Chapter 143
Daniel awoke the next morning to find Melgil still curled at his side, her steady breathing soft against the quiet of the chamber. Carefully, so as not to disturb her rest, he eased himself upright. His hand lingered for a moment, brushing through her silken white hair that spilled across the pillow like fresh snow. The two of them had collapsed in exhaustion the night before, still clad in their torn and dusted tournament garments, too drained to even think of changing. The battles against the infernal demons had left their bodies aching and their spirits worn thin, and sleep had claimed them without mercy.
Rising to his feet, Daniel padded silently across the vast room, each step echoing faintly against polished marble floors veined in gold. He approached the tall arched window, its panes sealed shut, and unlatched it. With a push, the glass swung open, letting the crisp morning breeze and golden sunlight flood inside.
The room bloomed with warmth and clarity, its grandeur fully revealed in the light. Heavy crimson drapes embroidered with the crest of House Rothchester framed the windows, while intricate tapestries told stories of battles long past. Ornate wooden beams, carved with ivy patterns, stretched across the high ceiling, and a chandelier of crystal hung proudly at the center, scattering light into a hundred shimmering fragments. This chamber had been designed specifically for Daniel's use at the Duchess's mansion, yet he had insisted on residing in the dormitories of the Royal Academy, choosing simplicity and closeness to his peers over noble privilege.
From the open window, the view stretched far across the city below. The Rothchester estate sat high upon a ridge, its terraces overlooking spires, streets, and the wide rivers that cut through the heart of the capital. In the distance, activity stirred at the ruins of the coliseum. Columns of smoke and dust rose as battlemages, robed in their guild colors, directed great slabs of stone into place with precise gestures. Sparks of arcane light flickered as wards were set to stabilize the damaged walls. Convoys of wagons from the industrial district rumbled toward the site, laden with timber, iron beams, and blocks of quarried marble. Teams of craftsmen, soldiers, and apprentices swarmed like ants, their collective effort bent toward restoring the arena to its former glory.
It was a striking contrast, the calm, opulent serenity of the duchess's mansion against the ceaseless labor of reconstruction in the city below. Daniel lingered at the window, breathing deeply, as if the air itself carried the scent of change. Somewhere in the bustle and rising walls of the coliseum, the echoes of yesterday's battles still lingered, and he could not help but wonder how soon he would again stand within its circle of stone.
Outside the mansion gates, the situation grew heated. Reporters, bards, and messengers pressed against the wrought-iron fences, their voices rising like a tide. Guards in Rothchester livery, polished breastplates gleaming, halberds firmly planted, formed an unyielding wall between the estate and the clamoring crowd. A few aides moved swiftly among them, speaking in hushed tones, attempting to redirect the narrative before it spun further out of control.
One of the Duchess's senior aides, a wiry man named Veylen, stepped forward and raised a hand for silence. The reporters fell quiet in anticipation, quills poised, breaths held. His voice rang clear:
"House Rothchester assures the people of this kingdom that the incident at the coliseum is under control. Reconstruction has already begun, and the safety of the realm remains unbroken. Any rumors of Netherborn sightings are the inventions of fearful minds, and we will not tolerate the spread of panic."
The words carried the authority of the Duchess, but they did little to quell the hunger of the press. Questions erupted sharp, prying, insistent. "Is the young lord involved?" "Why was he seen in the heart of the battle?" "What ties does House Rothchester hold with this… creature?" The guards lowered their halberds, forcing the crowd back, while Veylen's jaw tightened. For now, silence was their weapon.
High above, Daniel watched the exchange through the shimmering veil of his illusion. He felt the weight of their suspicion pressing against him, even though no eyes could see him. His hand drifted to the sill, fingers curling. How long before the truth they whispered reached every ear in the kingdom?
A knock at his chamber door broke the thought. Firm, measured—three raps. Daniel turned just as the door opened and the head steward, Custodia, stepped inside. The man was tall and dignified, his silver-streaked hair tied back neatly, his uniform marked with the Rothchester crest. He bowed with precision.
"Young lord," Custodia said, his voice carrying the calm weight of duty. "Her Grace, the Duchess, requests your presence in the grand hall. She is waiting with the young lady at her side, and representatives of your loyal forces have gathered as well. They are patient, but their eyes remain watchful, guarding you both even now."
Daniel glanced back toward the bed, where Melgil stirred faintly in her sleep. A sense of unease prickled along his skin. He could feel the city's questions rising, the rumors like flames against dry grass. And now, beneath the roof of the Duchess's mansion, answers would have to be given.
The heavy doors of the grand hall opened with a groan, the golden handles polished to a mirror sheen. The chamber within stretched vast and tall, its marble pillars carved with ivy and lion motifs, banners of House Rothchester draped between them. Sunlight spilled in through towering windows, catching upon crystal chandeliers that hung like constellations frozen in glass. The air was heavy with expectation, the silence a living thing as every eye turned toward the young lord.
Daniel stepped forward, Melgil at his side, still pale but composed. Behind them, Custodia announced their entrance with a voice that carried clearly:
"The young lord Rothchester and Lady Melgil."
The gathered leaders stirred as one. At the base of the hall, the Duchess Elleena Laeanna Rothchester sat upon a raised seat, her bearing regal, though her eyes betrayed the weight of calculation. Around her, advisors stood in ordered silence, but all attention was drawn to those who had gathered under Daniel's banner the forces he had summoned from beyond the rift.
