
According to the traditional protocol:
First, the Royal Cavalry Guard assembled. Fourteen hundred imperial guards, two hundred mounted cavalry, and four hundred military band members formed up before Saint Astri Palace.
During the cavalry inspection, the regiment was reviewed by the Royal Colonel, a post held by a member of the royal family.
Next, the emperor and royal family arrived by carriage. The king set out in the royal carriage from Saint Astri Palace, traversed the parade ground, and took his seat in the royal reviewing stand.
Other royal family members followed closely in carriages.
To the strains of "Royal Ceremonial Blaze" played by the military band, the emperor mounted his horse and reviewed the Royal Cavalry Guard under imperial guard protection.
The standard-bearer then entered the field on horseback from Saint Astri Palace, carrying the fluttering cavalry regiment banner to the parade ground as the band struck up the "Ancient Syros March."
Each company conducted a march-past with their colors. Accompanied by military music, the companies marched in column along the parade ground, each formation led by an officer and a band unit, finally lining up on Grand Avenue to conclude the morning review.
In the afternoon:
The Royal Cavalry Guard held a division march-past, the climax being the guard passing before Saint Astri Palace to salute the emperor.
Then the War Gods made their appearance to commence the Protection Ceremony.
The national anthem was played across the grounds while royal mechanical formations flew overhead.
In the closing proceedings, the royal family returned by carriage or horseback to Saint Astri Palace, with the War Gods guarding the emperor.
Finally, at sunset, His Majesty the Emperor greeted the populace from the open-air balcony of Saint Astri Palace.
Accompanied by an aerobatic demonstration from the royal mechanical forces, the celebration reached its grandest peak.
The parade's historical tradition was designed to showcase the strength of the Creti royal family and military, igniting patriotic fervor. Different regiments carried the standard each year, and vast crowds gathered before Saint Astri Palace and along the route, with nationwide broadcasts watched even by the northern kingdoms, cementing it as an essential cultural tradition of the Creti Empire.
Those able to attend in person in Brillda were especially fortunate.
"If only we could run into the professor."
Gossip aside, the students genuinely adored the professor who had joined Saint Creti Monastery this year.
"Someone tried inviting him, but the professor said he had something important to do today. Who knows what could make him work overtime even on National Day?"
"A workaholic like him didn't even rest during the Moon Goddess Festival. He's still putting in extra hours on National Day. Frankly, I don't think I've ever seen him take a break."
"It almost feels like... he has no time to die," a student remarked wistfully.
"Don't jinx it!"
"No, really, sometimes the way Professor Landry acts makes you feel like he'd calmly march to his death for certain matters, and nothing anyone says could stop him. Don't you think so?"
"Please don't..."
At the platform, the students' voices were gradually drowned out by the roar of the city's magic-energy rail train pulling in.
"Attention passengers: the Horwarth line has entered Saint Creti Monastery Station. Next stop, Welton Station. Terminus Horwarth North will be reached in thirty minutes."
Accompanied by the announcement, passengers boarded and departed.
The train's iron doors slid shut, and it slowly accelerated toward the heart of Brillda.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the city:
At Saint Astri Palace, master of ceremonies staff had been bustling about since dawn.
They polished every piece of silverware until it gleamed in the sunlight, meticulously ironed every tablecloth until not a single wrinkle remained, and gathered the brightest roses from the gardens to decorate the designated corners.
The entirety of Saint Astri Palace radiated fresh vitality.
The Royal Cavalry Guard assembled before the palace.
Clad in vivid scarlet uniforms and tall, dashing black bearskin caps, the horses beneath them whinnied and pawed the ground, as though sensing the extraordinary nature of the day.
Four hundred military band members held their instruments, poised to strike up joyous movements at a moment's notice.
The streets of the Manhote District in central Brillda were packed with spectators.
Even the area surrounding the Brierda Opera House, two kilometers from the imperial palace, was gridlocked.
As the ten o'clock bell tolled, the celebration officially commenced.
A Royal Colonel in resplendent attire stepped before the cavalry guard to begin the inspection.
His gaze swept over every soldier, ensuring their appearance and posture were flawless.
The soldiers snapped to attention and saluted, looking straight ahead.
Moments later, amid the clatter of hooves and rumble of wheels, Emperor Saint Bardo's royal carriage emerged slowly from Saint Astri Palace.
The gilded carriage was painted with Syros imperial motifs, and four immaculate white horses pulled it as if treading on clouds.
Today, the emperor wore a deep crimson military uniform, the medals on his chest gleaming under the blazing sun.
He waved to the cheering crowds, a warm smile on his face.
Behind him, the empress and other royal family members followed in carriages, waving politely to the populace.
The crowd responded to Emperor Saint Bardo with an avalanche of cheers.
Stepping down from the carriage, Saint Bardo walked briskly before the Royal Cavalry Guard, his military boots clicking crisply against the plaza stones.
The cavalrymen remained motionless as statues.
Emperor Saint Bardo inspected the troops according to custom, his gaze sweeping over every cavalryman.
Around fifty years of age, the Creti emperor held his sword—the legendary Sword of Syros Heroic Spirits. Under the blessing of his forebears, his aura felt no less imposing than that of a tier-8 supreme combatant, with imperial spirits from history seeming to stand as phantoms guarding his back.
The cavalrymen stared straight ahead, surging with burning blood and exalted fighting spirit.
The royal military band struck up "Royal Ceremonial Blaze" right on cue, its grand melody reverberating across the plaza.
The trumpets sounded clear and resonant as if piercing the clouds, the drums beat with powerful cadence into everyone's hearts, and the lively melodies of the fifes and flutes conveyed the joy of National Day to the populace.
The music shifted between low and soaring, gentle and impassioned.
The music ceased abruptly, and a cavalryman in a scarlet uniform rode forward.
Reins in one hand, he raised a fluttering military banner high with the other.
The banner was embroidered with the cavalry regiment's crest—a roaring lion symbolizing the bravery and unyielding spirit of the Creti cavalry.
Head held high and eyes forward, the cavalryman rode slowly across the plaza, rendering supreme respect to Emperor Saint Bardo.
Immediately after, squadron by squadron, the cavalry regiment began its division march-past.
They marched in impeccable formation, the horses' strides synchronized.
Iron hooves struck the pavement with rhythmic clatter, making the very ground tremble.
The cavalrymen sat tall and proud, their discipline stern and their bearing formidable.
Under the winter sun approaching midday, their sabers and badges flashed brilliantly, dazzling the eye.
Tsunami-like cheers erupted from the crowd, interspersed with shouts of "Long live His Majesty Saint Bardo!"
