Chapter 286: Chapter 215: Doomsday Nest Marches South

Not everyone is as fortunate as Red Tide Territory, blessed with a calm, decisive Lord like Louis and an intelligence system.

For example, Northern Iron Wall Earl Grant’s Domain.

This territory is located at a critical junction between Red Tide and Snowfall County, where icefields and forests intertwine, with roads extending in all directions.

Here lies the first iron wall that protects the heartland of the Northern Territory, where the Grant Clan has long since taken root, ruling hereditarily.

In terms of military strength, the Grant Clan commands an intimidating elite army—the “Frozen Blood Battle Group.”

This veteran unit, famous for its mountain warfare tactics, is clad in Ice Scale Armor.

With strict military discipline and a vast organization, they conduct real combat exercises around Ice Lake each winter, reportedly able to maintain formation even amidst the fiercest snowstorms.

The central command is the fearsome Inscribed Rock Castle.

It’s not merely a castle; it’s a colossal fortress embedded into the mountains, melding with the rock layers.

A poet once exaggerated, “If Inscribed Rock Castle falls, the Northern Territory can be abandoned.”

They pride themselves as “The Wall of the North.”

For years, they have withstood the Northern Barbarians and Cold Land Magical Beasts, never truly fallen.

This is the honor imbibed since childhood by the descendants of the Grant Clan, also the source of all their confidence.

And all this has forged a stable prosperity.

Inside the fortress, order prevails, with clearly defined roles between farmers and merchants, and complete facilities for grain storage, forges, schools, and stables.

Even in snow season, they can organize temple fairs, hunting competitions, and parades.

Compared to other territories struggling against a harsh winter, their people are almost at ease.

Until…

On October 10th, the Grant family was celebrating with lights and decorations.

In the main hall of Inscribed Rock Castle, family flags hung between the high relief columns, the silver and inky blue totems fluttering in the firelight.

The fire burned brightly, even igniting the rarely seen “Winter Eternal Flame,” which was usually lit only for celebrations or weddings in previous years.

Today marked the coming-of-age ceremony for the Grant family’s youngest grandson, Elton.

This sixteen-year-old boy walked up the steps with firm strides and received an ancient short sword from his father’s hands.

It was a family heirloom weapon that had earned merits on the Northern Territory’s front lines, symbolizing responsibility and heritage.

He raised the short sword high, his voice still youthful and tender, yet unable to conceal his proud tone:

“I, Elton Grant, swear before the family—I will use this sword to defend the family honor and protect the dignity of the Northern Territory, until the last drop of blood!”

The hall thundered with applause, clan members raised their glasses to drink together, and the elders praised with smiles, “This is truly a descendant of the Grant family.”

No one paid attention to the fact that beyond the main fortress, several scout riders had gone missing in the wind and snow.

Outside the fortress, the city was peaceful.

Villagers were busy with the final preparations for winter, some bundling dried fish and storing them in cellars.

Some brought worn leather boots to the cobbler’s shop on the street, while peddlers set up stalls selling salted snow radishes and cured meat balls.

In the corner blacksmith shop, the sound of anvils echoed, and an old blacksmith, sweating, was forging a crossbow limb for snow use, chatting as he hammered with his apprentice: “This year is strange, the snow is late by half a month, and even wolves are rarely seen… perhaps we can have a good year.”

At North City Academy, a group of schoolchildren was loudly reciting the “Records of the Iron Blood Empire” with their instructor.

That was the empire’s textbook, mostly praising central order and conquest achievements.

In the West City Small Temple, an old woman with a head of white hair knelt at the incense table, tremblingly lighting an old bronze oil lamp.

She muttered, “Last night in my dream… the Snow God wept…”

A few young men who believed in the empire’s orthodoxy laughed and shook their heads, “The old lady has started her old god dream talk again.”

“Who still believes in the Snow God these days? Everyone believes in the sacred grace of the Dragon Ancestor.”

“Yeah, the Grant family is guarding well, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Their laughter, mixed with the children’s voices in the snow and the clatter of hammers, wove an image of peace wrapped in time.

