Chapter 184
Daniel and Melgil eventually rose from bed as sunlight spilled freely through the tall windows of the grand chamber, painting the marble floor with pale gold. The air smelled faintly of polished stone and lavender oil, the lingering trace of the servants' work before dawn. By the time the two of them entered the east dining hall, a modest breakfast had already been prepared: fresh bread still warm from the oven, fruit glistening with morning dew, and a pot of steaming tea that filled the room with gentle fragrance.
They sat opposite each other at the long oak table, though Melgil quickly abandoned formality. She slid her chair closer until their shoulders brushed, her presence softening the austere hall.
"You know," Melgil teased with a playful smile as she buttered a slice of bread, "if anyone saw the great Daniel Rothchester acting so… domestic, they might think you had given up war altogether."
Daniel allowed himself a rare laugh, quiet but genuine. "Perhaps that is what they should think. Let them imagine me harmless, eating strawberries with you." He plucked one from the bowl, holding it up for her. She leaned forward, taking it between her lips, her eyes shining with mischief.
For a fleeting moment, the morning felt ordinary, even lighthearted. Yet beneath the veneer of peace, darker currents tugged at Daniel's mind. He knew this was only a pause. Soon, he would leave Rothchester behind, bound for Karion, the heart of the empire and the stage of the final quest that would decide far more than his own fate.
Melgil sensed his drifting thoughts. Her teasing smile faded, her voice soft but steady. "Promise me something, Daniel. When you go… don't let the battlefield take everything from you. Promise you'll come back to me whole, not just victorious."
He reached across the table, taking her hand in his. His gaze held hers with quiet resolve. "I can't promise the world will let me return untouched," he admitted. "But I swear this, I will fight to keep the part of me that belongs here, with you."
She nodded, though the shadow of worry lingered in her eyes even as she leaned against him.
Later, when the meal was finished, Daniel embraced his parents and pressed a lingering kiss to Melgil's lips. With a final glance at her, he turned and stepped through the transfer gate he had cast. The shimmering veil of magic swallowed him whole, carrying him toward the western lands.
The path ahead was clear in his mind. Thanks to the knowledge his family had preserved, he knew where to go. His great-grandfather, once a traveling scholar before their rise to nobility, had collected maps and records from across the region. Over time, these documents had passed into the Duke's hands, who carefully preserved and updated them. His agents, disguised as explorers and adventurers, traveled in secret to gather new information. That diligence ensured the family retained influence for generations, for knowledge was as sharp a weapon as any blade. Among those treasures was a detailed and regularly updated map of Karion itself.
Now, that knowledge guided Daniel's steps.
He emerged into silence and shadow. The land stretched bleak before him, the charred remains of corpses stacked in heaps that reeked of smoke and ash. Even so, he noticed the reverence with which the united guild treated their fallen foes. The Tower itself had changed them—its presence reshaping not only their tactics but their manner, their speech, their very outlook. Those who embraced this new reality began to speak with greater weight, to think with deeper clarity. Their rough edges had been ground into something more regal, as if the Tower was sculpting them for the world it demanded.
Beyond the wasteland, Karion loomed.
The city rose tier upon tier, its vast walls layered like the shells of a fortress carved by giants. Karion had once been the heart of a military empire, and the architecture bore the full weight of that legacy. Four colossal walls circled the capital: the first enclosing the sprawling residential districts, the second protecting the industrial quarter with its countless forges and workshops, the third encasing the massive garrisons, warehouses, and armories, and finally the innermost wall guarding the royal castle itself, a citadel of stone and iron crowned with banners and watchtowers.
Daniel approached with care, cloaked by the refinement of his skill and the weightless glide of his formless armor. He ascended silently into the sky, drifting higher until the full expanse of Karion revealed itself beneath him. From above, its contradictions became stark.
The residential district, meant to house perhaps a million souls, now strained beneath nearly triple that number. Houses piled atop one another in precarious clusters, as if desperation had replaced architecture. Narrow alleys twisted like veins between the buildings, choked with vendors, laborers, and families pressed into the overburdened city. The air carried the sharp mix of sweat, smoke, and steel the unshakable scent of a nation forged for war and never permitted peace.
