Chapter 74: The Kind Tyrant's Hourglass
The air on the ancient cobblestone road was thick and sticky, a damp, woodsy scent clinging to the twilight. Above, the sun had dipped below the heavy, emerald canopy of the border forests, bathing the traveling party in a bruised, violet light.
Leornars, cloaked in smooth, black leather that seemed to absorb the scant light, walked with the effortless, silent grace of a predator who owned the night.
Beside him, Zaryter, the Draconian youth, stumbled slightly as he tried to mimic his master's pace, his heavy chain-weapons rattling softly against his armor. They had just finished their tenth skirmish of the afternoon—a chaotic tangle with a massive, shell-cracked Giant Crab and three grotesque, moss-covered Trolls—and Zaryter was exhausted, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"It seems so easy for you, Lord Leornars," Zaryter finally managed, wiping grime from his brow with the back of a gauntlet. "You barely even move."
Leornars didn't look at him, his gaze fixed on the darkening path ahead. His voice, usually a low, smooth baritone, was clipped with professional focus.
"Actually, no. It's not 'easy.' Ease is the illusion of mastery," Leornars corrected, his lips barely moving. "I don't rely on brute force. I always focus on accuracy and pure speed while using my threads. The Threads of Abstract are similar to your chains, Zaryter, just less heavy, less dependent on kinetic energy, and far, far faster. Every millimeter is an extension of my will."
"So... I need to focus and keep pouring mana into the chains?" Zaryter repeated, trying to internalize the lesson. He visualized the glowing blue energy he could feel tingling in his core, ready to be unleashed.
Leornars stopped abruptly, forcing Zaryter to halt a step later. The shift in the air was immediate and heavy. Leornars turned his head just enough for the sharp, cold glint of his silver eyes to catch the dying light.
"Don't randomly pour mana," Leornars said, the softness of his voice making the command sharper than a shout. "If you did that, you would be out of mana in a few grand spells, leaving you vulnerable to a common goblin. You pour mana sparingly to each separate piece of the chain—the links, the spikes, the anchor—then you control it. Think of the mana as oil, not gasoline. Lubricate the machine, don't incinerate it."
He didn't need to raise his voice for the subtle threat to register. Zaryter felt a shiver trace down his scaled spine. This was the menacing side of Leornars—the ruthless instructor who tolerated no inefficiency in his subordinates, especially not the kind that could get them killed.
"I understand, my Lord. Control and efficiency," Zaryter murmured, a cold knot forming in his stomach.
A little ways off the road, the rhythmic, low-frequency sound of wood striking wood punctuated the silence.
Zhyelena, the Undead Princess, and Zhyier, the Wraith- mage, were currently deep in the moss-choked woods, securing firewood for the night's camp. Back at the roadside, the small, sheltered camp was taking shape. Bellian, the stoic guardian knight, stood guard, his massive, stone-hewn body serving as a windbreak for the delicate figure of Shullah, the dragonian Child, who was nestled near his knee, finally asleep.
The two foragers soon returned. Zhyier, looking smug, approached with a veritable mountain of split logs hovering several feet above the ground, contained neatly within a shimmering, light-green Barrier Spell.
"That's surprisingly effective," Leornars commented, a genuine flicker of approval in his eyes as he assessed the simple but clever use of the defensive spell.
"Yeah, I know, right? Like, who'd want to carry a log like an idiot?" Zhyier said, beaming with pride, his spectral form seeming to glow a little brighter.
At that exact moment, the bushes rustled violently, and Zhyelena emerged, entirely visible, her arms straining as she bodily dragged a massive, thick log along the dirt, looking thoroughly disheveled.
"Huh?" she said, panting, dropping the log with a thump.
"Huh?" Zhyier added
" Huh?"Bellian added
"Huh?" Leornars exclaimed, his brow slightly raised in genuine surprise.
"Ha!" Zaryter burst into sudden, high-pitched laughter.
