Lucian’s gaze lingered on the dagger resting on the wooden table in his tent. The constantly flickering lantern light drew shadows across its smooth, dark surface. It was made of obsidian, its black blade swallowing the light rather than reflecting it. His eyes lingered a second longer on the hilt of it—the crest of House Kellius—a mighty Rayan eagle with its wings spread wide, its talons gripping nothing but air, ready to strike.

A condescending smile drew on his face while his fingers traced the engraving, and a sigh slipped from his lips.

The memory of his father’s last moments crept into his mind unbidden. The old man had been frail, his voice barely audible when he pressed this very dagger into Lucian’s hands.

“Be a just ruler… and take care of your brothers.”

Lucian’s jaw tightened. The words tasted bitter now. He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, Father, but I don’t like my brothers enough to take care of them.” His grip on the dagger tightened, the edges of his mouth curling up into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “But I would send them to you to do it. Take care of them for me, they do not belong here.”

The tent flap rustled, breaking the moment. His eyes flicked up, irritation flashing across his face. But then recognition settled in. Shakran stepped inside. More blood drinkers followed him blindly.

Lucian exhaled through his nose. “Report.”

Shakran bit his lips—clearly disliking the tone of Lucian’s words. Then, without asking, he dropped onto the wooden stool across from Lucian.

Lucian’s expression darkened. His fingers twitched as if he might rise, his glare sharp enough to cut.

“Stay seated,” Shakran said flatly, as if he was already bored by Lucian’s presence. “The news my pawns have brought won’t make you happy.”

Lucian narrowed his eyes. “What happened?”

“Heavy losses.” He shrugged. “At the hands of your brother.”

Lucian’s fingers drummed against the table. “Go on.”

“You already know how that fool of a human surrendered. You know how I lost my servants in the battle at Verdis.” Shakran’s lip curled slightly. “But now, we’ve received more troubling news. Your spy? Dead. Killed.” He let that sink in before continuing, “And House Dorn? Gone. Your brother wasted no time. He attacked it, took it for himself.”

Lucian’s fingers stilled.

“By the way,” Shakran leaned forward, his smirk returning. “Your brother… aggressive leader. A really powerful Mage, too. Far better than my expectations. My pawns saw it all.”

Lucian’s grip on the dagger tightened, his knuckles paling. His mind reeled, thoughts clashing like swords in a chaotic battle. House Dorn… gone. That wretched brother of mine took it. His breath came sharp and slow as he fought to keep his composure. His heartbeat pounded against his ribs, demanding action, demanding blood.

“Describe the battle,” he said.

“Your brother is a third-circle Mage. You know that, but he’s at the peak of it, a foot already in the next circle going by his power,” he said. “And judging by how fast he moved, he doesn’t just rely on magic. He trains his body too.” He rolled his eyes in frustration. “By human standards? He’s good. By magic standards? He’s a worthy opponent.”

Lucian’s jaw tensed. That wasn’t unexpected—Arzan’s new found strength was something he was well aware of. But talent alone couldn’t take down House Dorn so quickly.

“But,” Shakran continued, “your brother isn’t the problem. The forces he led are.” He leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee. “My pawns saw some interesting things.”

Lucian remained silent, watching him carefully.

“Contraptions that blasted through entire walls. Knights wielding the power of Mages. And—” Shakran paused, letting the next word hang between them, knowing it would sting. “A dwarf.”

Lucian’s brow rose slightly. “A dwarf?” His fingers tapped against the obsidian blade. “I already know about his magical Knights, but a dwarf?”

Shakran nodded. “Your brother seems to have enough charm to bring one into his service.” He gave a dry chuckle. “And that would explain the contraptions.”

Lucian exhaled through his nose, his mind already piecing things together. In addition to leading an army, Arzan seemed to be also building something way more dangerous.

“Now, what will you do, oh great noble man?” The mockery in his tone was unmistakable.

Lucian, to his credit, didn’t react. He simply lifted his gaze and looked at the blood drinker dead in his eyes. “Send your men to the other noble houses with everything we know. Tell them to get here quickly. If we give Arzan too much time…” He let the sentence trail off, the implication clear.

Shakran raised a brow. “Eager to reveal yourself to the other nobles, are we?” His smirk widened. “I thought Idrin was already giving you away, but well—he was under you. A slave who would lick your cock if you told him to.” His eyes glinted with amusement. “But these other nobles? Won’t they run to the crown the moment they see what you really are?”

Lucian met his gaze, unimpressed. “I will deal with it,” he said simply. “You do as you’re ordered.”

Shakran chuckled, shaking his head. “And while we wait for the nobles to arrive? You won’t just sit here, I take it?”

Lucian scoffed. “Of course not.”

Shakran leaned back. “Then what are you planning?” He waved a hand. “Even with us, your Mages, and your mercenaries, attacking your brother now would be unwise. We have no idea what else he has hidden up his sleeves.”

Lucian lifted the dagger and trailed along the edge with his finger. “So now you’re taking him seriously, huh?”