National and royal flags waved among the onlookers, forming an ocean of gold and red.
Emperor Saint Bardo watched the soldiers, his gaze filled with benevolent regard.
These loyal guardians were his firmest bulwark, the bedrock of the Creti Empire's enduring reign, and the pillar maintaining his rule.
Even as the morning march-past drew to a close, the surging crowds showed no intention of dispersing.
Surrendering a prime viewing spot now meant losing any chance of regaining it in the afternoon.
The cavalrymen regrouped in the center of the plaza.
At a command, every cavalryman saluted Emperor Saint Bardo simultaneously.
Emperor Saint Bardo returned their salute, surveyed the plaza, and raised a hand toward the cheering throngs.
His expression was solemn and majestic, though the fine lines at the corners of his eyes betrayed a smile.
The Bloodbath Day of twenty years ago had long since passed.
Once people beheld the brilliance of success, they forgot the darkness of the means.
Under his control, the Creti Empire was steadily advancing toward invincible supremacy, step by step.
...
Beneath a clear sky, looking up revealed an azure, pristine expanse.
The blazing sun hung high, an eye-searing crimson.
On this winter day, the afternoon sun provided rare warmth to the skin, while the waters of the canal connecting to the southern city murmured crisply.
When the three o'clock bell tolled, the entire city of Brillda erupted.
From Brighton Tower south of the Grand River to the Imperial Parliament Building on the north bank, from Greenwich Park in the east to Heidelberg Garden in the west, a festive spirit overflowed everywhere.
The plaza before Brighton Tower was packed with shoulder-to-shoulder throngs.
Citizens in holiday finery sang and laughed, their voices reaching the heavens.
"Beloved people of Creti."
Emperor Saint Bardo Hofmann stood on the balcony of Royal Saint Astri Palace, facing the cheering crowds beyond the plaza below.
Dressed in his morning ceremonial uniform, he raised a hand, signaling for silence.
Gradually, the cheers subsided, and everyone held their breath, awaiting his address.
"Today is the National Day of our great Creti Empire. At this special moment, on behalf of the royal family, I extend my most sincere holiday blessings to you all,"
Emperor Saint Bardo began in a resonant, powerful voice.
"The past year has been extraordinary. Our Creti Empire has achieved world-renowned accomplishments across every domain. Our economy flourishes, our technology advances, and our culture thrives. All of this embodies the wisdom and sweat of the entire Creti people. As your monarch, I feel immense pride in having subjects so industrious, brave, and talented."
Applause rippled through the crowd.
Saint Bardo smiled, waiting for the applause to die down before continuing.
"Yet we must never become arrogant or complacent because of our current accomplishments. Looking back at the history of the Creti Empire, we have weathered countless hardships and challenges. It is precisely because generations of Creti people have stood united in selfless dedication that our nation stands tall among the nations of the world, and that we enjoy the happy life we have today."
"Looking to the future, we still have many tasks to complete and many difficulties to overcome. But I firmly believe that with your support and devotion, and with the courage and wisdom of our Creti people, we will conquer all hardships and build the Creti Empire into an even more prosperous and mighty realm."
Emperor Saint Bardo's words rang with conviction, causing many citizens to swell with pride and straighten their chests.
"Beloved people of Creti, let us stride forward hand in hand, striving tirelessly for the total advance of the Creti Empire! Let us unite in heart and mind to forge even more brilliant achievements in the coming year! Let us pray together for the enduring prosperity of the Creti Empire and peace for its people! May the God of War and Swords protect our Twelve War Gods, wishing them martial glory, so that in this extraordinary year, they may seize victory for all the people of our Creti Empire!"
His voice rose to a crescendo, and the crowd answered with thunderous roars.
"Long live Emperor Saint Bardo! Long live the Creti Empire!"
The people of Creti chanted in unison, again and again.
The applause lingered endlessly as Emperor Saint Bardo raised his hand to the people.
Gradually, the noise subsided once more.
Everyone knew that at this moment, one of the most critical ceremonies of the day—the Protection Ceremony of the Twelve War Gods—was about to unfold in sacred Creti Memorial Square.
After the bells had finished their tolling, twelve additional strikes rang out. The massive doors of the God-Descendant Cathedral at the side of Creti Memorial Square slowly swung open.
That was another exit connected to the "Hall of God-Descendants" at Imperial Military General Headquarters, as well as an ancient ceremonial ruin preserved by the Creti Empire for centuries.
From within the doors of the God-Descendant Cathedral, a golden glow poured out, illuminating nearly the entire plaza.
The citizens held their breath, fixing their eyes on the doorway, waiting for the legendary Twelve War Gods to appear.
Before long,
A youth with indigo hair jogged out in a hurry, waving to the crowd with a smile.
It seemed his reaction was half a beat slow—he was supposed to have emerged earlier, but had only realized it was time after being reminded by another War God, turning his entrance into a jog.
He had a tall build, draped in a wing-like long cape that fluttered softly, glowing with an interwoven sheen of pale blue and white like fragments stripped from heavenly clouds. The trailing hem resembled angelic wings; with every puff of the breeze, one might mistake him for taking flight, while his light steps were as unburdened as feathers drifting in the wind.
The youth possessed a fresh, vibrant countenance, his neat indigo hair glinting in the sunlight, strands swaying with the wind.
He was the First War God, Diamond Seat, Hyacinthus.
"Look, it's Lord Hyacinthus, the First War God!"
"He looks so young, so handsome and radiant!"
"He's even a little cute, what do I do?!"
The crowd buzzed with excitement, particularly the young women, their voices blending into a chorus that reached Hyacinthus on the plaza.
Hyacinthus paused, turned toward the people, and bowed deeply.
The plaza fell hushed for an instant.
Immediately after, an even more fervent cheer erupted.
Hyacinthus did not engage further with the crowd.
That unpretentious bow, devoid of any arrogance, spoke louder than any words.
He took his place beneath the Diamond Seat of Creti Memorial Square, awaiting the arrival of the other War Gods.
Behind the doors of the God-Descendant Cathedral,
Another figure emerged.
His pace was far steadier than Hyacinthus's—unhurried, unbothered by any noise or atmosphere on the plaza, walking entirely at his own cadence.
The man cradled a black-bladed imperial sword, dressed in cloth armor, his pitch-black hair tied in a high ponytail.
His appearance caused the surrounding air to congeal; the chill enveloping him made the temperature outside the plaza seem to drop several degrees in an instant.
The clamor beyond the plaza quickly cooled, none daring to disturb this War God whose demeanor was the polar opposite of Hyacinthus's.
He came to a halt before the Obsidian Seat.