At the gates, guild banners fluttered defiantly. Warriors checked their armor, strapped blades to their backs, and tallied supplies. Their movements were sharp, disciplined not the chaos of adventurers but the precision of soldiers sworn to defend not just a city, but the legacy of Karion itself. Daniel recognized the ritual instinctively; he had seen it countless times before the storm of battle.
Hovering above the first great archway, he saw the faint shimmer of a dome-shaped barrier covering the massive city. From this height, the noise below swelled around him, the roar of the crowd, the clang of steel, the hum of industry. Karion had endured for centuries as both sword and shield of its empire. Even the stones themselves seemed forged for war.
And yet, what Daniel truly saw was not life.
The inhabitants' personalities lingered in every movement, every gesture, every shouted word, but their bodies were long dead. What filled the streets were corpses, their flesh in decay, continuing their daily routines as if they still lived. A city of the undead, vast and terrible, with its four-walled districts filled nearly to bursting. Nearly a million husks moved through their charade of existence, their every action echoing the past.
Daniel hovered unseen, absorbing the weight of what he had discovered. Then, as silently as he had risen, he withdrew, gliding away from the city's gaze. When at last he descended to the ground beyond the reach of prying eyes, the air pressed around him, calm yet cold, heavy with the damp stench of decay.
He exhaled slowly, preparing himself for what came next.
Daniel's pace slowed as he crested the rise where the united guild had set their camp. For a moment, he felt a shiver, not from the wind, but from something that flickered at the edge of his vision. Ten meters ahead, through the thinning veil of mist and broken trees, a face emerged. Fleeting, sharp, undeniable.
Addison Lazarus.
The name struck him like a distant bell tolling from another lifetime, reverberating through memories he thought buried. His cousin, bound by blood in a past existence stood waiting along the narrow path that wound through the decaying forest hill. Why she was here, or how, he did not yet understand, but the sight of her rooted him in place.
Daniel paused, the weight of both promise and fate pressing down upon his shoulders. Whatever lay ahead in the capital would not be only war. It would be reunion, revelation, and perhaps his most difficult test yet.
By the time he descended into the withering grove where the camp sprawled across the hill, the sheer scale of what awaited him was impossible to ignore. Hidden in layers of tents and fortifications, the encampment stretched farther than he had imagined.
"They gained additional support from the main guilds," Daniel muttered under his breath as his eyes traced the lines of banners. "Those sent home days ago with severe wounds, they've returned."
A voice near the perimeter confirmed his suspicion."They used the Cathedral transfer gate."
What he saw next filled him with both unease and certainty.
Every unit, each nearing three hundred strong, moved with precision. Guild members held to silence and discipline, their steps deliberate, their eyes sharp. Even the smallest details, the careful stacking of supplies, the rotation of soldiers on watch, the order in which rations were distributed—spoke of training honed to the highest standard. These were not weary survivors. They were steel drawn to its keenest edge, an army made ready for the storm to come.
Somewhere within that order, destiny waited. Among thousands of faces he would soon encounter, one in particular haunted him: Addison Lazarus, a ghost from another life who was now flesh and blood again.
The united guild camp lay half a mile from Karion, its sprawling tents and battle wagons covering the hill like a second city. From afar it seemed silent, unmoving. Yet within its heart every soul was at work, their energy flowing seamlessly into the greater machine. Smoke from cooking fires curled into the pale sky, mixing with the sharp tang of oiled steel and leather. The sound of thousands working together carried like a tide, disciplined, constant, unyielding.
At the eastern lines, Jacob Lazarus, vice leader of the East Lazarus Guild, moved with measured authority. Heat shimmered faintly around him, magma seeping in cracks beneath his boots, though he never wasted a motion. His command was not in display but in ensuring the drilling units held formation.
Nearby, his cousin Oliver crouched in the grass, testing the balance of his poisoned darts. His hunter's eyes flicked between weapon and horizon, anticipating threats others could not yet see.
Further down the slope, Farrah Lazarus pressed her hands to the soil. Thick vines coiled upward at her call, weaving into barricades of living wood. The green walls pulsed with vitality, ready to shield the camp should blades or fire come too close.
Above them, the air thrummed. Rainey Lazarus directed her insect swarms with the precision of a conductor. Clouds of wings shifted in perfect unison, buzzing formations of venom and instinct, a living curtain of death.