Shakran let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. “He’s turning out to be a good opponent. Not quite worthy yet, but… If we ever cross blades, I might actually enjoy the fight.” He tapped his fingers against his thigh. “But this isn’t about just one man, is it? His entire force is alarming. That’s the problem.”

Lucian nodded slowly. “I know.” His fingers traced the crest on the dagger’s hilt, absentmindedly. “But every force needs certain things.” His grip loosened as his mind worked through the details. “Air. Food. And…” He trailed off, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then, as if a puzzle piece had clicked into place, he exhaled sharply. “Water.”

A beat of silence passed before he continued. “Dorn Castle’s main water source is the nearby river. I know that castle well—it’s wells aren’t deep enough to sustain a force for long. They’ll need that river. A force as large as his drinks more than it eats. They might be able to find food, but water?” A slow, knowing smile crept onto his lips. “That’s something we can control.”

He turned his head slightly, eyes settling on one of the blood drinkers standing at the back of the tent. “Tell them to go. Poison the river. Make sure it’s done discreetly. If they drink, they die. If they don’t drink…” He shrugged nonchalantly. “They still die.”

Shakran looked back and nodded, giving them the command.

The blood drinker bowed his head and slipped out without a word. Moving smoothly and out of sight.

Lucian leaned back, a satisfied smirk still on his face.

Shakran watched him for a moment before stretching, rolling his shoulders lazily. “Looks like it’s time for me to go as well,” he said. “Since your brother’s shaping up to be such fun, I should make sure I’m well-prepared for the battle.”

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Lucian gave a curt nod, but as Shakran turned to leave, he lifted a hand, stopping him.

“And if you manage to kill him,” Lucian said. “His body is yours.”

Shakran stilled for a moment before glancing over his shoulder, a sharp grin spreading across his face. “No proper burial?”

“I just want to see him dead. I don’t care anymore.”

Shakran nodded slowly, amusement flashing in his crimson eyes. “Then you’ll get your wish, Duke.” With that, he disappeared into the night.

***

Lord Vensar swept his gaze across the villagers kneeling before him, their wrists bound tightly with rope. The villagers were battered. Their faces were filled with dirt, some tear-stained and others blank with silent resignation. He stood before his warhorse, his domineering size and sharp eyes enough to make even the most challenging among them lower their heads.

More villagers were dragged forward—those who had cowered in their homes, those foolish enough to attempt escape. His soldiers moved efficiently, yanking them out one by one, throwing them to their knees alongside the others.

The village of Hallowmere had been an easy conquest. Located on the very edge of Arzan’s territory, it was little more than a collection of wooden huts surrounded by a feeble palisade, which had splintered under his men’s assault in mere minutes. After that, the fight had been nothing more than a formality. With their defenses shattered and morale nonexistent, the villagers had surrendered without spilling a drop of his soldiers’ blood.

A small gift for Duke Kellius.

Lord Vensar allowed himself a satisfied smirk. The Duke had called for the noble houses loyal to him to converge on House Dorn’s castle for the coming war. But along the way, Vensar had decided to capture this village as a show of goodwill. A small yet strategic offering—one he was sure the Duke would appreciate.

“We’ll rest here for the night,” he declared, his voice moving over the restless murmurs of his men. “Come dawn, we march for the castle.”

A crunch of hurried footsteps pulled his attention. A scout dripping with sweat stumbled toward him. The man barely slowed before dropping from his horse and kneeling, his face pale with horror.

“My Lord,” he gasped, breathless, “My Lord! A large army is moving toward us from the west!”

Vensar stiffened, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“It’s true, my Lord!” the scout insisted. “I was circling the village, checking for any stragglers, when I heard it—a thundering sound. The earth itself trembled beneath me.” He swallowed, his throat dry, before continuing. “When I crept closer, I saw them—an army of beasts.”

Vensar’s grip on his reins tightened. “Beasts?”

“Yes, my Lord! Large men rode atop them, moving fast like horses—heading straight for the village! They weren’t horses my Lord!”

What the fuck? This couldn’t be Arzan’s forces. They couldn’t travel so fast to be here, and by the latest news he had gotten, they seemed to be preparing for a confrontation at Dorn Cattle. And yet…

Beasts. Large men riding them.

His mind whirred through possibilities before snapping to one conclusion.

Barbarians.

His jaw clenched. They had a known encampment near this region, ond he had left untouched, knowing that without proper forces, an extermination attempt would have been costly. House Kellius had been meant to deal with them, but the fief war had delayed that effort.

So why now? Why were they suddenly charging toward this village?

His eyes flicked back to the terrified scout.

“Rally the men,” he ordered sharply. “Now.”

Lord Vensar swallowed the unease bubbling in his chest, forcing his shoulders to remain squared as he strode toward the palisade. His heavy boots crunched against the dirt, his soldiers parting before him as he climbed the wooden steps to get a better view.

He reached the top—and his breath hitched.

The scout had not been lying.

Beyond the palisade, hundreds of barbarians loomed in the distance, their massive mounts shifting restlessly beneath them. Their approach had been slow like a noose tightening around the village. The moonlight caught the gleam of their weapons—wicked axes and brutal swords, each one sharp enough to carve through steel.