Cradling his sword with closed eyes, he slightly parted his lids. His sharp gaze locked with intense focus onto Hyacinthus beside him.
Upon seeing the Second War God, Obsidian Seat, General Saron, the crowd began murmuring again.
"That's General Saron, the empire's foremost swordsman who has never suffered a single defeat outside its borders."
"None of the other War Gods are his match either. To him, serving as a War God must be boring; he has spent his entire life seeking a worthy warrior to duel."
"Shh, keep your voice down."
Before their whispered words could continue,
The Third War God, Sardonyx Seat, Goyate, strode out.
Everyone knew that although Goyate possessed power that even a cardinal of the Resurrection Church might struggle to rival, a vast gulf separated him from the Second War God, Saron of the Obsidian Seat; Saron would not even bother challenging Goyate.
Draped in a jet-black robe, Goyate held a mechanical onyx staff. Under the winter sun, his handsome, cold features and indifferent eyes faintly gleamed with arrogance that looked down upon all living beings.
"Hmph."
Snorting in contempt at the crowd's chatter, Goyate arrived at the Sardonyx Seat.
"Don't be so irritable, Goyate. There are hardly any people in this world stronger than you; those who are, are mere anomalies."
Following him was the Fourth War God, Jasper Seat, Jasper, comforting Goyate with a faint, knowing smile.
She could contend with the foremost frontline combat cardinals of the Resurrection Church, though she lacked Goyate's overwhelming suppressive force.
Standing at 1.8 meters tall, Jasper yielded nothing in height even to the male War Gods, her glossy black hair tied neatly behind her head.
What drew the gazes of the spectators even more was her mechanical prosthetic eye.
She was not only the empire's current foremost mechanist, but her own body bore clear traces of modification.
"That's Lady Jasper."
"Truly worthy of the Jasper Seat. Those eyes—one gentle as autumn waters, the other sharp as winter frost—truly one of a kind."
The citizens began discussing this foremost mechanical pioneer of the contemporary empire.
Jasper had a noticeably gentler temperament than the previous two War Gods. Even when people discussed her, she took no offense, occasionally casting a smile their way.
She took her place before the Jasper Seat in Creti Memorial Square, joining Hyacinthus, Saron, and Goyate. The four stood like unyielding peaks, inspiring instinctive reverence in the Creti people.
"Ah, what a headache. Why must a doctor attend these functions every year...?"
A faint complaint drifted from his lips.
Dressed in a simple white coat, the doctor strolled leisurely out of the God-Descendant Cathedral.
Beneath silver-white short hair was a face bearing a squinting smile; though he complained, it did not seem to truly bother him.
Even on such a solemn occasion, he still carried an elongated dark-gold medical kit slung over his back.
That was equipment he never parted with, and his sworn duty.
"Since the tradition of the Imperial War Gods Protection Ceremony doesn't restrict their attire, they can wear whatever battlefield gear they're most accustomed to. That's why you get powerhouses like Doctor Lukayed."
"Don't underestimate him. He's the Fifth War God, Mica Seat. His very presence is a shot of adrenaline."
Lukayed took his place before the Mica Seat. Hearing the crowd's remarks, he smiled faintly and nodded in greeting.
His gaze swept over the crowd, as if assessing everyone's health.
"It's the Aquamarine High Priestess!"
"The Moon Goddess High Priestess!"
Reverent shouts immediately welcomed the next War God.
The Sixth War God, Aquamarine Seat, Violet, appeared before everyone's eyes.
She appeared around thirty years old, radiating an ineffable mature charm. Her dark navy hair held a deep, rich luster under the midday sun, accentuating skin as luminous as white mutton-fat jade. Beneath arched brows, her violet eyes were as clear as water yet faintly harbored a tempest, making people hesitate to stare at her too long.
Hearing the citizens' cries, Violet's lips curled into a gentle smile.
Stopping before the Aquamarine Seat, she turned to face the crowd and performed a flawless priestess bow.
This single movement hushed the entire square in an instant, all subdued by her grace.
"So gorgeous!"
"The Moon Goddess High Priestess is peerless!"
"Our Headmaster is the best!"
The people of Brillda boiled over once more. The Saint Creti Monastery students scattered among the citizens tracked Violet's figure with their eyes, eagerly recounting her legendary deeds.
Seconds later,
The arrival of the Seventh War God, Bloodstone Seat, Philip, altered the square's atmosphere once again.
A fireball seemed to erupt from the God-Descendant Cathedral, slamming into the center of the plaza with a deafening crash and towering flames.
Amidst the blaze, Philip's figure gradually materialized.
He wore dark red heavy armor, his cape like blood, whipping fiercely in the wind.
Philip marched forward, surrounded by a scorching updraft that warped the air, threatening to ignite at any second.
The onlookers exchanged glances, unsure how to react.
Just as Philip reached the Bloodstone Seat, the Eighth War God, Zircon Seat, Conzel, followed closely behind.
Appearing nearly forty, he possessed a physique sturdier than anyone's.
Conzel's brow exuded unyielding righteousness, his eyes as keen as a falcon's. Standing two meters tall, he wore mechanical plate armor forged from the pinnacle of imperial magical engineering. His wrists were encased in thick metal that fused seamlessly with his skin, complex mechanical linkages faintly visible underneath.
His arrival immediately reassured the citizens; as the most reliable Shield of Creti, Conzel was the very embodiment of security.
Behind Conzel, a silent figure had walked onto the plaza unnoticed.
He possessed a refined countenance and a tall, straight posture. His dark purple hair was combed back neatly, and he wore a crisp military dress uniform with epaulets and cuffs gleaming with golden tassels, highlighting his extraordinary bearing.
His emerald eyes were calm and sharp, like a bottomless lake yet faintly radiating a piercing light that dared no one to meet his gaze.
Upon spotting the Ninth War God, Rayne, another stir ran through the crowd.
Most were voices of praise.
Marquis Rayne Roland was rarely criticized for his military achievements or his upright conduct. Despite being a noble, he carried few aristocratic airs, holding himself strictly to account while treating others with generosity.
Rayne nodded slightly, expressing gratitude to the crowd.
"Tch, noisy."
Behind him, the Tenth War God, Rubellite Seat, Julius, clicked his tongue and strode straight toward his designated position.
He appeared the youngest among the War Gods, his dark red hair slightly tousled. He wore his family's military dress uniform, his tie and accessories—which he rarely wore properly—fastened completely today.
"Don't throw a tantrum, Julius. It's such a fine day."
A faint scent of sandalwood that had no business being on the plaza drifted over as the Eleventh War God, Emerald Seat, Simonro, landed beside Julius.
