Chapter 411: Episode 409: Something was wrong [Unedited]

The violent, deafening rush of wind slammed back into Roxy’s ears, hitting her with the concussive force of a physical blow.

The suffocating, pitch-black void of the Architect shattered in an instant, spitting her directly back onto the damp, fragrant spring grass of the Fox Kingdom’s ruins. Time, which had been completely paralyzed by the Demon King, violently resumed its natural flow. The frozen bird in the sky completed its flap, the spring breeze rustled the dead pines, and the Vanguard Alphas violently snapped back to life.

“Roxy!”

Kaelen’s raw, bloodcurdling scream tore through the valley. The King of the North lunged forward, dropping to his knees so hard the impact bruised the earth. His large, trembling hands grabbed her shoulders, frantically pulling her up from the damp grass and hauling her flush against his broad chest.

She had only been gone for ten seconds in real-world time, but to the hyper-vigilant, terrified Warlords who had just watched a localized void anomaly swallow their pregnant wife, those ten seconds were an absolute, apocalyptic eternity.

“I have you, I have you,” Kaelen choked out, his icy blue eyes completely blown wide with pure panic as his hands swept over her, checking for physical injuries.

Torian and Zarek dropped beside her, their massive frames completely caging her in. Syris was shouting rapid-fire commands to the elite soldiers to expand the magical perimeter, while Caspian knelt behind Kaelen, his hands glowing with healing aquatic water.

Roxy gasped, her hands instinctively clutching the lapels of Kaelen’s heavy battle armor. Beneath the cover of his massive arms, she moved with blinding, practiced speed. With a subtle pulse of transmigrated magic, she slipped the faded blue terrestrial diary directly into the dimensional storage of her spatial ring, locking it away before the Alphas could even process it was missing from her hands.

“Roxy, look at me,” Zarek demanded, his golden eyes burning with absolute terror. “Where did you go? Did the void-trap trigger a secondary collapse?”

Roxy forced her green eyes to widen in perfect, manufactured confusion. She looked around at the panicked Warlord faces, letting her transmigrated core artificially slow her racing heartbeat.

“I… I don’t know,” Roxy whispered, her voice trembling beautifully. She leaned heavily against Kaelen, feigning a dazed exhaustion. “The teleportation magic… Ren’s stardust… it was just so overwhelmingly powerful. The pressure in the air snapped, and I just completely blacked out. Did I pass out?”

“You vanished into a shadow for ten seconds,” Torian rumbled, his blue eyes entirely wild. “We thought the mountain had claimed you.”

“I’m here,” Roxy promised, burying her face into Kaelen’s neck. “I just fainted. I have the diary secured in my ring. Please… I just want to go home.”

Her plea was the absolute, undeniable trigger the Vanguard needed. The expedition was immediately aborted. The royal caravan was mobilized with terrifying, breakneck efficiency, transforming from a heavily warded escort into a frantic, high-speed retreat.

For the next four days, the massive Iron-Wood carriages tore across the continent, grinding over the frozen wastelands and speeding back toward the safety of the Northern peaks.

Inside the heavily cushioned carriage, Roxy lay swaddled in dire-wolf pelts, completely surrounded by her intensely hovering husbands. They barely let her breathe. Caspian forced her to drink nutrient-dense aquatic broths, Torian practically acted as a living, heated mattress, and Kaelen didn’t let go of her hand once.

But beneath the surface of her quiet, resting demeanor, Roxy’s transmigrated brain was operating at absolute, hyper-calculated maximum capacity.

She stared at the reinforced Iron-Wood ceiling, formulating her strategy. Abaddon was watching her. The Demon King was currently sitting in the heavens, entirely convinced that she was a broken, bitter Earthling on the verge of snapping under the pressure of her smothering Warlords.

If she arrived back at the Manor and immediately began holding Vanguard war councils, plotting tactical defense grids, or translating the diary, Abaddon would instantly realize she had played him. He would drop the sky on her family before she even had a chance to execute her master plan.

Furthermore, her hyper-perceptive husbands were walking lie detectors. If she acted terrified or secretive, Syris would smell the deceit in her magic, and Kaelen would sense the spike in her pulse.

I can’t just be calm, Roxy realized, a dark, terrifying resolve settling over her heart. Calm is suspicious. Traumatized is expected. If I am going to blind a demon god and completely distract the five most brilliant tactical minds in the Beastworld, I have to give them a performance that defies all logic.

She had to be the absolute last thing they expected. She had to become the Stepford Matriarch.