Vensar had read the reports. He had heard the stories of their brute strength, of their impossible resilience in battle. Even the kingdom’s forces, armed with Archine Tower Mages, had struggled to deal with them. But knowing of their ferocity was one thing—staring it in the face was another.

His pulse quickened.

Some of the barbarians met his gaze from a distance. Their eyes burned with something primal—determination, bloodlust, an unshakable will to fight. It was like looking into the abyss itself.

Still, he was a noble of the kingdom. A man versed in war. He would not let them see his fear.

Squaring his shoulders once again, he raised his voice.

“Barbarians!” His words rang out over the silent field. “You are surrounding a village that I, Lord Vensar, have taken in the name of Duke Kellius during this fief war. You have no stake in this battle. I advise you to turn back now, lest you face the wrath of my army!”

A few chuckles rumbled from the mass of warriors.

Then, one of them spurred his mount forward.

Vensar’s stomach clenched as the largest barbarian of them all emerged from their ranks. A behemoth of a man, his muscles coiled with raw power, his skin marked with war tattoos. Even on top of his beast, he towered over everyone present.

“I am Chieftain Yafgar of the great Lombards!” His words echoed like rolling thunder. “And running away is not in our nature!”

A chorus of cheers erupted from the warriors behind him, their laughter carrying over the wind. Some threw their weapons in the air.

Yafgar’s lips curled into a sharp grin. “The wrath of your army? I would love to see it for myself!”

The barbarians roared in approval, their voices a jagged symphony of bloodlust and anticipation. The night air vibrated with their cries, a primal sound that sent a shiver crawling up Vensar’s spine. Their mounts—hulking, tusked beasts with glowing eyes and bull-like creatures, probably strength too—stomped the earth, nostrils flaring as they picked up the scent of imminent battle.

Vensar’s hands curled into fists, his mind racing. He needed to think. Fast. Could he negotiate? Stall for time? The Lombords were a savage people, but they weren’t mindless beasts. If he could just—

A sudden roar split the air, raw and guttural, like the earth itself was howling in fury.

Vensar’s thoughts shattered as flames erupted from Yafgar’s body as he jumped right in front of his beast.

It wasn’t a trick of the light. It wasn’t a mere battle aura. No—fire, real and all-consuming, coiled around the chieftain’s arms and legs. The heat rolled off him in waves, warping the air, turning his silhouette into a godlike figure. His weapons—two massive battle-axes, wickedly curved and crusted with old blood—caught the firelight, their edges gleaming like fangs bared in a snarl.

For a brief, foolish moment, Vensar thought that he was simply seeing things. But then the ground around him seemed to blacken, grass burning in an instant.

No trick. No illusion.

Yafgar was wreathed in flame, and the battlefield itself was about to burn.

Then he charged.

The ground trembled. Not metaphorically—literally. The sheer weight of the barbarian’s charge sent vibrations racing through the earth, rattling bones and knocking dust loose from the wooden barricade.

“Shields up!” Vensar bellowed, though his heart was pounding in his ears. His brain was telling him to run, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. “Mages, fire now!”

The air shifted as bolts of searing fire lanced forward, streaking toward the chieftain like falling stars. Light flared—blinding, scorching. Spells detonated against Yafgar’s body with the force of miniature explosions, sending shockwaves rippling outward.

For a heartbeat, Vensar dared to hope.

Then, through the smoke and flashing light, he saw him still coming.

Yafgar didn’t stop.

Didn’t falter.

Didn’t even slow down.

The spells had struck him, but the flames around his body devoured the fire like kindling, reducing the attacks to mere sparks.

And then—impact.

The world split apart.

Yafgar crashed into the wooden wall like a meteor, his sheer force ripping through the palisade as if it were parchment. The structure didn’t just break—it exploded. Wood splintered into little pieces. The very force of the collision sent Vensar flying backward, his body weightless for a terrifying second before slamming into the ground—he heard his bones break.

For a moment, the world spun. His ears rang. His vision blurred.

Pain. Dirt. Smoke.

He groaned, pushing himself up, his muscles protesting every movement. His head throbbed as he forced his eyes open.

And then his blood ran cold.

A massive hole gaped in the palisade. Smoke curled from the edges, twisting into the night sky like phantom fingers.

And standing in its center—bathed in flames, unscathed, unstoppable—was Yafgar.

“H-h-how—”

His burning gaze locked onto Vensar, the heat radiating off of him in waves. He lifted his axe high, its edges glowing red-hot from the heat.

“You will fall before the might of the Lombards! Right. Now.”

Then the ground shook again.

Beyond the burning wreckage, more barbarians surged forward. They didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause. They stepped through the broken wall as if it were nothing more than a doorway. It might as well have been just a doorway.

Vensar’s breath hitched. His heart pounded like a war drum, his mind clawing for a way out.

But the realization slammed into him like a tight slap across his face.

He wasn’t going to make it to Duke Kellius. Hell, he wasn’t going to make it out of here at all.

***

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep