Chapter 401: The Hero and the Demon Lord
Chapter 401: The Hero and the Demon Lord
Though Aion had decreed that the gods could not interfere in mortal affairs, it was impossible to sever divine influence entirely. Otherwise, faith-based gods would simply cease to exist.
Bestowing blessings, granting artifacts, or even directly manifesting avatars within permissible limits were within the bounds of what Aion allowed.
In other words, Aiolos was almost certainly sent by a god.
"But why does he want to marry Ariel?" Ambrose turned the question over in his mind.
The power Aiolos had displayed was control over seawater. It felt more like an innate ability rather than magic.
In other words, Aiolos's power most likely originated from one of the sea deities.
If Aiolos truly was an emissary of some ocean god, then his pursuit of Ariel was very likely an attempt by the oceanic pantheon to seize a foothold in mortal faith.
The population of the Ragetide Kingdom might not rival the fishfolk of the deep ocean, but those merpeoples' worship was divided among countless gods. And if the ocean gods could extend their reach onto land and cultivate faith there, that would represent an entirely new ocean of opportunity—a vast, uncharted horizon of potential.
The fool claimed to follow Thanos, which was surely a lie. What kind of messenger would announce his divine patron outright? The ocean pantheon must have given Aiolos that fake backstory specifically to help him get close to Ariel.
So Aiolos must have been dispatched by the gods to court Ariel, as part of their intent to seize the Ragetide Kingdom's faith through marriage. Bold, very bold.
Thanos was not a god to be trifled with. Poaching his believers would surely invite divine wrath, and that meant another war among the gods.
Beyond that, Ambrose had no intention of letting anyone meddle in Ragetide affairs. It was to be his alchemical factory, and he did not intend to cede any control over it.
But how exactly could he stop Aiolos from pursuing Ariel? On what grounds could he interfere with someone's free courtship?
After thinking it through, he arrived at only one answer: tip off Thanos.
If Thanos learned that the oceanic pantheon was stirring up trouble, he might hurl a thunderbolt straight into the ocean, and Ambrose wouldn't need to worry about a thing.
Yes, that was it. He would write a letter to the Ragetide Kingdom, relay the story of this fool and his abduction scheme, and let them handle contacting Thanos. They'd know how.
His decision made, Ambrose set pen to paper and dashed off the letter at speed, detailing his chance encounter with Aiolos, emphasizing the man's plan to take Ariel by force and his near-indestructible constitution, and urging the Ragetide Kingdom to prepare accordingly.
With that business settled, Ambrose turned back to Gareth and the others to hammer out the details of dividing up the dragons' spoils. That conversation stretched on for two full days.
Business really never let up. What he needed was a capable deputy to catch what he missed. Harvey had the makings of such a person, but he was still too green and not yet ready for that role.
Besides Harvey, the only person in Ambrose's service who could genuinely think for herself was Isabel.
He sighed. "Is it that hard to find someone smart to work for you these days? Well, forget it. Once this is over, I imagine the clever ones will come looking."
Once the Lyon forces were dealt with and the whole affair broadcast to the world, everyone would understand that this lich was the safest patron around. Dark cultists, infernal servants, or just the bitterly disillusioned—all manner of creatures lurking in the shadows would come flocking to Ambrose.
And everyone knew that the fallen were far sharper than ordinary people, not just in strength, but also in wit.
Fools who stood on the side of evil died quickly.
Everything was in place. All that remained was for the Lyon forces to arrive.
So why weren't they here yet?
Two days of waiting later, word finally arrived from the Blacktide: the Lyon warships were drawing close to Coin Island, but they had not come alone.
According to the Blacktide's report, a terrifying creature of colossal scale had taken up position behind the Lyon fleet. Deep-sea kraken tentacles, each one larger than the Blacktide herself, churned the ocean into great rolling waves that shoved the Lyon warships steadily forward.
Ambrose was genuinely startled.
It was straight out of a fairy tale: lured into a monster's lair by the villain, the heroes nevertheless managed to tame the beast and turn it into a weapon against the Demon Lord.
"Oh, so that's how you want to play it?" Ambrose grinned. "I'd like to see whether you lot have come to slay the Demon Lord or deliver him gear."
A sweep of his hand sent all of Coin Island into motion. Tens of thousands of undead kept fed the magical arrays like living batteries, and the enormous reserves of mana stockpiled over many days began to coalesce into form.
Above Coin Island, thick storm clouds surged upward and spread like a black curtain across the sky, blanketing a dozen kilometers around within minutes.
Beneath that dark canopy, the sea grew dim and murky, the air filling with the reek of decay. Even the water was slowly tainted by the corruption.
The sheer oppressive weight of it all reached the Lyon fleet before they had even crossed into its range.
