CHAPTER 958: THE NEXT GENERATION

"You like children, don’t you?"

Sylvana nodded slightly, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

His hand wasn’t idle, slipping beneath the fabric of her dress to trace the soft, delicate skin at her waist.

"Then we should work on it. Have one of our own."

The warmth that had been spreading through Sylvana vanished. She shook her head sharply, a look of loss and regret eclipsing her budding desire.

"You don’t want to?" He caught the flicker of her micro-expression instantly.

"My eyes... it could be passed down."

It was her deepest fear, the reason she had never allowed herself to carry his child.

"I tried to see past the veil of fate, and I was broken by the rules of reality for it. Any child of mine... they would most likely be burdened by my curse."

Orion’s roaming hand stilled and withdrew. The tension in Sylvana’s body eased as she regained her composure.

He gently turned her to face him, his gaze fixed on those impossibly beautiful, fox-like eyes. It was a tragedy that they were blind.

"When I ascend to demigod, when I can touch the rules of power myself, I will try to fix your eyes."

It was a promise, and Sylvana believed he meant it. But for an arch lord to ascend to demigod was such a far-fetched, monumental task. She took his words for what they were: a comfort meant to soothe a wound that might never heal.

"What’s so interesting about these younglings anyway?" Orion murmured, a playful growl in his voice. "Let’s go back to our room and talk."

He swept her up into his arms. The blush returned to her cheeks, deeper this time. She knew exactly what he had in mind.

That day, the castle was full of life. It was Elara’s celebration, and the invited younglings were having the time of their lives. Bonfires, roasted meats, pastries... nothing was missing. It was a perfect picture of peace and prosperity.

...

Far to the northeast, in the dwarven tribe territory.

A great river, the Rakala, flowed through the center of the Rakala Plains. And it was along this river that war had erupted.

ROOOAR!

A trident punched through the skull of a half-dragon. The beast let out a pathetic, gurgling cry and collapsed.

Cold sweat streamed down Steelblade’s face. It was his first time on a real battlefield. He stared at the dead half-dragon, then at Rolan, who now stood behind the corpse. Just a second ago, that thing’s claws had been inches from tearing his heart out.

"Thanks, Rolan!"

"Don’t space out! This is a warzone!" Rolan snapped. "The little ones have already charged. We follow them, we stay alive. We have to keep up or we’ll fall behind!"

Compared to Steelblade, Rolan was far more composed, his focus sharpened by bloodlust. He wielded the Bloodthirsty Trident, a gift from Orion. A single drop of blood fell from its tip, casting Rolan in the image of a fledgling god of battle.

He kicked the lifeless half-dragon aside and pulled the sprawled Steelblade to his feet.

"Come on, man. This is our first deployment. We can’t bring shame to your daddy and your grandfather."

Steelblade staggered upright, taking the trident Rolan offered him with a flush of shame on his face. He had been completely stunned by the half-dragon’s ferocity, his training forgotten.

"Hah... Thanks. I won’t let them down," he breathed, taking a deep breath. The shame on his face slowly hardened into resolve.

"That’s the spirit. When we get back from this, we’re taking a trip to the Abyss together. I hear the abyssal dragons are still waiting for us!"

Rolan clapped Steelblade on the shoulder, then turned and charged back into the fray.

Steelblade took one more deep breath, then lunged forward, following close behind.

Further back, the Alpha-level powerhouses Ursa, Tarn, and Gort watched from their mounts—a dark fiend and a Bone Python, with Gort standing firm on the ground.

"He’s the lord’s disciple, all right," Gort commented, his voice a low rumble. "Adapted to the battlefield that fast. Kills without the slightest hesitation."

"Steelblade’s not bad either," said Ursa, who was Steelblade’s mother. The horde would never have let their sons go to war without veterans watching their backs. "He’s still green, but at least he didn’t freeze up or run."

"Give him time," Tarn added. "Let him get used to the chaos. He’ll be another powerful giant bloodline warrior."

As fellow giant Alpha-levels, Ursa and Tarn had been green recruits once, too. They knew exactly what Steelblade was going through. They felt understanding, not disappointment.

"The first batch of the Tribe’s younglings have finally grown up," Gort rumbled. He was the third Alpha-level of the obsidian golem race, after Onyx and Rockwell, but he certainly wouldn’t be the last. "Does that mean we’re getting old?"

"I don’t know about old," Ursa laughed, a booming, confident sound. "But I know the stoneheart horde is getting stronger every day. I’ve got at least another hundred years of fighting in me."

It was pure confidence. She was in her prime, and this era of the stoneheart horde was her stage. Once, her goal had been to reach Alpha-level like her daddy. But now, her sights were set on becoming a lord herself. If she could make that leap, she could live for ages longer and see the horde flourish even more.

"I visited the youth camp," Tarn said, a thoughtful look on his face. "There’s an obsidian golem there named Magmus. His talent is off the charts."

The mention of the next generation brought Pallas to his mind as well. The younglings in the youth camp had both talent and potential. Most of them had already bonded with contract beasts, led by Elara and Pallas with their dragons. No matter how you looked at it, the future of the stoneheart horde was bright with countless new powerhouses.

"That’s Lord Rockwell’s youngling," Gort said with pride. "A great favorite of the lord and the prophet. Before the prophet went into seclusion, he made a special trip just to see that boy, Magmus."

The influx of talent in his own obsidian golem race was a source of great excitement for him. Ever since Orion had become a lord, the giants, succubi, buffalofolk, and obsidian golems had all received a massive share of resources. All four races were now producing offspring with incredible potential—a generation destined for far greater things than their own.

"I heard the Heroic Altar is about to be opened for the next rite of succession," Ursa said, a grin spreading across her face. "A big chunk of the slots are going to the youth camp. When we finish this campaign, we might get back in time to watch the tournament for the slots."

She already knew more than she was letting on. Orion had allocated ten slots from the Heroic Altar to the four main races, and word had already reached him that one of those slots had his name on it.

"A tournament?" Tarn’s eyes lit up. The giants were a naturally competitive people. "I’d love to see that. I wonder who’ll take first place this time. Who’ll be the next Rolan, unbeatable among their peers."