He possessed a gentle, refined face, his pale golden clerical robes embroidered with intricate emerald-green patterns. His eyes were pure silver, seeming to see through all things in the world, harboring boundless wisdom and compassion.
"Right, Julius, cheer up!"
The Twelfth War God, Cat's Eye Seat, Bianca, dashed out, slapped Simonro's shoulder, and overtook him to pat Julius.
"How can you two always be so cheerful?"
Julius turned back in bewilderment, though he was not angry. He merely had a sharp temper, but was no fool, maintaining good relations with most of the War Gods.
As the sole beastfolk War God in the empire, Bianca's cat ears and long tail were always exceptionally eye-catching.
Her orange hair cascaded over her shoulders, and a full set of dark green leather armor outlined her shapely curves.
The three chatted casually without much discipline, arriving beneath the final three gemstone seats to wait.
Twelve War Gods, like twelve sharp swords, glinted in the wind.
All had arrived.
The entire plaza sank into silence.
Everyone could feel the solemnity of this moment.
Emperor Saint Bardo rose slowly from his throne and walked to the edge of the reviewing stand.
Facing the knight statue of the God of War and Swords at the far end of Creti Memorial Square, he slowly drew his Sword of Syros Heroic Spirits, pointing the tip toward the sky.
At this moment, every eye on the plaza was fixed on him.
They knew the momentous hour had arrived.
"Ancestors above, shield your people."
"In the God's name, bestow the blade!"
Saint Bardo began reciting the ancient Syros prayer.
His voice was sonorous and solemn, every word saturated with reverence and entreaty toward the God of War and Swords. He prayed for the War Gods to protect the empire, granting its armies supreme courage and strength, that the War Gods might lead the empire into an even more glorious future.
Following Emperor Saint Bardo's prayer, the statues of the original War Gods seemed to shine amidst the chanting, their armor nearly cracking with radiant brilliance.
Until the light blossomed fully, piercing the clouds, twelve beams converged at the center of the sky to form a canopy-like ancient divine array. Those crests of the original War Gods were the acknowledgment granted by the God of War and Swords to the nation that had worshipped Him since the divine age, as well as His response to the devout prayers of the mortal realm.
The divine radiance descended slowly, cloaking the heads of the twelve War Gods.
Each War God felt the power of the blessing settling upon them. During this period, they would enjoy peerless protection, but could not move half a step.
...
North of Brillda.
In a district of the metropolis that no one was paying attention to.
A medium magic-energy vehicle drove smoothly along the street, having arrived near the city hall.
Through the one-way glass of the car windows, the crowds on the streets could be seen beaming with excitement and joy, watching the giant screens on the buildings, clearly elated by the grand ceremony on the plaza.
Inside the car, however, the dozen or so figures all wore grave expressions.
"The blessing has begun."
Lanqi, at the front, held a sacred communication magic card in his hand.
"All twelve War Gods are protected by ancient legacy and national defense barriers. They cannot act for the time being."
"This is our safest window."
They spoke among themselves, able to monitor the live feed of Creti Memorial Square before the imperial palace.
"Once we go underground, the surface will depend on Director Nikolai leading the Imperial Special Operations Division, and High Priestess Violet, who will conclude her blessing in just over an hour,"
Abigail, imperial spatial magical engineering master and director of the Brierda Opera House, gave her final briefing.
Today, she was the supreme logistics commander.
Since Lanqi needed to fight in person, he would be unable to command most of the time; command and support duties were left to her and Barton, who would guard the rear entrance together.
Her mission was to provide real-time intelligence to the assault team, establish their forward operating base, and ensure the team could safely return to the surface once the assault concluded.
"Yes, Abigail. Thank you for your hard work later,"
Lanqi expressed his gratitude.
Over the past two weeks, Kestrel Nikolai had successfully assumed office as the new director of the Imperial Special Operations Division. Today, he would provide support from the surface and stood ready to lead a team down to seal the entrance if needed. Meanwhile, Professor Landry had achieved his goal as well, becoming the universally acclaimed head of the Imperial New Energy Agency Committee.
"Secretary Naila temporarily lent her [Ultra-Long-Range Communication Program-8] to Sixth War God Violet today,"
Lanqi informed the others.
This ensured that even if they plunged into the alternate space of Blood Moon City, they could track core developments on the surface in real time.
Simultaneously, they could maintain cross-spatial contact with Violet above ground, allowing her to stay informed of underground developments. In case she was needed to intercept fleeing vampires, she could prepare to act at a moment's notice.
As long as they could win today's Blood Moon City assault,
This disaster brought upon the Creti Empire by the Blood Clan would surely be quelled by their ever-growing Silver Moon Restoration Society alliance.
"You combatants are the ones in true danger. I will do everything in my power to guard your rear,"
Abigail nodded, looking at the group.
The vehicle gradually slowed, stopping before the city hall.
The doors slid open silently. They filed out, their movements clean and crisp, without making a single sound.
"Who are—"
The guards at the entrance on the first floor of Brillda City Hall parted their lips, trying to scream, but no sound came out.
Their bodies went limp, collapsing to the floor and sinking into a deep slumber.
The same scene unfolded in every corner of the city hall.
Clerks absorbed in their paperwork collapsed one after another like marionettes with severed strings before they could even realize what was happening.
In less than half a second, the entire hall fell into eerie silence, save for the ticking of the clock, as if nothing had occurred.
They walked into the hall with composed expressions and practiced ease, navigating the place with absolute familiarity.
Passing through corridors toward the luxurious interior, they descended the stairs to an office on the basement level, opened an inner door, and pressed further inside.
Just reaching this point, spatial fluctuations could already be felt.
As long as the spatial node was pinpointed, even a non-spatial tier-8 like Iphatia could sneak in.
Moreover, they had the Cardinal of Dimensions, Toriado.
With a light flick of Toriado's finger, space unzipped before them.
Hidden in the depths beneath the Creti Empire lay a palace forgotten by time, illuminated only by Blood Clan authority casting hazy crimson moonlight over the mist-shrouded expanse.
That was the power center buried deep underground.
Before they could even force their way in,
A sudden burst of red light enveloped them, its blinding scarlet illuminating every face in the darkness.
"Here it comes."
Before Lanqi could finish his sentence, the spatial gravity of the barrier on the ground manifested out of thin air, erupting with dazzling crimson and deafening roars, swallowing them whole.
This was the Blood Moon City summoning that Lanqi had experienced several times before!
Rather than letting them infiltrate, the Blood Clan preferred to actively pull them in to seize the home-field advantage!
A crushing force struck, sending the entire team plummeting downward!
