If the White Wing Lord was the undisputed sovereign, acknowledged by seventy percent of all Dead Apostles and actively followed by forty percent, then the Black Wing Lord was his absolute antithesis.
Aside from the monsters he personally converted, absolutely no one followed Gransurg Blackmore.
Sure, the other Twenty-Seven Ancestors recognized his seat at the table. They acknowledged his raw, apocalyptic power. But casually associating with him? Hanging out? Not a chance. Everyone hated the guy.
The tragic irony was that Blackmore actually loved socializing. He was the ultimate party crasher.
Any time the Ancestors held a major gathering, you could bet your life savings he was going to show up uninvited, completely oblivious to how much everyone wanted him to leave.
Because he had no natural followers, Blackmore held the record for creating the most artificial familiars among the Ancestors. However, any human he drained didn't just turn into a ghoul; they mutated into grotesque, bird-headed chimeras.
He was obsessively, borderline pathologically, fixated on birds.
To the rest of the vampire underworld, his hyper-specific avian fetish was completely incomprehensible.
Honestly, Rimuru thought, watching the massive raven-man touch down, if he'd just drop the giant crow cosplay, I'd gladly buy him a drink and make a new friend.
But right now? Rimuru caught the sheer, unadulterated disgust radiating from Altrouge's face.
He wisely shelved the idea of playing diplomat. Yeah... a guy with a bird-head fetish was a bit too avant-garde for his current social standing.
As if reading his mind, Altrouge suddenly leaned in, her voice a soft, venomous hum.
"Most Dead Apostles don't actually hate him for how he looks," she explained. "They hate him for what he represents. In their eyes, the Black Wing Lord is nothing more than Crimson Moon's pet familiar."
"He was a human magus who willingly threw away his humanity, just to become a lapdog for a monster."
Rimuru raised an eyebrow, staying silent.
She was right. That was the consensus of the underworld. Even after Crimson Moon perished and his "familiar" gained complete independence, Blackmore couldn't wash off the stench of being a pet.
It didn't matter that his combat strength rivaled Ortenrosse himself; to the elitist Dead Apostles, he was a stray.
Still, Rimuru's tactical mind whirred. His Reality Marble, 'Nevermore,' is a literal domain of absolute death. It's terrifying.
But historically, marginalized outcasts were the easiest marks to manipulate and recruit. Despite the very real risk of getting his head ripped off by that bizarre Reality Marble, Rimuru fought down his greed.
Stick to the plan. I'll find an angle to recruit him later.
Meanwhile, the Black Wing Lord landed with a heavy thud, completely ignoring the glares of the surrounding aristocrats. He threw his arms wide, letting out a booming, incredibly jovial laugh.
"Such a magnificent ballroom! How could the grand dance commence without a bird to grace the sky?!"
"Ugh. Every third sentence out of his mouth is about birds. It's exactly why I can't stand him," Altrouge complained loudly.
She didn't even try to hide her disdain. She turned her head toward Rimuru, her eyes glittering with calculated mischief.
"If you want to win him over, it's actually pathetically easy. Just spout a few poetic lines praising birds, and he'll treat you like his oldest, dearest friend."
She paused, her voice dropping into a solemn, regal cadence.
"But no Ancestor would ever swallow their pride and stoop to such pathetic flattery. My Knight... I know you are willing to sacrifice everything to pave the way for my rise. But I do not wish for you to throw away your honor to do it."
Altrouge hadn't used any magical concealment. She hadn't whispered. In the dead silence of the courtyard, her "private" advice echoed loud and clear.
Every single Ancestor present heard it. Instantly, their gazes snapped away from Blackmore, locking dead onto the true protagonist of this summit: the new White Knight, Leviathan.
Standing on the castle steps, Ortenrosse's eyes flashed with a complex, grudging respect.
She's actually learning, the White Wing Lord thought. The spoiled Princess is finally playing the board.
She wasn't just throwing a tantrum. She was explicitly acknowledging her subordinate's feelings while simultaneously writing him a political blank check.
By framing it this way, even if Rimuru did grovel and praise the bird-freak, it wouldn't look like pathetic bootlicking.
It would be framed as the ultimate, honorable sacrifice, a knight willing to drag his own pride through the mud solely for the sake of his Princess's ambition.
To the ancient, rebellious vampires who had long ago discarded the concept of "chivalry," such blind loyalty was usually a joke.
But they couldn't deny its utility. Ortenrosse recognized the maneuver for what it was: a brilliantly played bargaining chip.
Blackmore, of course, heard every word.
The Black Wing Lord's glowing, crimson avian eyes snapped onto Rimuru. For a long moment, the raven-man was deathly silent. Then, a low, grating chuckle echoed from his beak.
"My ideals require no hollow flattery from opportunists."
Blackmore took a heavy step forward, his gaze burning with fanatical intensity.
"But... if the Princess you serve speaks the truth. If you are truly willing to cast aside your human pride and your honor for the sake of your master..."
"Then I am willing to view you as a kindred spirit."
The massive creature pointed a feathered finger directly at Rimuru.
"I will give you exactly one chance. Cast away your honor right here, in front of the world. Do that, or I wash my hands of your little war and remain an observer. Make your choice, Magus who inherited the White Knight. When I look at you... I see the shadow of my past self."
Oh, it's on.
Leaning against the heavy castle doors, an unknown Ancestor arched an eyebrow, a deeply amused smirk spreading across his face. He muttered a few words into the empty air.
Ripple.
A spatial distortion twisted the shadows beside him. A stunning blonde girl stepped out of the void, casually swirling a crystal goblet filled with thick, viscous blood. She took a sip, her eyes locked onto the standoff with absolute fascination.
Up on the second floor, looking down through a stained-glass window, a plump, incredibly amiable-looking Count paused his wine-tasting. He let out a soft, delighted chuckle.
"Well now. Things are getting tremendously interesting."
This was the fundamental flaw of the Twenty-Seven Ancestors.
They were immortal. They were bored. And over the centuries, they had developed violently incompatible, hyper-specific fetishes and philosophies. Jamming them all into one room was a recipe for disaster; finding a common ground was biologically impossible.
There was only one way to unite this apocalyptic menagerie. Someone had to become the absolute, load-bearing linchpin. A central hub capable of forcibly chaining these lunatics together.
Can you actually pull it off, White Knight Leviathan?
Or rather...
Rimuru Tempest.
….
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