CHAPTER 37: THE CONQUEST BEGAN (3)

Erwan had resisted for a long time. Too long.

The poison had weakened him, but it was the fear of Daemon that made him talk. Cold fear. Not fear of pain—he had endured worse—but fear of the void, of the icy determination he saw in the young man’s eyes. Daemon wasn’t just seeking the truth. At one point, Erwan even thought he wanted more than just a confession—so he could torture him again and again.

Between spasms and refusals, he had bargained, begged, screamed. Daemon yielded nothing. Neither the antidote nor silence.

After relentless beatings, humiliation, and slow agony, Erwan cracked.

"It’s your grandfather... He ordered me to spy on you. Since you entered the Academy. And to... secretly deliver resources to Morgan. He even told me not to interfere if you were in danger... and to kill you if you ever went after Morgan."

Daemon remained still. His eyes closed for a moment. Then he took a deep breath.

"I see."

If his grandfather had completely switched sides and wanted to eliminate him like his father Darian, that meant he had discovered something...

’ Shit, this didn’t happen in the other timelines. ’

"You’re more like him than you’d care to admit... You both love using the weak, don’t you?"

Daemon tilted his head slightly, like a predator watching its prey die.

"Maybe. But the difference is... I clean up after myself."

A second later, the blade plunged brutally into Erwan’s left eye. A wet sound, a choked gasp. Blood sprayed, splattering Daemon’s face.

Erwan collapsed, convulsing one last time before going still.

Daemon, still crouched, slowly wiped the blood from his face without trembling. Then he sighed, rubbing his palm against his black coat.

"That’s fucking disgusting..."

He stayed there for a moment, thoughtful. A weight in his chest. No remorse. No anger either.

"It’s weird that killing doesn’t bother me... But at least... I didn’t enjoy it."

A short, bitter laugh escaped his lips.

"Guess that means I’m not a psychopath."

He stood up.

Without a glance at the corpse, he resumed his journey, following the precise lines of his map. He avoided well-trodden paths, mana-attracted beasts, and perhaps hidden villages. Three days of walking. Three days without real sleep.

And finally, he saw it. The portal he stepped through without hesitation.

The Mountain of Death.

It wasn’t just a mountain.

A colossal volcano, glowing like a forge in eruption, loomed on the horizon, its imposing silhouette tearing through the ash-covered sky. Rivers of lava oozed down its slopes. The ground vibrated with constant, suffocating heat, making the air shimmer.

The black rock was streaked with veins of incandescent red crystal. Gaping craters dotted the landscape like maws ready to devour intruders. Volcanic caves plunged deep into the earth, exhaling a glowing, sulfurous mist. The mana here was so dense it almost burned bare skin.

Everything reeked of death.

But also of power.

Daemon stopped at the edge of the plateau, overlooking the fiery valley. He fixed his gaze on the entrance to the dungeon’s largest zone—a chasm carved into the rock like a gaping maw, guarded by strange, charred runes.

"They must have arrived long ago," he murmured.

He pulled his hood lower and advanced, step by step, toward the opening—like descending into the belly of a beast.

...

The deep rumble of the mountain’s bowels echoed constantly, a perpetual threat. Heat rippled through the air, and every breath felt charged with raw, unstable energy. They called it the Mountain of Death, but not just for its lava flows or deep chasms. It was because of the mana.

Too much mana.

A concentration so dense it disrupted life cycles, revived the dead, and drove the living mad. Here, nature flourished in aberrations. Magical beasts became mana-crazed monsters, warped by overload. And the factions... had flocked like flies to carrion.

Daemon watched from a ledge, hidden. His gaze pierced through the plumes of steam rising from the rocky crevices. Below, several factions had set up checkpoints. Some bore the banners of Arcadia, others the silver insignias of the Elves. Old rivals, now allied out of opportunism. Because in this mountain, one thing surpassed hatred: greed.

Further down, shouts rang out. Groups advanced cautiously, weapons in hand, through volcanic tunnels. At every intersection, they were met by hordes of mutated creatures—possessed, half-melted by fire or mana. The battles were violent, chaotic.

Daemon unhooked a dagger from his belt.

A small group of goblins, their eyes bloodshot with mana, emerged from a fissure, snarling incoherently. They weren’t large, but here, even a goblin could kill an unprepared soldier.

Daemon leaped. His figure cut through the air with a whistle. He drove his dagger into the first goblin’s skull, pivoted, and slit the second’s throat in the same motion. With a violent kick, the third crashed against the scorching rock.

"Pathetic," he muttered, wiping the blade on his glove.

He retrieved a small mana stone from the goblin’s corpse. Weak. Too unstable to be worth anything on the market. But useful for fueling certain cultivation chambers.

Below, another scene unfolded.

One group, under River’s banner, and another under Isra’s, had cleared a large cavern together. Their cooperation had been forced by the environment. The terrain was too dangerous for open skirmishes. Yet, even in their pseudo-alliance, tension was palpable.

One of Isra’s lieutenants—a blue-haired mage named Taeron—turned to Jaedan.

"We’ve cleared this zone. You take the northern access, Lord Jaedan. We’ll take the east."

"You want the high-quality crystal caves for yourselves? Isra, do you take me for a fool?" she asked, eyeing her counterpart suspiciously.

"That wasn’t a suggestion, Jaedan."

"And for my part, I wasn’t asking a question either."

Their hands reflexively moved toward their weapons. A handful of soldiers raised their shields. And then... nothing. Isra’s gaze, through the dungeon’s flickering flames, ended the conversation.

One wrong move, Daemon thought, and this alliance explodes.

It was already strained. They might seem like good allies, but if opportunities arose, their weaknesses would show.

He straightened, adjusted his cloak, and slowly descended to a lower plateau. There, he saw her: Kara, leader of the Scepter faction, commanding her men with precision.

She was alone against a five-meter-tall elemental of rock and fire—a golem corrupted by mana.

She spread her arms. Around her, metal fragments levitated, vibrating under her mana’s influence. With a snap of her fingers, the shards assembled into a razor-sharp dome that exploded into a rain of projectiles. Each piece tore through the monster’s shell, reducing it to rubble. A plume of red dust rose into the air. The soldiers around her applauded quietly, but with fear. They knew she could do the same to a human.

Daemon didn’t move. He mentally noted the path she was taking. Kara wasn’t here to play political games. She was here to take everything. That’s a problem I’ll have to deal with.

A rustling made him turn. A messenger was approaching swiftly. He recognized one of Sahara’s scouts. The boy stopped, panting.

"She wants to see you. Now."

Daemon raised an eyebrow.

"She says you’ll be... perfect for the second phase of the plan."