In the sparring grounds, Sabine Lazarus tested her shapeshifting, her body swelling into the form of a tiger-humanoid beast. Her claws shredded grooves into the earth, each movement brimming with raw predatory grace. Recruits paused to watch, awe flickering in their eyes.
Beside the smithing tents, Noah Lazarus stood like an unshakable pillar, his skin hardening to metal as hammer strikes rang against him. Sparks leapt, his endurance a silent reassurance to those who would march beside him.
Near the command pavilion, Mary Kaye Lazarus, leader of the High Strategy Guild, knelt with her shovel. To the untrained, she looked like an archaeologist mapping soil. But those who knew her understood: the battlefield itself bent to her designs. She murmured calculations, marking where the earth would rise or split when the war began.
Cody Lazarus trained beside her, shockwaves bursting from his swings in rolling tremors that rattled crates and wagons alike. Each blast promised devastation against enemy lines.
On the far flank, the banners of the White Devil Guild whipped in the wind. Natasha Sokolov, vice captain, loosed a bolt from her rune-carved crossbow. It split the air and burst into glittering shards of ice, a silent threat to all who might face her.
Her guild mirrored her discipline. Borislav's poison spells hissed against straw dummies, their forms dissolving under toxic smoke. Mikhaylov practiced ensnaring squads in paralyzing bonds, invisible shackles dropping volunteers to their knees.
Healers and supporters worked in quiet rhythm. Tamara's calm hands sealed wounds with gentle light. Mariya, eyes shadowed, whispered curses that made the ground shudder. Fedorova bent the winds, scattering arrows and rattling banners in warning gusts.
Among the warriors, Radinka split logs with her axe as though cleaving twigs. Kuzmina prowled in half-wolf form, her growl vibrating low with restrained violence. Nataliya's blade blurred in precise arcs, striking dummies with flawless form, while Aleksandrova's arrows flew in straight, merciless lines.
Behind them, the sharp crack of musket fire broke the air. Irinushka, runes glowing along her musket's barrel, fired rounds that rippled with arcane energy, shaking the very ground.
Together, they were no longer mere guilds. They were an army. To Daniel, watching from the rise, the truth was clear: this was not preparation. This was anticipation. The storm hung at the horizon, and when it broke, the united guilds of Karion would strike first.
At the center of the camp, banners of every guild rose high above the command tents. Veterans of the East Lazarus Guild stood in a ring, armor scarred yet polished, their faces hard with years of battle. Though seasoned and scarred, they bowed their heads in respect as Charlotte Lazarus stepped forward.
Her voice carried firm and steady across the assembly."You have heard the name Daniel Rothchester. Do not mistake him for a noble son dabbling in war. He is the strategist whose decisions held our lines when all else would have fallen. His strength is no tale spun in taverns it is fact, tested in blood. Today, you will see for yourselves."
A veteran stepped forward, gauntlets creaking."We may have been away, but we are not blind. Reports travel. We saw the raid on Erethune, the Fractured City. We saw what happened when the rift tore open and the arch demons stepped forth."
Another nodded, voice rough but respectful."That was no rumor. We saw him cutting through the chaos, holding the line where all others broke. That is why we are here. Not for a name, but to understand. In all our years, we have never fought beside a man like this. When this was only a game, he was nowhere. Yet now, he stands at the center of everything."
Murmurs spread through the gathering, curiosity tinged with awe. Hardened warriors acknowledged it at last: something had shifted in the world, and Daniel Rothchester was at its heart.
Anticipation rippled through them. These veterans hungered not for stories but for proof. They would measure him on the field, where words meant nothing and truth was carved in steel and blood.
And so, when Daniel finally arrived at the camp, the eyes of many turned to him. He was not the man they remembered from older whispers the Netherborn disciple once cloaked in storm and fire, wrath clinging to him like a second skin. No, he was different now. Calmer. His steps were measured, his presence quieter but no less commanding. It was as if battle had honed him, sanding away the raw edges until only tempered steel remained.
Among the onlookers was Addison Lazarus. Unlike the rest, she did not stand waiting for stories or reputation to reveal themselves. She wanted something direct, something undeniable. For Addison, this was not curiosity it was personal.
Their gazes locked across the camp, and for an instant, time folded on itself. In Daniel's chest, memory stirred blood ties from another life, a cousin long buried in history yet standing before him now. He had not expected this.