The warped space stretched and compressed by turns, howling winds rushing past their ears like tens of thousands of demons shrieking and roaring.
...
Center of Blood Moon City.
A castle loomed, its obsidian exterior glinting with cold light.
Inside the council hall of the Blood King Palace, it was chilly and dim, candlelight from the vaulted ceiling replacing illumination.
At the center of this prominent hall sat a banquet table, flanked by thirteen high-backed chairs bearing scarlet gemstone crests symbolizing their owners.
"They came after all."
Marquis Heretier sat in the seventh chair, her hands resting flat on her lap, eyes closed, still as stone.
At this moment, only three figures occupied the Blood King Palace.
Opposite her sat someone who was not of the Blood Clan.
Both appeared unhurried. Wither Cardinal Netochka was playing chess with Heretier.
Behind the Wither Cardinal stood a tall man with purple eyes.
"I really didn't expect the Duchess could gather so many companions. Truly incredible,"
Wither Cardinal Netochka remarked in surprise, placing a chess piece.
She looked astonished, yet displayed no tension whatsoever.
Hearing Netochka's words, Seventh Progenitor Marquis Heretier merely glanced at the board.
A single candle was insufficient to illuminate Heretier, rendering her silhouette pitch-black, leaving only the beauty mark beneath her eye clearly visible.
"It seems everything is within your calculations."
Heretier knew Netochka had subtly orchestrated the sacrifice of the Decay Holy Son, deliberately allowing their anticipated enemies to learn of the Decay branch's participation.
Yet the Wither branch had never exposed a single trace in Brillda.
Deliberately feeding potential enemies this false intelligence misled them into believing that only the Decay branch was assisting the Blood Clan.
Under such circumstances, the intervention of the Wither branch would create a fatal imbalance in combat strength.
Not to mention the return of other Progenitors.
"Well then, I should head to my battlefield. I hope you've assigned me an opponent who isn't too tough; after all, I'm really not good at direct combat,"
Wither Cardinal Netochka cast a reluctant glance at the unfinished game on the long table and rose to her feet.
Seventh Progenitor Heretier was presumably already maneuvering the intruders to plummet into the "most suitable" battlefields.
And she, too, had to go there to deal with her opponent.
"Rest assured. Your opponent's odds of victory against you in the Faded Hall are zero percent,"
Heretier stated.
"My, what an exaggeration. I'm not that formidable,"
Wither Cardinal Netochka let out a bell-like laugh.
Passing by the man beside her, she patted his arm.
"Holy Son, go hunt your enemies. Prove your strength to me, and you'll be one step closer to your ultimate goal—'arresting me.'"
She spoke with a teasing lilt to Colonel McCree of the Capital Garrison Command, who was also her Holy Son.
"..."
The grey-haired, purple-eyed youth said nothing. Adjusting his sunglasses, he turned and melted slowly into the shadows.
...
Brilliant and crimson light flashed across the void, transforming into a warped, bizarre world.
In the highest reaches of Blood Moon City, countless silver birds took flight in all directions. Those were Abigail's mechanical messengers, capable of transmitting a panoramic view of Blood Moon City back to her, allowing her to share updates with the other members via communication devices.
The surrounding scenery plummeted upward at blistering speed. Brilliant colors suddenly exploded in the pitch-black void, shifting like a rotating kaleidoscope.
Wooden cottages intersected with stone fortress walls, buildings embedded in the night like Rubik's cubes, inverted and tilted structures sweeping past their vision in total defiance of gravity.
"Brother!"
Toriado's voice sounded exceptionally piercing in the wind as he gripped Lanqi's shoulder, straining his spatial magic to resist Blood Moon City's guiding mechanism.
He was the high demon who had consciously stayed closest to Lanqi when they fell into the barrier; the other members had already vanished without a trace.
"Are you ready?!"
Toriado asked Lanqi.
The Blood Clan Progenitors scattering the intruders allowed them to fully exploit Blood Moon City's defensive home advantage, shunting enemies into unfavorable matchups to destroy them piecemeal.
The architect of this was Seventh Progenitor Heretier.
As the Blood Clan astrologer, she would match the high demons falling into Blood Moon City to different halls to face Blood Clan Marquises.
The safest entrance to Blood Moon City was in the west, the Blood King Palace sat at the center, and the remaining directions—east, north, and south—were halls governed by Blood Clan Marquises.
Upon entering, Toriado had already assisted spatial magical engineer Abigail in stopping at the western entrance to build a camp, leaving Hyperion and Barton behind to protect her—and keeping Hyperion in the safest spot.
"No problem. My record against Rasheal is one loss and three wins. I will win this time too,"
Lanqi replied firmly.
This might well be his final battle.
Blood Moon City possessed an absolute barrier; descending through different spatial boundaries inevitably scattered them. If no other vampires blocked the way, one could move to support other battlefields.
However, each person's opponent would undoubtedly be exceptionally formidable, offering almost no opportunity to conclude combat and roam to assist.
Lanqi was actually somewhat worried about Toriado. Expending mana right at the start to forcibly teleport him to Third Progenitor Duke Rasheal put Toriado at a major disadvantage.
"Good."
Toriado stared at Lanqi for a moment, his furrowed brow relaxing.
Though he did not see Lanqi's usual ease in his eyes, his conviction and sense of duty were at their absolute peak today.
"Don't worry about me. Go!"
Toriado released Lanqi's arm and shoved him hard. With a twist of spatial mana, Lanqi passed through a mirrored surface and fell into a brand-new area.
The spatial portal snapped shut, cutting Lanqi and Toriado off from each other's sight.
"Thank you, Toriado,"
Lanqi murmured, continuing his descent alone.
The buildings around him grew denser, inverted cities looming down on him.
"Oh? The one who came to the Blood King Palace is actually you?"
A mocking voice echoed through the surroundings like a divine proclamation.
The voice was all too familiar to Lanqi, heard countless times in the Mirror of Tiberius.
Although the danger and unknowns of this Blood Moon City might differ completely from the decayed Blood Moon City at the end of the Blood Moon Ruined World in the shadow world—where a single misstep meant total defeat and a complete wipeout—Lanqi was already prepared for battle.
If no one in the other halls guarded by Blood Clan Marquises could defeat them, the protection granted to Duke Rasheal by the Blood King Palace would not be dispelled, and Lanqi would be unable to harm him.
Last time, he had Defilement Lord Melogas and All-Mighty Lord Oglin, two overwhelmingly powerful high demons who could reliably breach two halls; no matter how Heretier distributed them, she had been forced to match those two against weaker Blood Clan Marquises.
This time, Heretier had vastly more room to maneuver.