Suddenly, ominous clouds gathered over Earl Grant’s Domain, like a dark tide rolling back. A cold wind roared down from the north, carrying the stench of a foreign land.

The sky seemed to be obscured by something colossal, the sunlight instantly dimmed, as if the apocalypse had arrived early.

A Scout Knight hurriedly rode out the south gate, but before he could exit the city, he reined in his horse in shock at a mountain road bend.

He saw the “wall.”

A “wall” made of corpses and insect nest resin, more than a dozen meters tall, blocking the entire mountain road.

The bony shell held fragments of armor, severed limbs, and heads, and the resin seemed to be “breathing” slowly.

It was a living “Corpse City.”

The Order Knight’s Adam’s apple moved as he murmured:

“…Corpses… a city built of corpses.”

The next moment, the Doomsday Nest emerged from the mist.

It slowly advanced on the main mountain road, dragging a tunnel of insect shells miles long, every inch wriggling with not-yet-hatched larval sacs.

Corrosive fluid dripped from its massive abdomen, melting the snow into black mud, and steaming out a dense, blood-tinged red fog.

The vanguard consisted of swarming ordinary insect corpses.

These grotesque mutated creatures were clad in human armor remnants, their limbs twisted, eye sockets hollow, mouths split to the ears, constantly spewing corrosive venom that could dissolve metal and rock from afar.

A band of insect corpses charged to the mountain’s front outpost; soldiers sounded their bows and prepared to fight, but not before three volleys, the wall crumbled under the corrosive venom.

Shadows plunged into the city, screams, wails, and cracking sounds merging into a symphony of flesh and blood.

Someone raised a sword to resist, only to have their spine bitten through by an insect corpse sneaking in from behind.

Someone tried to escape, only to find that the mountain paths on all sides had long been surrounded by the insect swarm, with the only way out being death.

A young girl hid among a pile of firewood, covering her mouth so as not to cry out.

She saw an insect corpse dragging her mother’s body along, that body only had half a face left, still muttering, “Help me… make a fire to cook…”

A young father tried to block an insect corpse climbing onto the windowsill with a firewood knife, but the creature’s claw tore him open from his neck.

The blood splattered on his son’s face behind him, the little boy collapsed on the ground, wailing and immediately discovered by the insect corpse…

The entire outpost fortress held on for less than a quarter of an hour before it completely fell.

Next was the village.

The insect corpses that escaped the fortress rushed into the village down the mountain at great speed, collapsing houses, igniting cow sheds, and the warning bells in the bell tower ultimately became a dirge.

Some mothers fled into the forest with their children, but there they encountered more encirclements of insect corpses.

On the white frost ground, blood stained shattered totems, recording the last moments of life’s struggle.

Meanwhile, on the upper floors of the Inscribed Rock Castle, the Grant Clan’s banquet was in full swing.

In the lavish banquet hall, the aroma of roasted meat filled the air, silver cups clinked, and the fireplace burned brightly.

The young Elton, draped in a silver-embellished cloak, proudly raised his goblet to toast his kin.

Suddenly, a tremendous crash sounded from outside the banquet hall.

It was not thunder but the resonance of the insect tide crashing into the mountainside and defensive walls, like war drums pounding.

Soon came a second, a third, closer and heavier each time.

The banquet hall doors burst open with a bang as a Knight Commander stumbled in, half of his armor melted, blood flowing from the seams.

His face was filled with horror, and he shouted in a low voice: “Enemy attack!! Monsters are coming!!!”

The scene instantly turned to chaos, as the Count sprang to his feet, his expression shifting from anger to icy coldness, immediately ordering: “Close the inner castle! Gather the Frozen Blood Battle Group, join me on the wall to meet the enemy!”

But everything… was already too late.

Through the rear window of the banquet hall, the distant mountain path seemed to collapse.

Amidst the rolling insect tide, Count Grant saw the Doomsday Nest for the first time.

It was a terrifying giant figure, with an upper body resembling a Holy Mother embracing with open arms, but its face was composed of countless pained human faces, eyes tightly closed yet shedding tears like blood, spawning writhing swarms.