Addison's expression revealed little neither warm nor hostile, but sharpened with intent. She studied him as one might weigh an unfamiliar blade, then raised her voice above the quiet murmur of the camp. Her eyes narrowed on the young noble lord, no older than her daughter Charlotte.
"So," she said, deliberate and unhurried, "you are the Rothchester they speak of—the one who thinks like a tactician and fights like a beast of the old world."
Daniel did not flinch. Instead, the faintest spark lit his calm gaze. "And you," he replied evenly, "must be the renowned Ranker Addison Lazarus."
He knew her name, if not from his own life, then from memories passed down through bloodlines and fragments of old whispers, long after Damon had been purged from their world.
But Addison was not one to greet with words alone. She weighed others by their steel.
And she proved him right.
In three quick strides she closed the distance, blade flashing as she unleashed five rapid strikes, each honed by decades of experience. To the untrained eye it looked like a single blur of steel, but Daniel read the rhythm hidden beneath the flurry. He had been waiting for it.
His defense flowed as naturally as breathing. The dagger's edge rose and fell in perfect arcs, catching each strike before it landed. Sparks spat from steel on steel as blow after blow was turned aside, momentum bled away into nothing.
Then, in the heartbeat of silence between her last swing and her next breath, Daniel stepped inside her guard. His fist snapped forward one sharp jab, then another, two clean hooks delivered with surgical precision.
Addison felt the weight of his control. At the final instant, his wrist twisted and his strike stopped short, his knuckles hovering an inch from her cheek. Yet the air cracked with the restraint, her hair stirring from the force that never landed. She rocked back slightly, not from impact, but from the threat of power perfectly withheld.
The camp froze. What began as a test had ended as a statement: Daniel was not simply a tactician, nor merely a swordsman of skill. He was a fighter who knew the exact line between destruction and restraint and chose, for now, to stop short of the kill.
For the first time since entering Karion, Daniel felt the press of destiny against his shoulders. This was not just an alliance of guilds. This was blood recognizing blood, past lives brushing against the present.
Addison lowered her weapon slowly. Her expression remained unreadable, but her eyes now carried something new: respect, reluctant but genuine, earned only through skill. "Precise," she said at last, her tone steady. "Measured. You could have broken me, but you didn't. I see why they speak of you as they do."
Whispers rippled through the camp. Even hardened veterans stared in disbelief. To see Addison Lazarus, fifty-seven years old, a ranker of unmatched reputation, forced back and held at mercy was no small thing.
Jacob Lazarus gave a curt, approving nod. Oliver narrowed his eyes, recalibrating his judgment. Farrah's vines froze mid-motion; Rainey's swarm stilled in the air; Sabine's beast form relaxed back into her human guise, sharp smile curling with new interest. Even Natasha Sokolov of the White Devils lowered her crossbow, a flicker of recognition in her frost-hardened eyes.
Daniel let the silence stretch before he spoke again, his voice calm but carrying the weight of command. "Mother. Aunt Addison. Guild Leader. That's enough. Call the leaders together."
The camp stirred, runners dispatched. When the leaders gathered, Daniel raised a hand. "Before we begin mages, raise barriers. Sound-blocking wards. What we discuss here is not for outside ears."
Sigils burned into the air, sealing them in shimmering silence. Only then did Daniel speak.
"The situation has changed. The floating garrison of Álfheim is moving. Holy Vicar Arnis Feldreldre has declared our actions heresy. He believes we serve heretic ideals simply because we do not bow to their gods' doctrine."
Shock rippled across the chamber. Mary Kaye Lazarus leaned forward, fists white against the table. Alexsei Sokolov of the White Devils narrowed his eyes. "A holy war? Against us?"
Daniel nodded grimly. "Their judgment does not matter. They will move, as they always do, convinced their gods demand it. That means we must be ready."
And so the plan unfolded layer by layer. Not a siege, but a flood. Not rigid formations, but flexible lines. Not blind faith in quest rules, but contingencies against sabotage. His words cut away denial until only preparation remained.
As the last rays of sunlight faded beyond the horizon, the city stirred to life in preparation for the long night ahead. Darkness began to stretch over the walls and streets, but before it could fully consume the battlefield, the united guild camp unleashed their countermeasure.
Dozens of floating artifacts ignited at once, radiating a warm, steady brilliance that pierced through the gloom. The sudden surge of light banished the shadows, making the entire field glow as though it were still late afternoon. These were no ordinary illuminations each artifact was intricately crafted, layered with enchantments that not only produced light but also projected protective barriers.
