Chapter 70: Preparations

The Royal Academy’s entrance examinations were exactly fourteen days away, and for the first time since taking command of the neutral province of Bergis, Lord Governor Valerian Prim Sanguis found himself facing an enemy he could neither cut down with a blade nor obliterate with shadow-fire.

Anonymity.

The massive mahogany desk in the Governor’s private study was buried under a mountain of parchment scrolls, disguise schematics, and discarded illusion seals.

Standing across the desk, looking like a tired storm cloud in a pristine grey suit, was Wren, his chief administrator and political advisor.

"It won’t work, My Lord," Wren said flatly, pushing a piece of parchment back across the desk with a single finger. "It’s practically a fairy tale."

Valerian leaned back in his leather high-backed chair, resting his chin on his steepled fingers.

His slitted crimson eyes narrowed slightly.

"Explain why."

"You want to register as ’Valen’, a wandering hedge-knight from the lower countryside of the Southern Baronies," Wren began, his clinical tone thoroughly dissecting the plan.

"First: your mana signature is so dense that even a baseline testing stone at the Academy gates will vibrate at high frequency the moment you step within five paces of it.

"Second: hedge-knights from the Southern Baronies do not possess refined imperial dialects, nor do they hold posture forged by seventeen years of high-class aristocratic training.

"But most importantly..."

Wren’s expression hardened.

"...your aura."

"My aura?" Valerian raised an eyebrow.

"You carry the distinct, undeniable scent of the Prim Sanguis lineage," Wren continued relentlessly.

"It is subtle, yes, but it is there—that sharp, metallic trace of ancestral blood-magic interwoven with the heavy, suffocating scent of fresh iron and death.

"The moment you enter the campus grounds, anyone with high-tier sensory arcana will smell the bloodline on you."

Sitting on a low velvet divan near the bookshelf, a tall, imposing figure casually crossed his long legs.

Nox’Aethel, the ancient primordial shadow dragon currently taking physical form as a raven-haired warrior clad in obsidian scale-armor, took a slow sip from a crystal goblet of dark wine.

His slit-pupiled violet eyes gleamed with razor-sharp amusement.

"Wren speaks the cold truth, Valerian," Nox said, his deep, baritone voice carrying a subtle, reverberating echo that made the air in the study hum.

"You bleed the Sanguis lineage from your very pores.

"Trying to pass yourself off as a common hedge-knight while carrying that sharp, metallic scent of blood and dragon-fire is like trying to hide a burning sun under a wet cloth.

"It bleeds through every breath you take."

Valerian suppressed a sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"I am not looking to fool the entire faculty indefinitely.

"I simply need a false cover robust enough to pass the initial registration so I am not swarmed by imperial sycophants and spies from House Sol the moment I set foot on campus."

CRACK.

A small, localized spatial tear opened in the center of the study.

A pitch-black shadow stepped gracefully out of the void, solidifying into the polished form of Rook, Valerian’s Head Butler and one of his two Absolute Shadows.

A second later, Aura—his Chief Maid and lethal assassin—appeared right beside him, her dark uniform spotless despite having spent the last three days conducting deep-reconnaissance across the border.

"Report," Valerian commanded softly.

"The border watchtowers are fully secured, Young Master," Rook bowed deeply, adjusting his white gloves.

"The Third Altar’s scouting units have been thoroughly erased.

"However... we overheard your proposition regarding the Academy disguise."

"And?" Valerian asked.

"It is utterly absurd, Young Master," Aura declared without a second of hesitation.

She stepped forward, crossing her arms with a cold, deadpan expression.

"You proposed using a low-tier concealment talisman to alter your hair and eye color to brown.

"Have you forgotten who holds the Principal’s chair this decade?"

"Archmage Elias," Rook added calmly, taking over the breakdown.

"The high-elf Principal of the Royal Academy.

"Though he appears no older than a human youth in his early twenties, he is an ancient archmage over eight hundred years old.

"His silver eyes possess the divine Appraisal of the World Tree."

"The moment Elias looks at you," Aura chimed in, her sharp eyes scanning Valerian’s dark silk tunic, "he will see straight through a low-tier concealment spell.

"And even if your spell somehow held, your Sanguis aura would betray you instantly.

"The scent of blood and shadow arcana clings to you like a second cloak.

"You cannot fake mediocrity, My Lord.

"You lack the necessary weakness for it."

Nox’Aethel set his goblet down on the side table, letting out a low, amused rumble from his chest.