Below the waist was a swollen, twisted fleshy ovary and incubation chamber, continuously spewing tendrils and progeny.

Its presence was like death made tangible, a blend of cries like infants wailing, rendering one’s mind obscure.

The Count stood frozen, staring at the monstrous fallen maternal figure, suddenly realizing this was not a battle but an apocalypse.

The black tide had already rolled in from the weakly defended southern slope, breaking through the sentry towers, crashing down the mountain gate, and destroying the inner city’s drawbridge, sweeping in like an apocalyptic tsunami.

His eyes widened as if hearing the warning delivered by a messenger sent by Duke Edmund months ago:

“Do not underestimate the insect corpses; they retain their pre-death combat instincts and do not die. Once infection begins, it will spread exponentially from hundreds to tens of thousands.”

At that time, Count Grant had dismissed it with disdain.

After reading the warning letter from the Duke of Snow Peak County, he merely chuckled lightly, tossing it into the fireplace.

“The Duke is old and prone to alarmism,” he told his advisors, “Our Grant Family has guarded the Northern Territory for a century, would we fear a few alien insects?”

But now, he finally understood that the letter’s words were not false alarms, but a genuine “calamity.”

The day following the near-fall of the rock castle, he finally roared with anger, donning his armor, draped in a frost-patterned cloak fluttering in the wind, wielding the family sword, summoning the Frozen Blood Battle Group for a last-ditch counterattack.

However, the insect tide was not a wild beast charge; it was rhythmic, strategic, aided by the wisdom of the Nest.

The knights retreated step by step, the main city besieged, various refuge forts gradually losing contact, messenger hawks falling from the sky, scrolls burning carbon black.

The once-proud Grant Defense Line crumbled like a layer of snow-covered tiles with a mere touch.

Even more bizarre: some captured nobility, knights, and fighters with Fighting Energy were not executed on the spot.

They were taken into the Doomsday Nest.

There, an altar built of insect bones, surrounded by thick fog, exuded a decaying yet seductive aura.

A figure slowly rose from the insect array.

He wore a blood-red dress, long hair like burning silk over his shoulders, yet his voice was a hoarse, deep male tone, as if hundreds of souls murmured from a single mouth.

He smiled and commanded the insect corpses to “seal” the captives one by one into insect cocoons.

These cocoons quivered and trembled, cracking open after a few hours, from which emerged new insect corpses.

Their armor remained, their faces vaguely recognizable, even possessing combat skills, as if the deceased had been “faithfully replicated.”

Count Grant led his army in a bloody battle, alongside a few Extraordinary Knights slaying numerous insect corpses, vowing to protect the remaining inner city.

But in the dead of night, he heard terrified screams behind him.

Turning around, he saw his personal soldiers kneeling on the ground, trembling all over.

The insect swarm parted, revealing a gap.

From within, two figures slowly emerged—

It was his grandson, and his second son.

They wore tattered knight’s armor, their steps slow and stiff, eyes hollow and lifeless, their chins split open to reveal deep insect mouths, emitting a raspy and familiar voice:

“Grandfather… we… have returned…”

The Count was struck as if by lightning, staggering back a step, his sword-hand trembling violently.

“No… not you… you shouldn’t be…!”

The “grandson’s” face and mouth squeezed out mimicked syllables: “…Honor… eternal…”

“Shut up!!!”

Count Grant roared, charging forward, his longsword striking fiercely down, only to be overwhelmed by the next moment’s surge of insect swarm.

He struggled and roared, striking again and again, but was eventually exhausted and captured.

The Red Witch approached him slowly, eyes narrowed, assessing him as one would appreciate a piece of jade awaiting carving.

“A fine specimen… The once Wall of the North? Now, merely a malleable shell.”

Insect silk climbed over the Count’s body like a tide, slowly “enshrouding” him into a cocoon of enormous proportion.

Finally, a newborn insect corpse was birthed.

Its back bore remnants of armor, the Grant Clan’s emblem still hanging on its chest, yet its face was twisted, eyes vacant.

The Doomsday Nest keened low in the dark, the insect tide surged anew, treading upon snow and blood, moving slowly southward…

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