Zhyelena straightened up, brushing dirt off her pristine, if slightly torn, princely attire. "What's so funny?"
Her question was instantly drowned out by a deafening, biological counterpoint: a loud, rhythmic GRRROWL that echoed from the still-sleeping Shullah's tiny stomach. The child's eyes blinked open, wide and unfocused, drawn awake by the sheer force of her own hunger.
"Sounds like someone's hungry," Bellian observed dryly, his deep, resonant voice rumbling like stones rolling downhill.
All eyes, including Leornars's and the re-awakened child's, turned to the only other female adult present. Zhyelena instantly held up her hands in a gesture of pre-emptive surrender.
"Hey, I was a princess before Lord Leornars turned me undead! I don't know how to cook a single thing beyond boiling water," she stated instantly, a defensive pout forming on her lips.
"Useless zombie," Zaryter muttered under his breath, earning him a glare that promised retribution later.
Zhyelena's eyes, however, suddenly gained a mischievous, predatory gleam. "Perhaps... perhaps I can cook a good recipe of Draconian Stew."
"She wants to eat me!" Zaryter shrieked, instantly scrambling behind Leornars's black cloak, clutching the fabric like a terrified child.
Leornars let out a sigh that was weighted with the exasperation of someone who managed kingdoms but was now managing a dysfunctional family. "Morons."
He gently but firmly detached Zaryter, strode to the pile of wood, and, without a word, crouched down. With an effortless snap of his fingers, a precise, hot instant flame spell ignited the kindling. He then began preparing the camp meal, the movements of his hands swift and economical, clearly practiced.
"Who knew you could cook, my Lord?" Zaryter asked, peering over Leornars's shoulder.
"Well, mostly everyone," Bellian stated matter-of-factly.
"Don't tell me you never ate Lord Leornars's meals?" Zhyelena teased, leaning against her log. "That's ironically sad, Zaryter."
A short while later, the rich, savory aroma of white rice and beef stew filled the clearing, warm and comforting. Shullah was already eating with gusto, carefully tended by Bellian. Leornars portioned out the last bowl and then turned his attention to his Undead subordinates.
"I guess you all can't eat, huh?" he asked, a hint of genuine wistful regret in his voice as he looked at Zhyelena and Zhyier.
Zhyelena proudly puffed out her chest, recovering her dignity. "Yeah, but I can drink coffee and convert it to mana. It's an excellent energy source for Undead with high magical potential!"
Leornars paused, a small, subtle arch to his eyebrow—the highest compliment he often gave. "Impressive. An unexpected efficiency."
"I convert water and any liquid," Bellian offered, though his nature as a Golem made his needs different.
"Don't look at me," Zhyier said, shrugging his translucent shoulders. "I'm just a Wraith. I'm using your mana, Lord Leornars. It's what keeps me solid."
Leornars slowly got up from his seat by the fire. He walked to Zhyelena, who froze, surprised by the direct attention. He stopped behind her and gently placed a hand on the crown of her head, not as a caress, but as a touch of profound, surgical consideration.
"I wonder if the Auditor can change the very law of the Undead anatomy?" he murmured, more to himself than to her, his fingers brushing the cool, soft strands of her pale hair. "It's a form of Law Manipulation that commands and binds targets, even controlling their consciousness. I'm not sure about their anatomy and physiology... but if I could reach deep enough..."
Zhyelena instantly twisted her head to look up at him, her usual flirtatious mischief replaced by genuine awe. "You mean you can make us eat, sleep, and do normal, mortal things again?"
Leornars retracted his hand, the kindness in the gesture fading slightly, replaced by the chilling ambition of a true sorcerer. He returned to his seat, looking up at the lattice of dark branches against the bruised sky.
"That's what I think my new objective must be. You are already an evolved strain of Undead. I will try to make you immortal mortal subordinates," he declared, the title itself a contradiction that resonated with immense power. "If I can manipulate the law of your existence, I think I can turn you into a different breed of power entirely. Something even the gods haven't accounted for."
The air around him hummed with raw, concentrated magical energy—a palpable tension that thrilled and terrified his companions. This wasn't just a powerful wizard; this was a being intent on re-engineering existence.
Suddenly, Leornars's eyes shifted, focusing on a patch of shadow beneath a nearby bush. A slight, almost imperceptible nudge on his shirt caused him to look down. A Messenger Knight, an elite servant concealed in his personal shadow realm, materialized just enough to present a tightly rolled letter, then instantly descended back into the darkness.
Leornars took the letter, the paper crisp and bearing a chilling, familiar seal, the Durmount family crest. He opened it, his crimson eyes rapidly scanning the contents.
The atmosphere in the peaceful clearing shattered.
His expression shifted in a split-second transition from intellectual ambition to pure, crystalline coldness, his face becoming a mask of merciless, indifferent fury. The warmth of the fire seemed to dim in comparison to the chill emanating from him.
Zhyelena, sensitive to his mana signature, instantly felt the violent, seismic shift. She was adept at reading him, however, and acted calm, keeping her gaze steady so the rest of the group—especially the still-eating Shullah—didn't notice the change.
Leornars's hand moved, a sharp snap of his fingers directed purely at Zhyelena. Their eyes met, and with the flick of his wrist, she instantly received a mental command—a silent, imperative torrent of thought:
"Use your skill. Make them all asleep, immediately. I have somewhere to be. I am leaving Zhyier, you, and Bellian to look after them. Do not fail."
Zhyelena didn't hesitate. She instantly placed her palm flat onto the damp, packed earth. A wave of shimmering, light-pink smoke, smelling faintly of night-blooming jasmine, billowed out from under her hand, swiftly blanketing the immediate area. Zaryter, mid-chew, slumped sideways without a sound. Shullah, her head bobbing, slipped into a deep, peaceful slumber.
Leornars rose, every movement rigid with purpose. His leather sandals clapped softly, rhythmically against the stone road as he began to walk ahead.
"I'll be back in three hours," he stated, his voice devoid of warmth.
Then, with a silent flash of shadow and power, he was gone, having teleported to a distant location.
Leornars reappeared in the middle of a bustling, unfamiliar kitchen. Avangard.
Stacian, his loyal, battle-hardened Lieutenant, was patiently teaching Ayesha, how to chop vegetables. He passed them in a blur, his momentum barely registering. Stacian, however, was trained to the apex of alertness. She sensed the disturbance and spun around just in time to catch the tail end of his movement.
"Huh?" she exclaimed, turning to see the spot where her Lord had been, now empty. She instantly knew he was on a crucial, high-speed mission.
Leornars was already on the roof of the castle, his black silhouette stark against the sliver of the moon. He leapt off the battlements and, before hitting the ground, whispered the command:
( \text{Skill Activate: Dark blur} )
The world became a tunnel of tearing air. He moved at an incomprehensible Mach 50,000, crossing the entire breadth of Avangard's wildlands in seconds.
He arrived at an abandoned quarry on the rugged border between Avangard and the rival Kingdom of Durmount. Seven of his elite Demi-human servants, including the swift, pantherine Annie, were positioned there, their eyes fixed on a dark, craggy cave entrance—the suspected location of a brutal slave trading operation.
They were exchanging tense, hushed words when Leornars instantly materialized in front of them, his presence silent but overwhelming, the air around him still vibrating faintly from his incredible speed.
The seven servants immediately dropped to one knee, bowing deeply.
"My Lord," Annie whispered, her voice tight with respect and concern.
"Where?" Leornars asked, his voice cold and flat. No greetings, no pleasantries—only the necessary information.
Annie pointed a trembling, clawed finger toward the yawning mouth of the quarry cave. "Deep inside, My Lord. We heard screams minutes ago. They—"
Before she could finish, Leornars vanished again, a flicker of black into black.