"Listen to your shadows, boy.

"You smell of slaughter and ancient bloodlines.

"No amount of cheap paper seals will wash that off."

Valerian stared at the four of them—his administrator, his ancient dragon, and his two most trusted absolute shadows.

Everyone had returned to Bergis to assist with the provincial transition, yet all they had done for the past three hours was methodically tear every single one of his contingency plans to shreds.

"I am going for a walk," Valerian said flatly.

"Shall we accompany you, Young Master?" Rook asked, immediately stepping toward the shadow realm.

"No," Valerian held up a hand, wrapping a dark silk mantle over his shoulders.

"Stay here and clean up these scrolls.

"I need air."

Without waiting for a response, Valerian stepped onto the balcony and vanished into the damp afternoon mist, stepping through a fold in space.

The dense, ancient woodlands surrounding the outer limits of Bergis were quiet, save for the rhythmic pitter-patter of mist settling on the heavy oak leaves.

Valerian walked slowly down a winding dirt path, his leather boots sinking soundlessly into the damp earth.

His mind was still spinning with tactical variables.

The Royal Academy was a viper’s nest.

With Princess Solene Sol attending, along with scions from every major ducal house, stepping into the institution under his full title as Lord Governor of Bergis would draw endless political landmines.

He needed a cover—a thread of plausible deniability that explained his lethal Sanguis aura without revealing his true identity.

Suddenly, the quiet rustle of the forest was broken by the sharp snap of wooden wheels breaking against stone, followed by the harsh, violent shouts of men.

"Grab the horses! Don’t let the fat bastard reach his chest!"

"Kill the guards! Strip the carriage clean!"

Valerian paused beneath the canopy of a massive pine tree, looking down into a shallow ditch roughly fifty yards off the main road.

A high-end merchant carriage, emblazoned with the silver-and-blue crest of a mid-tier trading guild, had been forcefully run off the road.

One of its rear wheels was splintered to pieces.

Three merchant guards lay dead in the mud, pooling blood into the dirt, while two surviving guards desperately held off a dozen ragged, weapon-wielding bandits.

In the center of the chaos, a short, heavily dressed merchant was on his knees, clutching a locked steel-reinforced chest to his chest like a shield, blubbering in absolute terror as a scar-faced thug raised a heavy iron hatchet over his head.

"Please! Take the gold! Just spare my life!" the merchant shrieked.

"Gold is already ours, fat man! Your life is just extra!" the bandit leader barked, lifting his axe.

Valerian stood high on the embankment, watching the scene unfold.

Normally, a Lord Governor would either order his provincial knights to execute the brigands for violating territorial peace, or ignore the low-tier scum entirely.

But as Valerian looked at the terrified merchant, the splintered carriage, and the desperate bandits... a sudden, dark inspiration struck him.

Slowly, the impassive, cold expression on Valerian’s face dissolved.

A sharp, sly, and thoroughly ruthless grin spread across his lips, his slitted crimson eyes gleaming with cold delight in the shadowy woods.

"A disgraced, mercenary black-blood..." Valerian whispered to himself, the pieces instantly clicking into place in his mind.

"A ruthless, stray sellsword who carries the bastard blood of a minor fallen Sanguis branch... buying his way into the Academy through merchant sponsorship..."

It wasn’t a fake identity built on magic or cheap illusions.

It was a dirty, mercenary identity backed by hard coin and forged paper trails—one that explained his sharp Sanguis scent, his aristocratic martial habits, and his lethal aura without linking him back to the Prim Sanguis core line or the Governorship of Bergis.

"It fits," Valerian smiled, stepping smoothly off the ridge and gliding silently down the muddy slope toward the unsuspecting thugs.

"And the best part... I get to test the cover right now."

---

Three hundred leagues to the northeast, far beyond the borders of Bergis and the Solian Empire, lay the desolate frontier of the Ashen Marches.

A heavy, unnatural silence hung over what used to be a bustling border village.

There were no birds singing.

No wind blowing through the trees.

Only the thick, suffocating stench of burning flesh, copper, and rancid necrotic magic filled the air.

Structures made of stone and wood were reduced to crumbling, smoldering ruins.

The dirt streets were paved with hundreds of corpses—villagers, local militia, and livestock alike—all lying in grotesque, contorted positions.

Their skin was pale, fully drained of life force, their eyes staring blankly at the ash-choked sky.

THUD.

