Year 397 before the ascension of the Celestial Monarch.
"Pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa..." While lightly humming a rhythm-less tune in a moderately loud voice, Ducanor couldn't help but feel quite bored with his current situation.
What he expected to be constant training to maximize his dexterity and become an elite warrior had turned into constant drinking bouts and dates with Ernzu. Another peaceful half-month had passed, but strangely, he felt dissatisfied.
For that very reason, at the first opportunity he heard Tolrik talk about going to Viddar Castle, he enlisted immediately.
The castle was located in the Great County of Svend, which is in the center of all Ulheim, bordering Amhedapacha to the north. The journey would take a month or two according to what was planned, unless, of course, it was through one of the teleportation arrays.
The standard means of transport in the Mortal Realm were pack animals or spiritual vehicles, but to travel quickly from one place to another in small groups instantly, teleportation arrays existed. Since ancient times, the Hegemony had established teleportation arrays throughout the entire Mortal Realm, making them the quintessential long-distance transport in the Hegemony.
Though it obviously had its limitations. Teleportation arrays normally could only transport a maximum of a dozen to fifty people. Only ancient teleportation arrays could move hundreds of people or even more. And to reach Viddar quickly, Tolrik planned to use one, since an array was found in the city of Cnut that would easily allow twenty people and their cargo to pass through.
The departure might have been difficult, but it was also satisfying; Ducanor wasn't looking to settle down at this moment. And Ernzu knew it, which is why she supported him at all times, and this was precisely a good time to leave. This time to meet the lord of Ulheim himself, one of the most powerful men in the eastern continent and the highest existence in Ulheim, and he would finally meet him.
Although perhaps it was already too late.
The Fall of the Rock Throne
By the time Viddar had fallen, the darkness had been its doom. The night was a perfect occasion to move, and the creatures that used the darkness for speed and cover infiltrated over the high walls of Viddar.
Wicked and gigantic shadows crawled atop the wall, burying their claws into the rock as they sniffed out the life of those protectors whose blood they would spill.
The first one didn't see it. A guard, a notable warrior with his own skills comparable to a noble; tens if not hundreds of warriors filled the castle. But several thousands had already left him behind, alongside the heir to the rock throne of Ulheim, heading north to face the invading army. And then the flames that covered each of the watchtowers went out.
The more than one hundred kilometers of interconnected walls were impossible to protect by a group of barely a few hundred warriors, and it was enough for the darkness to stain the entirety of the castle for the terror to truly begin.
"What is happening?" Inglat muttered, dazed.
His old limbs straightened as he injected spiritual energy into them to momentarily strengthen them. The elder Inglat was over a thousand years old and had been the sovereign of Ulheim for more than half his life.
But, how long had it been since he had gotten up in the middle of the night reaching for his weapon? Years, decades... He couldn't remember. He didn't even have enough vitality to manifest his dharmic rune, preferring instead to grab a spiritual fire cannon.
It was a small artifact of cylindrical design with a hollow mouth at the tip and a wooden handle; it only needed a spiritual fire gem to charge it and could kill even a noble if...
"How sad to see a man who has lived so long so afraid to die," a voice murmured behind him.
"Who is there? Reveal yourself." Aiming his cannon backward quickly, he tried to control his fear and nervousness, attempting to stop his trembling. But he couldn't even control his bladder; how could he stop his hand from shaking?
And then he saw him. It was a small figure, like that of a child or a teenager, measuring a little over a meter and a half, with an ordinary face and appearance.
For a moment, the old lord of Ulheim thought he had finally gone mad. Age had caught up with him in the worst way.
Unfortunately, he couldn't have been more wrong.
"I'm sorry to scare you, Inglat. I really didn't expect that age would finally cause you such a great lapse as to leave half the castle undefended. The ancient kings of Ulheim would roll in their graves if they knew," the boy said with a mischievous smile.
"You, damn brat, shut up." Fear and shame flooded the old man's mind; being scared by a child, a brat. He felt the dampness in his underwear, and the foul smell of urine caused his face to redden further.
At that point he had lowered his cannon, intending to strike the boy with his bare hand, as he had hit his children and grandchildren many times before. But the hand never managed to impact him.
Pain flooded his mind as his body collapsed onto the floor and his legs convulsed. His rear hit the ground as he dragged himself backward with his left hand: "Ahhhh, help, you..."
While his other hand lay shattered. The bones had been broken and the wrinkled, blackened skin, with its age spots and prominent veins, was now completely torn.
His attacker—a shadowy figure, a figure so terrifying that it made him momentarily forget the pain and fear, only for it to turn into pure despair.
"A wight... impossible, why?" his mouth was sealed by the living corpse.
The corpse was different from that of most feys, even those like the feymor or feyolg. Its bones were strangely smooth, unlike the porosity of most fey bones and even those of other races, as if they were made of white jade. The dry, mummified flesh that covered part of the skeleton and connected the bones was entirely blue, and bone horns or spikes seemed to grow on some sections of the body that weren't covered by a strange, rusted, and crumbling armor.
"Shh," said the boy with a smile that seemed more terrifying than the expression of the corpse itself, which now sealed the old man's mouth with its cadaverous hand. "We don't want to wake those who are sleeping, do we, my lord? Don't worry, you will be remembered. Perhaps not as a good lord, but... who is perfect?"
The last thing Inglat thought, the oldest lord of Ulheim in its more than twenty thousand years of history, was: My children, my children.