Not expecting them to win, Lanqi could only pray his friends remained safe.
...
Amidst the void storm of Blood Moon City,
Toriado landed slowly, his boots touching frozen ground.
Everything around him was black and blue.
If his senses were correct,
He had arrived at the easternmost edge of Blood Moon City.
It was a degree colder than the Hall of Piercing Cold from Lanqi's intelligence, slowing his movements.
"Abigail, where am I? How is everyone else?"
Toriado contacted Dimensional Saintess Abigail using sacred communication magic.
Only Abigail possessed the bandwidth to monitor conditions across all sectors in real time; she had placed tracking devices and special combat recording apparatuses on everyone.
She would also find ways to notify other members of the assault progress and required reinforcements.
"You landed first! The others haven't touched down yet. You're in the Hall of Glacial Stagnation on the easternmost edge of Blood Moon City, the farthest distance from camp. Be extremely careful!"
Abigail's voice came through.
Though she usually wished Toriado dead, a rare trace of panic edged her voice today.
The position Heretier had steered Toriado into was exceptionally precarious.
Although Toriado could open a portal and leave right now, the enemy dropping him here meant they weren't afraid of him fleeing.
The moment he roamed, other companions would certainly suffer.
He had to pin down a terrible foe right here.
Before Toriado could ask Abigail further,
A figure strode through the frozen hall, leaving rhythmic footsteps on the floor.
A middle-aged man dressed in a dark green scholar's coat and top hat, his hair and beard impeccably groomed, he looked gentle and refined, as if he had never seen battle.
"Toriado, what a pleasant surprise to see you today."
A dim lamp in Decay Cardinal Farmer's hand cast long shadows over him and his surroundings.
His overly heavy eyeliner lent him an intensely sinister aura.
"If I had a choice, I'd rather not fight you, Farmer,"
Toriado replied through gritted teeth, bracing for combat.
He lacked recovery methods, and his high mobility could not guarantee dodging Farmer's wide-area attacks.
Unaware of where the others had landed, he had to stall Farmer first.
Otherwise, wherever Farmer went, that front would collapse. Aside from Sigrid, he was probably the only one who could barely hold him off.
...
Northernmost edge of Blood Moon City.
A silver mechanical bird rested on the Ice Snow Witch's shoulder as she arrived here alone.
Pitch-black night enveloped this once-magnificent courtyard.
"Miss Ice Snow Witch, be careful! The unknown area you're in is roughly at the northernmost edge of Blood Moon City. Its trait accelerates mana consumption—if your opponent is a vampire, it applies only to you; if they're not, it applies to both!"
Abigail's warning echoed in the Ice Snow Witch's ears.
Dim moonlight pierced heavy clouds. A cracked stone path wound through a desolate flower garden, like a road leading to chaos.
Disorderly crimson weeds swayed in the breeze, aggressively overtaking grounds that might once have belonged to roses, lilies, and hyacinths.
A dried-up fountain stood silent in the courtyard center, its weathered statue mangled into bizarre ruins.
This was a hall outside their intelligence.
It was not the Hall of Souls, Hall of Annihilation, or Hall of Piercing Cold seen in the previous shadow world.
Just then,
The sound of dripping water echoed inappropriately in the hall.
A green light flared in the palace depths. From the lifeless ground sprouted a tender green seedling.
It grew furiously at a visible rate, vines coiling like serpents, leaves rustling.
In a flash, a tree as tall as a person burst from the ground. Its trunk split open, and a slender figure stepped out slowly, like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis.
Her skin was white as snow, pale golden hair cascading gracefully down to her waist.
Long eyelashes fluttered as her opening eyes shone like spring leaves or deep green pools, clear, bright, and faintly glinting.
"The legendary Ice Snow Witch? Even prettier than I imagined. It's such a delight to meet you,"
The fair-haired, green-eyed woman in the palace clapped her hands and smiled.
A chill ran through the Ice Snow Witch.
She eyed this cardinal bishop warily.
"Wither Cardinal Netochka..."
The Ice Snow Witch instinctively avoided meeting this cardinal's gaze.
Their compatibility wasn't completely terrible; the problem was that the Wither Cardinal was simply stronger than her, and the Ice Snow Witch could barely threaten her.
In a prolonged battle of attrition, the Ice Snow Witch could neither win nor escape.
It was a grueling battle of slow suffocation.
...
East side of Blood Moon City.
In the Hall of Piercing Cold guarded by Seventh Progenitor Marquis Heretier, another fierce clash was already underway.
The hall sat atop a frozen lake, surrounded by biting winds and dancing ice crystals.
The ice sheet on the lake was several meters thick, smooth as a mirror, reflecting the silhouette of the hall.
"You actually chose me? Quite the grudge match, aren't we?"
Sigrid flashed through the air in streaks of afterimages, easily shattering layer after layer of ice barriers with casual punches.
The hall itself was a crimson ice sculpture, its vast space dotted with crystalline icicles. Beneath the ice lay countless undercurrents, ready to drag intruders into freezing depths at any moment.
The trait of the Hall of Piercing Cold was occasionally freezing intruders. Fortunately, Sigrid possessed immense freeze resistance.
"I didn't expect you to be of the Wolf Clan."
Maintaining an ethereal state, Seventh Progenitor Heretier raised her pitch-black staff, tracing an astrological chart in the air.
She roughly understood the Bishop of Domination's intent.
As a member of the Wolf Clan, this woman harbored an ancestral feud against the Blood Clan, and the Blood Clan had indeed slaughtered many wolves in the past.
However, Heretier had no intention of clashing head-on with their strongest combatant, aiming solely to stall her.
Apart from her sector, every other battlefield was at a massive disadvantage.
Stalling Sigrid here meant the enemy's fighting strength would soon collapse like dominoes.
The more anxious Sigrid grew, the less she could catch Heretier or escape the Hall of Piercing Cold.
The astrological chart rotated slowly, stars flying out to orbit the Bishop of Domination, Sigrid.
Whenever Sigrid threw a punch, the stars automatically shifted positions, guiding Heretier along the optimal dodge route while disrupting Sigrid's balance.
When Sigrid's fist wind arrived, the stars released blinding light, neutralizing it entirely.
"What an annoying little trick!"
Seeing her attacks miss repeatedly, Sigrid knitted her brows.
This woman had bullied her in dreams, but now that she could bring out her main account to pummel her, the opponent simply stalled endlessly, making her seethe.
Come to think of it, the Ice Snow Witch was best suited for the Hall of Piercing Cold, but Heretier would never allow her into the eastern frost domain, shunting her to the worst possible hall instead.