He reappeared inside the cave. The air was foul, thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, fear, and copper. He instantly spotted a hulking guard leaning against a damp stone wall. With a barely perceptible flick of his wrist, he didn't draw a sword or cast a spell, but fired his Threads of Abstract—a net of mana-reinforced silk, moving at Mach 12,000. The threads sliced the guard into molecular pieces before the man could even register a threat, leaving only a puff of dust.
Leornars moved deeper, his crimson eyes scanning the cavern. He saw the huddled, terrified forms of the slaves, caged like animals. The slave traders, monstrous men with hardened faces, finally spotted him. They roared and lunged.
Leornars paid them no mind. He bent down, grasped the cold, iron bars of the first cage, and began to tear the bars open with his bare, terrifying strength. The sound of rending metal echoed horribly.
One of the traders, enraged, swung a heavy, spiked fist at Leornars's head. Just as the blow was about to connect, a shadow detached itself from the gloom. Ascian, the Undead Assassin, appeared from the shadows, his razor-sharp teeth sinking into the trader's neck, biting the man clean in half with a sickening crunch.
Leornars didn't flinch. He waved a dismissive hand, and a wave of Undead Knights erupted from the cavern floor, cleaning up the remaining traders with brutal, mechanical efficiency.
Minutes later, the remaining slaves, shaking with a mixture of terror and awe at their sudden, violent deliverance, were being escorted out by Annie's team.
As the last one cleared the entrance, Leornars stood at the mouth of the cave. The expression on his face softened only slightly as he looked at the liberated. This was the kindness of Leornars—the protection of the weak, the punishment of true oppressors.
He lifted his hand, the coldness returning.
{Skill Activate: Decay}
The very earth groaned. The rock and stone forming the cave's structure suddenly deteriorated, weakened by an incredible, focused force of entropy. The entire cave fell inward with a massive, choking roar, burying the surviving traders and their wicked operation under tons of pulverized rubble.
He turned to Annie, the dust settling on his shoulders. "Make sure they are safe in Avangard. Take them to Stacian; she knows exactly what to do."
With that final command, he vanished again, reappearing deep in the wilds of the rival Kingdom of Durmount.
Leornars moved with frightening, stealthy velocity through Durmount's capital. He dashed at Mach 60,000, an unbelievable speed that meant even the King's vaunted, multilayered magic barrier around the central castle couldn't perceive his passage. He flowed through outer rooms, past sleeping guards, and teleported directly to the rooftop.
The castle was a monstrous, beautiful fortress, illuminated by torches that looked like tiny, flickering stars from his vantage point.
{Skill Activate: Phantom Illusion} )
A massive, invisible curtain of magic making the area look normal instantly settled over the castle. To everyone inside, nothing had changed. They were under the illusion of normalcy, their minds convinced that the powerful presence moving among them was simply a flicker of light or a passing thought. Leornars walked casually, unseen and unheard, the ultimate intruder.
He found Princess Selrose in her private chambers, seated on a high, silken chair that suggested a throne. Her personal female knight, Harribel, a warrior of known skill, stood rigid by the door.
Leornars opened the door. Harribel instantly reacted, a silent blur of motion as she launched an attack. Leornars merely tilted his head, dodging the swift blade effortlessly, and grabbed her attacking wrist. He didn't hurt her, but smoothly used her own momentum to pivot and shove her out the door. The door clicked shut immediately.
"She's never changed," he commented, shaking his head slightly.
He looked back at the Princess. Selrose was already kneeling on the marble floor, her head bowed in abject submission, her elegant dress pooling around her.
"Lord Leornars, I didn't know you were coming!" she whispered, her voice trembling.
He took a slow, deliberate step toward her. The air crackled with the sheer danger he exuded. This was the Leornars who controlled nations from the shadows, the man who had installed her as his puppet.
"Cut the crap, Selrose," he commanded, his voice ice-cold. "How is the plan going? You received my latest instructions an hour ago."
"It's... it's in the final piece," she stammered, raising her head only slightly. "The King is immobile, confined to his chambers, and the Queen is... exiled."