THUD.

Through the smoke, a massive horde of figures moved in eerie, terrifying unison.

They were not living men.

Hundreds of skeletal warriors clad in rusted mail, accompanied by bloated zombie constructs stitched together from animal and human remains, marched through the burning village, carrying weapons stripped from the dead.

Green, unnatural soul-fire flickered inside their hollow eye sockets.

Walking at the very front of this parade of death was an imposing, terrifying figure.

Xul’Gorgoth, the Ninth Demon Lord.

He was a monstrous demonic necromancer.

Standing nearly eight feet tall, his skin was a mottled, corpse-like ash gray, stretched tightly over a massive, hulking frame.

Four obsidian horns curved outward from his brow, dripping with dark, corrosive miasma.

His eyes were hollow pits of blazing sickly-green necrotic fire, and his lower jaw was split into three mandibles lined with needle-sharp fangs.

He wore heavy armor forged from dark abyssal iron and carved bone, and in his right hand, he held a massive scythe whose shaft was made from the spine of a dragon.

With every step Xul’Gorgoth took, the ground beneath his clawed feet withered and died.

Black rot spread across the mud, and the dead villagers lying on the road shuddered as thick, green necromantic threads erupted from his aura, burrowing into their flesh to pull them back up as fresh, mindless husk-soldiers.

Suddenly, the space beside Xul’Gorgoth rippled.

A tall figure clad in tattered, dark-purple robes materialized from the shadows.

The figure possessed no flesh—only a bare, ancient human skull floating within a halo of pale green soul-fire.

A high-tier Lich.

The Lich bowed its skeletal head deeply, its bony fingers clutching an ancient, spell-inscribed bone staff.

"Speak, Morvane," Xul’Gorgoth commanded.

His voice was a deep, guttural roar that vibrated through the earth, sounding like grinding boulders mixed with the screams of dying souls.

"My Lord," the Lich rasped, its voice sounding like dry leaves scraping over a tombstone.

"The scryers from the Outer Circle have completed their ritual.

"The spatial barrier over the cathedral in Lumeria has completely dissipated."

Xul’Gorgoth stopped his march, his massive skeletal scythe scraping against the scorched stone road with a harsh SCREECH.

He turned his glowing green eye pits toward the Lich.

"And Elizabeth?" Xul’Gorgoth growled, his four horns pulsing with dark miasma.

"The Tenth was the youngest and most volatile among our Monarchs.

"Did her abyssal bloodline finally consume the Holy See?"

The Lich lowered its head even further, the green flames in its eye sockets flickering with genuine hesitation.

"The Tenth Demon Lord... is dead, My Lord."

A heavy, suffocating wave of necrotic pressure instantly crushed the village.

The surrounding burning houses exploded outward in a wave of black force, reduced to fine powder as Xul’Gorgoth’s aura flared violently.

The skeletal soldiers around them fell to their knees, their bones cracking under the sheer weight of his rage.

"Dead?" Xul’Gorgoth echoed, his voice dropping into a deadly, abyssal rumble.

"She was young, but her vessel was pure abyssal bloodline!

"How could the fragile, pathetic worms of the Holy See slay a Demon Lord?"

"The reports from our eyes inside the Holy Kingdom state that the Holy Saintess—Seraphina—sacrificed her divine core to destroy Elizabeth’s physical vessel from within," the Lich reported quickly, trembling beneath the pressure.

"The vessel was incinerated.

"All observable traces of Elizabeth’s physical manifestation disappeared."

Xul’Gorgoth stood motionless amid the ruins for a long, heavy moment.

He lifted his massive, clawed hand, watching the green necrotic fire dance across his palm, twisting into the shapes of wailing spirits.

"A sacrificial sealing..." Xul’Gorgoth hissed, a low, cold laugh beginning to rumble in his chest.

"How desperate.

"The hypocrites of the Light sacrifice their precious little Saintess just to take down the youngest of our throne."

He turned his monstrous gaze slowly toward the southwest—toward the distant borders of the Solian Empire and the neutral territory of Bergis.

"Gather the legions," Xul’Gorgoth ordered, his scythe igniting with a torrent of blinding necrotic flames.

"Elizabeth may have been the youngest, but her bloodline does not simply vanish into thin air.

"If the Holy Kingdom thinks they have bought their peace, they are mistaken.

"Raise every corpse across the Ashen Marches...

"we shall march upon the Empire and tear their world down to bone and ash."