"No matter how anxious you get, it's useless. Lacking special mechanisms and relying purely on raw power, you are the easiest opponent for me to handle,"
Heretier spoke coldly.
Though her divination was potent, its mana consumption was equally heavy.
Stalling Sigrid proved even easier than expected.
Even if Sigrid's werewolf nature granted her near-immortal hyper-regeneration in Blood Moon City, it posed no problem.
Heretier's mission was to pin Sigrid down in the Hall of Piercing Cold, granting advantages to the other four halls and, most critically, the Blood King Palace.
Seventh Progenitor Heretier swung her staff. The hall's walls suddenly shifted, countless icicles erupting from the floor and walls as an array of ice spikes rearranged constantly, lunging at Sigrid.
...
North side of Blood Moon City, Hall of Souls, strewn with withered bones.
Inside the pitch-black hall, countless roaming spirits wailed and groaned. The walls were hung with rusted chains and shackles, the floor littered with bones and mangled flesh.
Outside lay barren earth scarred with scorched fissures, as if even the ground could not endure the resentment here.
At the center of the hall, an altar glowed with eerie purple light. Suspended between several black stone pillars was an iron bell covered in rust and cracks; each toll weakened intruders further.
Inside this Hall of Souls, Ninth Progenitor Marquis Bernhard and Iphatia were locked in a fight to the death.
Iphatia felt herself constantly weakened by curses—the foul trait of the Hall of Souls.
Though a curse master with high resistance to abnormal status conditions, she was unsuited for purification and dispelling. Already weaker than Ninth Progenitor Marquis Bernhard, she was now plunged into an agonizing struggle.
Watching Ninth Progenitor Marquis Bernhard transform into a monster covered in eyeballs, she was at a loss on how to fight this thing.
The entire Hall of Souls trembled, the ground cracking and stones peeling from the walls.
Countless ghosts surged from the ground and walls, shrieking shrilly as they circled the hall's upper reaches.
"I hear your potential is quite remarkable. Become part of me,"
Ninth Progenitor Marquis Bernhard's deformed body strode heavily toward her.
"..."
Iphatia gritted her teeth.
From what she heard of the shadow world combat logs, this guy was always the first to fall, yet facing him herself brought tremendous pressure.
She still needed time to grow.
Given another year—no, six months—she guaranteed she could easily defeat Bernhard.
Now, she could only gamble on whether she could achieve a mid-battle breakthrough to tier-8, cardinal rank.
Ever since she was healed, she felt very close to cardinal rank.
Ninth Progenitor Marquis Bernhard suddenly accelerated his advance.
The runes on the altar brightened, purple lightning cracking across the air. The pillars around the altar shook, chains clattering with piercing shrieks.
Facing the threat of death, Iphatia knew she had to fight.
"Damn it, for my loving demon family, I'll go all out with you!"
Before her words faded, mana capable of shaking the ground erupted from her, dyeing the entire Hall of Souls pitch-black as countless bottomless fissures spread like spiderwebs.
Immediately after, black cursed flames geysered from beneath the earth. Iphatia commanded these eerie black fires to tear through Ninth Progenitor Bernhard's perimeter like vengeful specters, intent on reducing the monster to ash.
...
Dozens of kilometers away on the south side of Blood Moon City, a silver mechanical bird flew past.
The Hall of Annihilation, governed by Eighth Progenitor Somerset.
This hall resembled a boundless colosseum, encircled by black crags embedded with scarlet gemstones gleaming with demonic light in the gloom.
Three high demons were warily on guard, engaged in a terrible encounter with Eighth Progenitor Marquis Somerset, the Blood Clan's strongest martial artist.
The three of them possessed excessive countermeasures against spells and barriers, making it uncertain where Heretier could successfully shunt them.
However, once everyone else's matchups were arranged, their opponent was effectively determined.
"The terrain of the Hall of Annihilation allows Eighth Progenitor Somerset to conceal his movements,"
Pranay said grimly.
He knew the traits of every hall.
Facing a physical Blood Clan powerhouse here was undoubtedly the worst possible scenario for the three of them.
Sinnola's spell counter-measures were completely useless here.
"Antanas, stay in the back. You must survive,"
Sinnola surveyed this battlefield where Bone Lord Demongate and Quicksilver Lord Mishio had once fought.
In truth, she had no confidence in engaging Eighth Progenitor Somerset head-on.
Yet she could only grit her teeth and fight.
Her and Pranay's most critical task was protecting Antanas; as long as Antanas lived, the two of them could recover from almost anything.
The instant wind whistled, Eighth Progenitor Somerset's figure had already materialized.
Buzz!
The deafening screech of colliding metal rang out.
Sinnola parried with her scythe using all her strength, but Somerset's fist carried the weight of mountains, easily shattering the shield Antanas cast. Immense force surged through, and even while parrying, she could not dissipate the momentum, rocketing like a cannonball into the cliffside of the Hall of Annihilation, embedding deep into the rock.
"Sinnola!"
Antanas screamed, hurriedly casting support magic.
"You still have time to worry about her?"
Somerset pursued too quickly. In the next second, he stood directly before Antanas's terrified gaze.
...
West side of Blood Moon City.
At this entrance to the ancient underground city closest to the city hall, magical artifacts cleverly mimicked the blood moon, casting deep light and shadow.
The tall, heavy silhouettes of buildings crafted from dark stone along the empty streets traced the shadows of ancient art, resting quietly in this dark city, frozen in timeless dust.
Here, mechanical assistants hovering around Abigail had begun helping her construct a mechanical spatial barrier.
Tiny mechanical dolls linked electrical arcs, forming a dimensional gate from which supplies were transported out.
"..."
Listening to and watching conditions across the battlefields, Abigail's eyes darted frantically, fine sweat beading on her forehead.
Right now, she had to direct, transmit intelligence, and simultaneously construct the assault team's temporary forward base.
Barton and Hyperion guarded behind her, ensuring she could build in safety without interruption.
Suddenly, a figure streaked across the night sky, whipping up intense wind pressure and howling gusts through the city air, bearing down directly on Abigail with bone-chilling frost.
The figure flew with blistering speed, its near-flawless lines indicating an entity exceptionally adept at combat even among the Blood Clan.
A cold flash gleamed. A throwing blade hurled from beneath Barton's cloak struck true. In an instant, the Count's body slammed like a meteor against the distant castle wall.
"Quite strong, aren't you?"
Moonlight fell across the Blood Clan Count's black ceremonial robes, draping him in a thin silver cape, leaving him virtually unharmed.
"Don't underestimate them; these humans possess some bite,"
Countess Cyberna gave a crisp chuckle, emerging from behind the corner of the wall.
"..."
Barton glanced at Hyperion. Hyperion nodded and stepped back, drawing closer to Abigail.
Without hesitation, he lunged at the two Blood Clan Counts.
Hyperion kept her eyes locked on Abigail, knowing her current priority was safeguarding her.
In such a short time, two Blood Clan Counts had arrived; more might come shortly.
Abigail concentrated wholly on gathering intelligence, paying no mind to the battle unfolding nearby.
"Why are both the Wither Cardinal and the Tenth Progenitor here?!"
Abigail's heart sank, her palms turning pale.
Setting aside the Wither Cardinal, she discovered that in the Hall of the Earth Abyss on the southern side of Blood Moon City, another powerful Blood Clan Marquis was concealed.
According to intelligence relayed by the mechanical messengers, it was Tenth Progenitor Marquis Ulysses, guarding the black crystal sealing Duke Migaya in the center of the Hall of the Earth Abyss.
Their combat power was completely mismatched.
Leaving aside Lanqi's special Blood King Palace matchup against Rasheal and the fact that no one had the bandwidth to rescue Duke Migaya, every front except Sigrid's was at a disadvantage.
The enemy had an extra cardinal-tier combatant out of nowhere, while their side lacked a cardinal-tier powerhouse to free the hostage, Duke Migaya.
Wherever Ulysses went, that front would collapse completely; the moment a single top-tier eight battlefield fell, it would immediately cascade to the other tier-8s!
Worst of all, Ulysses had already begun to move.
"Ulysses left two tier-8 summons beside Migaya and is moving northwest in his true body."
Abigail's heart pounded.
Judging by Ulysses's trajectory, he was very likely heading to the Hall of Annihilation in the southwest to help Eighth Progenitor Marquis Somerset wipe out the three high demon civil officials.
Or even more likely—
He was coming straight for the assault team camp in the far west.
If Ulysses arrived, the three of them would be utterly annihilated!
Even calling down Nikolai and the Imperial Special Operations Division reinforcements would be useless.
Calling Nikolai was a worst-case scenario meant only for him to bring division elites down; he was supposed to remain as surface logistics to provide cover.
Watching the full battlefield projection displayed by the mechanical assistants before Abigail, Hyperion grasped everyone's predicament.
Not only were their companions in peril, but catastrophe loomed over them at the camp as well.
"Ulysses..."
Hyperion gritted her teeth, clenching her fists.
She knew the Tenth Progenitor's terrifying might all too well—an enemy she had once found virtually insurmountable. She could never forget the dread Tenth Progenitor Marquis Ulysses had instilled in her during the third shadow world, the Darkest Solar Eclipse Realm.
In the end, like fate itself, this foe had pursued her relentlessly.
"Abigail!"
"I'm going to take a gamble and infiltrate the Hall of the Earth Abyss directly. I might be able to slip past those two tier-8 summons, Abigail."
Hyperion grabbed Abigail's shoulders, forcing her to spare a second of attention to listen closely.
Either she succeeded in raiding the base and rescuing her father, Duke Migaya,
Or she could pin Ulysses down, preventing him from joining other tier-8 battlefields.
Given the current situation, she had to make a swift, decisive call.
"...Fine! I can hold out. Hyperion, don't worry about me here—go support the others. If worse comes to worst, I'll call Nikolai down!"
Abigail looked as if she had found a lifeline. Her eyes lit up, and she grasped Hyperion's hands.
The entire assault team seemed to be spiraling toward collapse.
Even if Lanqi could stall Third Progenitor Duke Rasheal, Blood Moon City's protection meant Rasheal's defenses could not be breached. Lanqi could at best trade torment with Rasheal in the Blood King Palace without breaking the stalemate. The one with the best shot at a breakthrough was their strongest combatant, Bishop of Domination Sigrid, but that would take time.
Trading bases was their highest-percentage solution right now.
Even if she and Barton died, it didn't matter.
Only by gambling against Ulysses—testing whether he dared see the bet through—did a sliver of hope remain.
...
The ultimate domain of the Blood Moon Ruined World: the Blood King Palace.
The grey-coated man surveyed his surroundings. When his feet finally touched the ground, he found himself descending slowly into the center of a circular plaza.
The plaza was paved in alternating black and white marble, flanked by thirteen stone pillars towering a hundred meters high.
A mocking voice echoed from all around—
"Welcome to Blood Moon City."
The voice emerged from the bottomless mist at the plaza's edge.
A figure stepped out slowly, clad in pure black velvet dress clothes. He appeared only twelve or thirteen years old, with porcelain-fair skin and smooth brown hair falling to his shoulders.
Lanqi cast him a glance.
"A mere tier-7 daring to challenge me? I truly admire your courage, Professor Landry,"
Third Progenitor Duke Rasheal flashed an amused smile, speaking casually as though conversing with an ant.
"It seems you people have truly run out of hands."
Rasheal's gaze mocked the intruder's folly and ignorance.
Professor Landry's reputation in Brillda above ground was thunderous, but down here, he was merely an insignificant creature.
He had assumed Toriado would send over some top-tier eight combatant as a sacrifice, at least keeping him entertained for a while. He had never imagined it would be an imperial professor who hadn't even reached tier-8.
By rights, only the Bishop of Domination, Sigrid, might trade a few blows with him, though even she would be no match. If Seventh Progenitor Marquis Heretier took complete control of the board, she could place the enemy at a disadvantage across all fronts, eliminating even Sigrid's lone favorable matchup.
Hoping for the Bishop of Domination to break the deadlock alone was a hopelessly faint prospect.
"..."
The grey-coated professor offered no reply to Rasheal.
"All right, I understand."
Touching his mechanical earpiece, he listened intently to the battle briefing from Abigail.
"Are you truly pinning all your hopes on the Bishop of Domination alone? I'm somewhat curious who is really hiding beneath that mask,"
Rasheal scrutinized Professor Landry's visage with faint interest.
Since Professor Landry was tangled up with the Resurrection Church, it made this fellow appear all the more mysterious.
Perhaps "Landry Washington" was merely a false identity as well.
The other man's distracted arrogance made Rasheal view him as the most delightful rat to toy with.
Lanqi clicked off his earpiece.
He finally turned his gaze toward Third Progenitor Rasheal.
"Rasheal, why did your True King abandon you?"
Lanqi asked in dead earnest.
Rasheal's smile froze instantly.
"...What. Did. You. Say?"
His voice trembled, spacing out every single syllable.
Veins throbbed across his forehead, and deep within his eyes flared an unbelievable, apocalyptic fury.
Chapter 836