The word hung in the air, a fatal error. Leornars's eyes narrowed to slits.
"Exiled?" he asked, the word colder than the grave. "Didn't I say she needed to be killed? Publicly? As a traitor?"
Selrose flinched, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. "Yes, my Lord."
"And why is she still alive?" he pressed, taking another step closer. The tension was suffocating.
"I... I couldn't kill my mother," she confessed, her voice thick with wretched guilt.
Leornars let out a slow, heavy breath, the sound like a hiss. He towered over her, radiating disapproval that was both terrifying and strangely parental.
"You risk your entire kingdom and the success of my entire campaign for your parent, Selrose? Noble of you," he said, the sarcasm dripping like venom. "But your mother, Queen Lyla, is more beloved by the people than you are. She has powerful connections, even in exile. She is the single most dangerous threat to your coup. She will rally the banners of the loyalists and crush you."
Selrose, now openly crying, pressed her forehead to the floor. "I didn't know... I truly didn't consider the risk."
"You didn't, or did you know and were doing it just to annoy me?" Leornars's voice suddenly dropped, becoming perilously soft. "Selrose, do you defy me?"
"No! Never! I didn't know!" she wailed, truly terrified now.
Leornars sighed, a sound of supreme disappointment. The menacing edge of his fury suddenly melted, replaced by that unsettling, complex kindness—the kind a merciless teacher shows a promising but foolish student. He reached out and gently touched her shoulder.
"Let's not repeat the same mistake," he advised, his voice almost a whisper. "Mistakes make us grow and learn about the world, but repeating them is just utter stupidity. It costs lives and power, Selrose. Don't make me consider you useless, for I will dispose of you."
The gentle touch and the calm, rational threat were utterly paralyzing. She nodded rapidly, unable to speak. "I'll send someone over to help you out," Leornars said gently, pulling his hand away. "She's an excellent schemer and completely immune to sentimentality. She will finish this messy business for you."
And just like that, the danger was gone. Leornars turned, opened the door, and vanished from the castle, immediately dispelling his illusion spell as he went.
Selrose slowly sat up, tears streaming down her face, trembling but alive. "He's grown so much," she whispered to the empty room. "From no mana to where he is now... I guess that's what happens if you don't see someone over a year.
Leornars rushed out of the capital, his ultimate destination the quiet, overgrown cemetery outside the city walls. He found the four plain, weathered gravestones he was looking for, graves of his former friends, slain by the King of Durmount.
He knelt by the first stone, his hand brushing the rough granite.
"Just one month, Leux," he murmured, his voice heavy with a personal kind of sorrow. "Just one month till I erase your suffering, and his, from this world."
He laid a simple, beautiful bouquet of wildflowers on each tombstone, a silent promise, and then, his face now a calm, collected mask, he vanished away.
He reappeared back on the ancient cobblestone road just as the pink mist around the camp was beginning to thin. Zaryter blinked, groggily pushing himself up from the ground, looking confused.
"Did I just... fall asleep?" Zaryter asked, rubbing his head.
"Seems so," Leornars said calmly, as though he had simply returned from fetching more water. He helped the Draconian back onto his feet.
Leornars was flawless, his mission complete, the scent of the quarry dust gone. But as Zhyelena helped her master re-pack the camp, her keen Undead senses noticed something subtle. A single, dark, glistening drop of dried blood—not his own, but something foreign—was subtly staining the edge of his immaculate black trousers, near the ankle.
"I wonder what just happened", she thought, her expression utterly calm as she locked the secret away. The Lord went somewhere very, very dangerous.
Leornars picked up Shullah, who was still asleep, and nodded to the others. The embers of the fire were stomped out, and the small party resumed their journey, heading deeper into the thickening gloom and towards the distant, hidden gates of the Elven Kingdom. The tension of the night was over, but the quiet menace of their leader—the kind tyrant—remained a steady, guiding current.
"I'll reheat the food, bring it here" Leornars said