CHAPTER 88: A GRAND REJECTION AND A DESPERATE WAR

The air in the wasteland was still and heavy.

The first rays of the rising sun cast long, skeletal shadows from the crumbling ruins where Ragnar’s army waited.

I walked forward alone, my two most trusted imp butlers carrying a large, white silk banner behind me.

It was a sign of peace. A request for talk.

I hoped it didn’t just look like a very large, very tempting target.

As I approached the makeshift fortress, a single figure detached itself from the shadows of the main gate.

It was the Vampire Lord himself.

Or, at least, a perfect imitation of him.

He was tall, impossibly handsome in that brooding, tragic way that seemed to be very popular these days.

He wore the long, dark coat I had seen in the blurry scout reports, and he radiated an aura of arrogant, overwhelming power.

He stopped about fifty feet away from me, his arms crossed, his expression one of bored, aristocratic disdain.

It was exactly as I had imagined.

"You have a great deal of nerve, old man," the Vampire Lord’s voice boomed, a smooth baritone that echoed across the silent battlefield.

"To show your face after preparing such a clumsy, obvious trap. Speak your piece. My patience is as fleeting as your remaining lifespan."

I took a deep breath, marshaling my courage. This was it. The pitch.

"Great Tyrant of Aethelburg," I began, my voice clear and steady.

"I recognize your superior power. A direct conflict would be... inefficient for both of us. A waste of resources and precious subordinates."

The Vampire Lord raised a single, perfect eyebrow.

"I am listening," he said, though his tone suggested he was anything but.

"I propose a different kind of battle," I said, laying my cards on the table.

"A duel. A single combat. Not between us, but between our chosen champions. You will pick your finest warrior. I will pick mine. They will fight, here and now, in this valley of our own making. The loser’s master will surrender their Domain, their True Core, and their life, without further bloodshed. A clean, honorable end to this conflict."

I watched his face, searching for a flicker of interest.

I was offering him the ultimate prize: a chance to win my entire kingdom, and my unique, SSS-Rank subordinate, in a single, glorious battle, without risking his own neck.

It was a wager designed to appeal to a conqueror’s arrogance.

The Vampire Lord was silent for a long moment.

He looked me up and down, his red eyes seeming to pierce right through me.

Then, he laughed.

It was not a pleasant sound. It was a cold, cruel, mocking laugh that made the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"Honorable?" he sneered, the word dripping with contempt. "Old man, you misunderstand the very nature of this game.

Honor is a currency for fools and heroes. I deal in power. And you are offering me a trade I have no reason to accept."

He took a step forward, his aura of power pressing down on me like a physical weight.

"Why would I risk my finest warrior, my most valuable asset, in a duel against your hidden trump card?" he purred, his eyes glinting with a terrifying, predatory intelligence.

"When I can simply grind your pathetic little army into dust, take your domain, take your True Core, and take your precious shadow Ogre from your cold, dead hands? Your offer is the desperate plea of a weakling trying to avoid the inevitable. The answer is no."

My blood ran cold. He had seen through it. He had seen through me.

My carefully constructed gambit had been dismissed like a child’s clumsy attempt at lying.

"So be it," I whispered, my last hope turning to ash in my mouth.

"Then there is nothing left to discuss."

His smile widened, all fangs and no humor.

"Oh, I disagree," he said.

"I think the discussion is just getting started."

He raised a single hand.

"Annihilate them," he commanded.

And then, the world exploded into violence.

From the ruins, his army surged forth.

It was not a chaotic mob. It was a disciplined, coordinated wave of death.

Hulking Orcs formed a shield wall, their advance a steady, grinding rhythm of heavy footsteps.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The ground trembled with each step, the very earth groaning under their weight.

Behind them, nimble kobolds with wicked-looking spears darted forward, exploiting every opening.

And from the high ground, the arrows began to fall.

My own army, my brave, foolish goblins and imps, charged to meet them.

The clash was a horrific, deafening storm of sound.

BOOM! CRACK! BOOM!

A constant, percussive symphony of sonic booms and shockwaves filled the wasteland.

The shriek of wind from a thousand moving blades and bodies was a physical assault on the senses.

My forces were outmatched. Utterly.

For every one of his elite Orcs that fell, ten of my goblins were torn apart.

His Bloodkin were forces of nature.

The werewolf, Fenris, was a whirlwind of black fur and claws, his every swipe a miniature explosion that sent my imps scattering like broken dolls.

BOOM!

The dhampir, Reina, was a controlled demolition, her fists glowing with a crimson energy.

BOOM!

Her punch connected with one of my best rock golem defenders. The impact was a focused detonation.

A visible shockwave of force ripped through the golem’s solid stone body, and it shattered into a thousand pieces.

For eleven long, brutal hours, the battle raged.

It was a war of attrition I could not possibly win.

My army was crumbling. My forces were being systematically, ruthlessly dismantled.

I watched from my command post, my heart a cold, heavy stone in my chest.

I had lost.

But I had one last card to play.

One last, desperate, five-percent chance.

I created a diversion, sending my last remaining rock golems on a suicidal charge against their flank.

In the chaos, as every eye was turned to the new threat, I gave the order.

"Umbra," I whispered into my comms device. "Now."

From the deepest shadow on the battlefield, she moved.

She was a ghost. A whisper.

She flowed through the chaos, unseen, unheard, untouched.

Her target was the arrogant Vampire Lord, who stood on a high rock, directing his forces like a malevolent conductor.

The distance closed. Fifty feet. Twenty. Ten.

She was upon him.

I saw her obsidian blade, a weapon of pure, solidified night, flash in the dawn light.

I saw it plunge deep into the Vampire Lord’s chest.

I saw the look of shocked, utter disbelief on his handsome, brooding face.

I saw him stagger, a dark liquid spilling from his lips.

I saw him fall.

For a single, glorious, heartbeat-long moment, I thought I had won.

And then, the world turned white.

A brilliant, searing, impossible light erupted from the spot where the Vampire Lord had fallen.

It was not a spell. It was a device. A trap.

It was the blinding, disorienting flash of a thousand suns condensed into a single point.

I shielded my eyes, a triumphant, horrified cry catching in my throat.

The light faded.

And I saw her. My Umbra. Stunned. Disoriented. Her shadow magic scattered by the holy light.