Strategically positioned at great heights, the artifacts were beyond the reach of even the undead anchors who could fire upon distant targets. Their arrangement was meticulous, spread in a wide formation across the perimeter, and every single one of them was tethered to the central battle wagon. The connection wasn't merely symbolic; the wagon pulsed with energy, channeling its immense reserves into the artifacts, amplifying their radiance and fortifying their wards.
What might have been just an ordinary night siege was instead transformed into a battlefield cloaked in unnatural daylight. The undead, who thrived in the cover of darkness, would find no such advantage here. The guild leaders knew this was only the beginning, the light was both a shield and a challenge, a declaration that they were ready to face whatever tide of horrors would pour from the gates.
When the horns finally sounded and the first city gate shuddered open, Daniel's warning proved true. The dead did not trickle out they poured like a river loosed from a dam.
The air grew foul, thick with the stench of rot and the clatter of bone. Shadows peeled from the black gap, twisted banners and rusted armor catching the last light. The first evolved undead lurched forward, slow but inexorable, dragging the night with them.
Daniel stepped onto the rise, dust falling from the gate onto his shoulders. "Hold the lines. Shield wall first. Ranged to the flanks. Healers, ready the warding sigil. Burn firebreaks when they cluster. Do not waste strength."
Charlotte's sharp eyes caught twisted figures moving differently. "Those ones think," she warned. "They'll flank the mages."
Addison laughed. "Then let them try. Clever meat burns just the same." Sword flashing, she vaulted down the rise, rallying the line with her roar. "FOR THE LIVING!"
The dead crashed against the living wall, and the battle began in earnest.
At the front, Daniel cut a corpse-knight apart with brutal efficiency, his formless armor that is now more refined looking was drinking in each kill. Beside him, Charlotte danced in fire and steel, her blade burning arcs through the horde. Jacob turned the earth itself molten, Oliver's poisons cut silently into the mob, Farrah's roots tore up the ground, Rainey's swarm darkened the skies, and Sabine's beast-form ripped a path through corpses.
Behind them, Noah was the shield, Mary Kaye the earthshaker, Cody the shockwave. The White Devils joined in, Natasha's frost bolts, Radinka's axe, curses and winds tearing the dead apart.
The chosen twelve carved forward, every strike deliberate, every step measured, while the endless tide pressed like ink against paper.
And from the depths of the gate came the sound of chains, and a bell struck beneath the world.
Something greater was waking.
Daniel squared his shoulders. His voice cut through the storm.
"Hold the line. For every step they take, make them pay. For every soul they reach for, take three times. We burn as we fight. We do not break."
The first gate had opened. And the plain between the living and the dead would soon be drowned in fire and ash. but something came , these were larger and look mutated and had four arm wielding different weapons each, their numbers were spread out evenly among the undead hordes, one player shouted
"those things are Undead Anchors, and they many and huge,"
The monsters towered above the rest of the shambling horde, standing nearly four times the height of an armored death knight that stood ten feet tall. the Undead Archors skin was an unnatural mix of rotting flesh and hardened bone, patched together like a grotesque armor. The stench of decay clung to them, thicker than the rest of the undead, as if death itself was drawn into their bodies.
Each had four massive arms, jutting from their torsos at unnatural angles, and in each hand they clutched a different weapon, rusted poised swords, jagged axes, chipped spears, and crude hammers that dripped with a foul black ichor. Their movements were unnervingly precise for something dead, not the mindless staggering of zombies but deliberate strikes, as though guided by a cruel intelligence.
Their heads were monstrous: eyeless skulls with gaping maws, jagged teeth protruding outward, and bone horns that curled like anchors into the air. Spinal ridges ran down their backs like chains, rattling and clanking with each step.
But what made them truly terrifying was their killing intent Around twenty of them , lesser undead surged with unnatural vigor, as though the Anchors tethered their existence to the battlefield. Wounds that would drop ordinary skeletons or ghouls seemed to knit themselves back together in their presence. It became clear, these Anchors were not just brutes, but the core of the horde's strength, living pillars of undeath that rooted the swarm in place.
When they roared, the air itself trembled, and the battlefield felt as though the ground had been chained down under the weight of their presence.