Cyril Roland stood at the prow, staring out at the vast darkness ahead, and said, struck with awe, "Lord of Dawn, what monstrous evil is this?!"
His hand closed around the hilt of the Blood of Dawn. A torrent of holy power surged forth from the divine artifact, scattering into countless motes of golden light that wrapped the entire warship in radiance.
Cyril Roland was known as the Radiant General for his power to shatter holy light into golden motes. Not only were the motes beautiful, each one crackled with sacred force.
When they landed on allies, they dispelled curses and applied buff after buff; when they landed on creatures of evil, they invaded their bodies like a thousand tiny blades shredding through flesh.
The radiance blazed, scattering the dread that had settled over every heart. Even the stench of rot thinned noticeably in the air.
Above them, the dark clouds heaved and churned, then coalesced into an enormous skull.
It was exactly like the death god that had appeared over the Dragon Graveyard.
It was hundreds of meters tall, draped in a cloak of smoke and shadow, each bone seemingly forged from condensed dark magic, as though death itself had descended to walk the mortal world.
Cyril Roland fixed his eyes on the vast skull overhead. He had expected a magical attack. Instead, a voice rolled down from the sky like a peal of muffled thunder.
"Paladins of Lyon, state your purpose. You have entered my territorial waters."
Cyril Roland's brow furrowed. Something felt off.
Why else would paladins of Lyon have approached a lich? They'd come to purge the undead, obviously. Did he even need to ask?
Cyril Roland narrowed his eyes and swept his gaze across the sky. He found a black airship quickly, no bigger than a thumbnail at this distance, half-swallowed by the storm clouds, yet still unable to escape his sight.
Over these past days, he had spotted that airship more than once. He was certain it was connected to the lich, but it flew too high. Even wielding a divine artifact, Cyril Roland had no way to do anything about it, and could only let it tail them.
After the lich's question, the airship had begun circling the Lyon fleet. What was it doing? Preparing to attack?
Cyril Roland was still turning it over in his mind when, aboard the Blacktide, Hastin cried out, "Get closer!" he shouted. "I need to see the expressions on their faces! Yes, yes—right up close, get it in their faces!"
The Blacktide wasn't circling to attack. It was circling to use the long-range lenses mounted on the airship's hull to capture every detail of Cyril Roland's face, because this was a live broadcast.
The Blacktide had one mission and one mission only: to record this legendary battle in its entirety, without missing a single moment.
Every undead crewmember on the airship worked in seamless coordination, dedicated to executing Ambrose's directive perfectly, to film these Lyon warriors with all the grandeur and menace they deserved.
At first, Hastin hadn't understood the order. They were supposed to be intimidating their enemies, so why film the Lyon side like heroes?
Ambrose had replied with a single line: "If I crush an ant, would it frighten the world? What if I crush a hero instead?"
That was all it took. Hastin had immediately praised his master's brilliance, meaning every word.
After all, what was the point of a Demon Lord if there was no great hero to be crushed beneath his feet? No wonder even the gods were fooled by this lich. This alone would have taken Hastin centuries to learn.
So Hastin was now throwing himself into the work and capturing Cyril Roland's fearless courage from every possible angle.
The magic mirror featured a headshot of Cyril Roland, the scattered motes of golden light around him rendering him almost divine, as if the Lord of Dawn himself had descended. Hastin still found it lacking. He turned to his brother. "Hares, play some background music."
The mercury slime Hares extended a few metallic tendrils and began to play.
In life, Hares had been a ranger, but years of haunting taverns had taught him a thing or two from his bard acquaintances. He could manage a few chords of a heroic entrance theme.
With camera and music prepared, the world was ready for Cyril Roland's performance.
"Don't fumble it, hero," Hastin prayed. "Or my master will not be pleased."
Cyril Roland had no idea he had been cast as the male lead in Ambrose's film, but he was every bit the legendary paladin entrusted with this mission. Even under the crushing pressure Ambrose exuded, he showed not one flicker of fear.
He roared, "We are guided by the Holy Light to scour all evil from this world. Megaman Tiga, the time has come to answer for your crimes!"
The words rang out with absolute, righteous conviction, hurled straight at the towering shadow overhead, as if Ambrose truly were some great villain of legend.
Every Lyon soldier who heard it felt their spirits surge. Golden light blazed to life across the ship, so dense the vessel was nearly a sphere of radiance.
Seven legends and a full legion of elites—their unified power was enough to tear the shadow from the sky itself.
But just as they readied to strike, the great skull above opened its jaw and asked, "Then, can you name a single crime I have committed?"
Cyril Roland opened his mouth, fully prepared to answer—only to stop. He paused.
What evil had that lich actually committed?