The moment the heavy iron gates of the Iron-Wood Manor ground open to receive the returning caravan, the Vanguard Kings immediately transitioned into a state of absolute, militaristic lockdown. Zarek was barking orders to fortify the perimeter wards, while Kaelen and Torian headed straight for the armory.

They expected their Matriarch to retreat to her quarters, exhausted and traumatized by the near-death experience in the collapsing vault.

Instead, Roxy stepped out of the carriage, took a deep breath of the freezing mountain air, and smiled.

It wasn’t a small, relieved smile. It was a massive, blinding, aggressively cheerful grin that stretched from ear to ear.

“What a beautiful afternoon!” Roxy exclaimed loudly, her voice practically dripping with entirely uncharacteristic, bubbly enthusiasm.

Kaelen paused mid-stride on his way to the armory, blinking in sheer confusion. “Roxy? Are you feeling alright? You should be in bed.”

“Bed? Don’t be ridiculous, Kae, I’ve been sleeping in a carriage for four days!” Roxy laughed, a high, musical sound that felt entirely out of place in the heavily armed courtyard. She gracefully scooped up Little Fedor in his fox kit form, twirling around in the snow. “Dena! Where is Dena? We need to organize a feast! I want roasted pheasant, honey-glazed root vegetables, and three different types of terrestrial pastries tonight!”

Over the next three days, Roxy’s behavior escalated from merely cheerful to completely, disturbingly bizarre.

The Iron-Wood Manor was actively preparing for a cosmic war, yet its Matriarch was behaving as if she were on a luxury vacation. She completely ignored the heavy, tense atmosphere. When Kaelen tried to brief her on the perimeter defenses, she shushed him, placing a finger over his lips and telling him that “war talk is bad for the baby.”

She spent hours in the nursery, aggressively playing with Zale and Fedor, singing loud, cheerful terrestrial pop songs that echoed down the stone corridors. She sewed bright, colorful ribbons into Tanith’s hair and forced the brooding teenage Drax to sit down and help her bake copious amounts of sweet bread.

She was a whirlwind of relentless, manic domesticity. She was overly affectionate, showering her husbands with constant, breathless kisses and refusing to engage in a single serious conversation.

The Alphas were completely, profoundly bewildered. At first, they attributed it to the pregnancy hormones and the sheer relief of surviving the vault. But as the days dragged on, the aggressive cheerfulness began to feel less like a coping mechanism and more like a terrifying psychological fracture.

The tension finally culminated on the fourth evening.

Roxy had organized a massive, lavish family dinner in the grand hall. The heavy mahogany table was overflowing with rich meats, decadent pastries, and sparkling juices. The roaring hearth cast warm, dancing shadows over the room.

Roxy sat at the head of the table, wearing a stunning, brightly colored silk gown that Syris had gifted her. She was practically vibrating with energy.

Axel, sitting halfway down the table, was recounting a wildly exaggerated story about a dire-boar he and Onyx had allegedly chased away from the southern gate. It was a mildly amusing, typical pup story.

But Roxy’s reaction was explosive.

She threw her head back, bursting into a fit of loud, breathless, and entirely disproportionate laughter. The sound was sharp, almost hysterical, completely drowning out the ambient crackle of the hearth fire. She slammed her hand down on the table, wiping a tear of mirth from her eye.

“Oh, Axel, that is absolutely the funniest thing I have ever heard in my entire life!” Roxy gasped, her green eyes wide and glowing with a disturbing, feverish brightness. She picked up a massive piece of roasted pheasant and took a hearty, aggressive bite, chewing with a manic energy. “This food is wonderful! Isn’t everything just absolutely perfect?”

The grand hall went dead silent.

Axel’s smile slowly faded, looking at his mother with a hint of pre-teen confusion. Little Fedor whimpered softly from his bassinet.

Kaelen sat frozen in his chair, his icy blue eyes locked onto his wife, a deep, agonizing knot of worry tightening in his chest. Syris completely stopped drinking his tea, his elegant features hardening into a mask of pure, analytical concern as he stared at her flushed face.

Directly across the table from each other, Torian and Zarek stopped eating.

The colossal Tiger Alpha slowly lifted his gaze from his plate, his bright blue eyes meeting the Dragon King’s burning golden stare. A silent, entirely terrifying conversation passed between the two brute-force Warlords in a fraction of a second.

The excessive laughter. The absolute refusal to acknowledge the Demon King. The manic, blinding cheerfulness in the face of an impending apocalypse.

Torian and Zarek exchanged a deeply unsettled, terrified look, the Warlord instincts in their blood screaming an absolute, undeniable warning.

The Warlords knew something was terribly, fundamentally wrong.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep