"I come bearing orders from the Ouroboros Clan of the Central Continent. I seek nothing more than a proper audience with your liege."
Marcus let out a short, dry laugh, his expression sharpening with clear skepticism.
"Do you take me for a fool? The Ouroboros are ancient bloodline Warlocks of serpent‑kin, bound to the Kemoyin lineage. You…" He gestured at Barxia with open disbelief. "You reek of the Eight Arms Radiant Moon, the sworn enemies of the very clan you claim to serve. Following that logic… you hunt me because of the blood flowing in my veins, do you not?"
Marcus tilted his head, studying the elder like a puzzle. "What truly puzzles me is why? We have made no moves against you. Not yet, anyway. Indulge me, what drove you here?"
"Allow us to answer that."
Three figures stepped calmly from the shadows, their auras held in check, showing no immediate intent to strike.
"Jeffrey! You old bastard!" Barxia roared then coughed violently, bright red blood flecking his lips from the sheer effort of shouting.
"Barxia… to see you brought so low… it truly wounds my heart," Elder Jeffrey replied, voice thick with mock sympathy.
"Care to introduce yourselves before I decide to crush you alongside him?" Marcus snapped, annoyance edging into his tone.
"Such a temper! Fierce, proud… truly reminiscent of a Kemoyin heir!" Jeffrey bowed theatrically. "Greetings. I am Elder Jeffrey of the Ouroboros Clan, we've come from the Central Continent. We seek audience with the heir to the Kemoyin bloodline said to have risen in these lands."
"Oh? The Ouroboros Clan… again?" Marcus's demeanor shifted instantly. A terrifying, crushing pressure radiated outward. "Prove it."
Jeffrey and his companions flared their own bloodline auras, struggling to stand firm. Even so, the Rank 3 Elder felt his limbs growing heavy under the sheer weight of Marcus's presence.
"Amber irises… Black Horall lineage," Marcus noted, his tone softening into something like appraisal. "Not unimpressive." He reached into his pouch, withdrew three crystal vials filled with shimmering gold‑tinged liquid, and tossed one to each. "Talk is cheap. Drink this. State your intentions aloud. Swear no harm or coercion shall come of these talks. This is the Sacred Vow Potion, an ancient binding magic. Break your word… and the backlash shall be far worse than death."
What he did not say is that every vial carried invisible nanites woven into the formula. Once swallowed, they would settle into bone and blood, turning the drinkers into silent, unwitting agents that monitored, tracked, and ultimately became answerable to Farlier will.
Jeffrey studied the vial a long moment, then nodded to his companions. They drank.
His original plan had been to simply seize the heir and depart. But after witnessing what this Rank 1 warlock could do… he knew force was no longer an option.
"Now?" Jeffrey asked evenly.
"For now… I am otherwise occupied," Marcus replied coolly. "Wait for me in Extreme Night City. We shall speak then."
"So be it. We shall await you." Jeffrey turned to leave—then paused and glanced back at the stricken Barxia. "Might I suggest… we take him off your hands? No need for you to be burdened further."
Marcus's smile widened, sharp and unyielding. "No thank you. I shall tend to him myself… I have so very many questions to ask."
Jeffrey could only shake his head in quiet disbelief. A revered Rank 3 Elder… brought low and helpless before a Rank 1 Warlock? Even in the Central Continent, such things belonged to legend. Not in ten thousand years… has such a thing been seen, he thought, before leading his party away.
Marcus turned his gaze fully upon Barxia, who now trembled visibly, barely able to lift his head, let alone muster spiritual force.
[System Status — Full Hijack Engaged]
[Cursed Runic Swarm — Active & Spreading]
[Spiritual Force Channel — Sealed & Redirected]
[Neural & Motor Control — Intercepted & Overridden]
[Vitality & Bloodline Resonance — Dampened]
Marcus chuckled, low and rich with dark amusement.
"Do not look so distressed… You will find your new accommodations most agreeable. Why… I doubt you shall ever wish to leave."
*****
"Master… these people look at me like I'm some great destiny-chosen hero!" Marcus groaned, carefully securing Barxia and Perry into stasis pods within Dylan Gardens' energy-harvesting wing. "Can't I step back from the spotlight? You know I hate being stared at. Send William in my place instead! I swear, I'll oversee Apocalypse with absolute attention to every detail."
Leylin's smile held quiet amusement. "Not impossible. But your brother has to agree to it."
"Tch! That blockhead would never agree!" Marcus wrinkled his nose. "Something definitely went wrong inside his head when he got all big and serious."
They stepped through the heavy doors into the Genesis Laboratory. Row upon row of gleaming glass vats lined the chamber, each holding a suspended, developing form bathed in warm, nurturing light. Sensors traced every heartbeat; runes stabilized every breath; every stage of growth was monitored, recorded, refined.
Marcus glanced over the rows. "Isn't this… a few too many successors?"
Leylin's gaze remained steady, his tone calm and precise. "Originally, they would have grown within their mothers. But my early trials proved it impossible, such perfection cannot be nurtured within the fragile vessel of an acolyte's body. So they were brought here, to the hatching chambers of Dylan Gardens." He gestured to the vats. "In truth… this number is still too few. I refuse to waste potential on chance or protection. Until they mature fully and demonstrate their strength… we cannot know which shall rise as the true progenitors of their kind."
He stepped closer to the chambers, his expression softening as he looked upon them. Most were humanoid in shape yet along their arms glinted fine scales; tails curled gently in the fluid; horns curled from foreheads in patterns both serpentine and draconic. Some bore all three.
"Beautiful," Leylin murmured. "In theory… every one of these children shall possess strength beyond measure. Their only limit… shall be the breadth of their own understanding."
He turned to Marcus. "And you? Do you not desire children of your own?"
"Perhaps later," Marcus replied, shaking his head. "I'm swamped as it is. I still must meet William and deliver this… Ashley… to her assigned station." He leaned in, eyes gleaming with obvious intent. "Are you absolutely certain she should be the host for the Queen? A Rank 1 Magus would suffice perfectly well. We could save this one… for something better."
Leylin understood instantly. "Ah. You wish to reserve her as the core for your KnightMare unit?" He shook his head gently, firm but not unkind. "It is a tempting thought. But the decision is already made. Go find another vessel in time. There will be many more opportunities going forward."
Leylin turned back to the vats, his gaze locking onto one chamber where the fluid rippled and the runes flared brighter than the rest. A pulse of light swept outward from within.
"Look!" He pointed, genuine delight lighting his face. "This one… is almost ready to arise."
The glass hummed. The fluid swirled. The shell began to part.
"Haha! My firstborn!" Leylin's voice held a rare, bright warmth. "Your name shall be Sion!"
He had poured months of relentless effort, staggering fortunes, and every resource he could command into this moment. To see his own child drawing near to life… was proof. The others would follow. Soon.
A quiet, private thought settled in his heart.
Father… Mother… he said silently, looking upon the forming shape of his son. You are about to become grandparents. I wonder… what will you say when you see what I have made?
*****
South of Poolfield Kingdom (Approximately 15-18 days on horseback)
Trout Village, Thornmarsh Principality
Ashley jolted awake, gasping, cold sweat streaming down her skin and matting her hair. She stared at the rough wooden ceiling, then at her own unclothed form, then turned sharply toward the figure beside the bed.
An elderly woman lay there, chest still, face pale, lifeless. A flicker of pity touched her, swiftly replaced by arrogant resignation. 'Poor soul… she must have found me and tried to help. How pitiful. Mortals cannot aid the Magi, they cannot even endure our presence. The sheer radiation of our vitality alone… was enough to snuff out her life.'
She pulled the simple linen garments the woman had laid ready and dressed, then paused, frowning, scanning the unfamiliar room.
I remember being captured… I remember the giant hand of metal closing around me… She searched her memory, but the trail ended in darkness.
'Why am I here? Alive? Unbound?' No answer came. She scowled, gave up, and stepped outside.
The village was silent. Every door stood open; people lay slumped in doorways, yards, streets. They are still breathing, but shallow, faces flushed and fevered, already fading.
'The same as that woman…'
Ashley realized with a twinge of unease. 'They will all die if I remain here. My very existence is poison to them.'
She walked away at a leisurely pace, foraging as she went, dismissing the strangeness of her situation. Her body felt hollowed, famished.
'I could devour an entire Sea-Cow…' she thought dreamily, remembering the rich, tender delicacy she had loved as a child.
She had barely crossed the edge of the village when her steps faltered.
A searing pain tore through her chest.
She clutched at it, gasping, and tried to summon her spiritual force in order to cycle it, to check, to heal.
Nothing answered.
Her mana channels were silent.
Blocked.
As if they had been severed, burned away, or eaten hollow.
Panic flared cold in her chest.
She struggled to stand, to breathe, to reach inside herself, only to find an endless, empty silence where her power should have been.
The shadow of death stretched over her, cold and inexorable.
She fell to her knees, staring at her hands, trembling, powerless.
Then—
CRACK.
A wet, rending tear burst open her chest.
From within her, bathed in steaming blood, a sleek, nightmare form tore itself free. Its chitin shell gleaming, limbs jagged, eyes burning with hungry purpose.
She watched it shriek once with a sound akin to tearing metal, and scuttled away toward the village, vanishing into the shadows.
Ashley slumped forward, empty, still.
A heavy, resonant thud struck the earth beside her. A massive, armored boot came down, crushing blood-soaked earth. William stood there, gazing down at what remained of her, his face impassive.
He threw a metallic skeletal frame and doused her in liquid metal before he raised a hand.
Mana began gathering not within him, but around her remains, and the skeletal frame, shaping, knitting, reforging.
Runes of life, shadow, and metal glowed into existence across her ruined flesh, stitching wound into muscle, bone into claw, death into a darker, stronger undeath.
He spoke, his voice deep and solemn, carrying the weight of an ancient covenant.
"Arise once more into the lands of the living, and walk beneath the moon as the hunter who shall never know pain nor death."
Ashley's body shuddered as the metallic frame merged with her bones, they began to lengthen and reshape. The ruin of her chest healed over, leaving only a faint, silvery scar that pulsed in time with a new, wild heart.
She rose once more not as the Magus from Central Continent, but as something far more terrible.