At the front stood Vaelith, the humanoid looking Black Serpent, draped in dark-scaled armor that shimmered faintly with an otherworldly hue. Behind him loomed the Black Legion, two hundred marauder warriors, their blackened helms reflecting the light like obsidian. To Vaelith's right, Nyxiel the female humanoid Horned Owl spread her silvered wings with a rustle, her sharp gaze sweeping the room. The fifty evolve harpies of the Silver Wings knelt behind her, feathers glinting like steel.
Kitsune, in her human form, the Nine-Tailed Fox, waited with a sly smile, her tails fanned like a flowing cloak of fire. The Sapphire Lotus, fifty assassins, spies, and courtesans trained in the art of shadow and seduction, stood at attention, their silken garments hiding blades sharper than their eyes.
At her side stood the Velvet Knight company, headed by the siblings Jin and Bai Xifeng. Jin, only twenty-five, carried the aura of a honed blade, his dao saber resting lightly at his hip. Bai, graceful yet fierce, stood with butterfly sabers crossed upon her back, her gifts of wind magic and healing as sharp a weapon as her poisons and smoke screens.
On the opposite flank, the Grey Ogre hunting group made their presence known. Bralthor, the scarred giant of stone-gray skin, stood like a mountain, his arms crossed. Shunra, his second, bore her jagged spear proudly, her golden eyes unblinking as she studied the duchess's guards. Near them loomed the Warforged host, metal and rune-bound stone gleaming in the sunlight. At their head was Imgrim Bouldergrove, his armored frame a living fortress, the brother of the famed Siglorr, master warforge chief. His presence brought with it a gravity few dared meet directly.
The hall was full, yet silence ruled. Only the faint rustle of armor, the shifting of wings, and the soft creak of wood from the great beams overhead broke it. Then, as Daniel and Melgil descended the final steps into the chamber, the entirety of his gathered host moved as one. Hands pressed to chests, insignias gleamed, wings folded, blades lowered, all saluted their leader. Even the duchess's staff followed suit, bowing in unison until the grand hall seemed to bend before him.
For a heartbeat, Daniel stood at the center of it all, his presence the axis upon which the room turned. The Duchess herself rose, inclining her head deeply, a gesture that shocked her advisors, for rarely did Elleena Laeanna Rothchester bow.
"Young lord," she said, her voice smooth as steel drawn from a sheath, "the city waits for answers, and your allies await your command. Rumors are dangerous things, left unchecked, they consume kingdoms. Here, in this hall, we must decide what truths shall leave these walls, and what shadows must remain buried."
Her eyes lingered on him, measuring, probing. The hall held its breath. Daniel's forces, mortal and otherworldly alike, watched him with unwavering loyalty. The Duchess sought his stance, not as a boy or even as her son, but as the leader of powers strong enough to shake the capital. The moment was heavy, and the choice of words he would speak next could turn rumor into legend or into peril.
The Duchess's voice carried through the grand hall, calm yet deliberate, as though each word had been weighed on a scale before being released.
"The kingdom is restless," Elleena began, her gaze sweeping across the gathered commanders before settling firmly on Daniel. "The people demand answers. The reporters outside are hungry, and hunger such as theirs cannot be starved it must be fed. But what we feed them, that is what matters."
She descended the dais with measured grace, her gown trailing like liquid silver across the marble. The nobles and advisors shifted nervously as she moved past them, unafraid to stand in the very center of the hall beside her son and the young woman at his side.
"The Netherborn," she continued, lowering her voice slightly, "is already a name on their lips. If we deny too harshly, it will only confirm their suspicion. If we admit too openly, it will ignite fear that no council nor crown could control." Her eyes narrowed, thoughtful. "What we require is a narrative, a tale the people can accept, one that explains the battle without revealing the whole truth."
Her hand gestured lightly toward the commanders. "We could say that a rift opened, an accident of unstable magic during the tournament. That the creatures who poured out were demons, yes, but nothing more than remnants of the infernal planes. Dangerous, but not unprecedented. Your allies here," she nodded toward Vaelith, Kitsune, and the others, "can be presented not as otherworldly leaders, but as mercenaries and foreign champions sworn to your cause. That story has enough truth to stand, but not enough to rattle the kingdom's spine."
She let the words hang in the air, her tone smooth, almost casual, yet her eyes sharpened, piercing into Daniel's as if trying to read the storm behind them.
"Unless…" she said softly, "you wish to speak truth instead."
The chamber stilled. Every leader present remained silent, their loyalty unquestionable, but their fates now tied to Daniel's choice. The Duchess's face betrayed nothing. neither pressure nor command, but in her subtle pause lay a test. Would her son allow the truth of the Netherborn to surface, shaking the kingdom to its core, or would he keep the shadows veiled beneath her carefully crafted lie?
Daniel felt the weight of all their eyes, their faith, their expectation, and the burning question of whether he would shield them with silence or confront the storm head-on.
Daniel did not answer. The silence stretched long enough for the weight of his presence to fill the grand hall, the commanders still poised in reverence, the duchess still watching with hawk-like patience. His hand brushed absently against the hilt of his blade, a gesture that to the casual eye seemed nothing, but to the Duchess, it was signal enough. She knew her son well—his silence was not indecision, but calculation.
With a slight inclination of his head, Daniel turned toward her. "Mother," he said, voice low, steady, yet edged with iron, "this matter… is not for all ears."
chess's eyes flickered with understanding. She gave a subtle nod, then raised her hand to the gathered host. "You have all done well, and your loyalty honors House Rothchester. But for now, I ask your patience. Remain in the hall, and await further instruction. The young lord and I will speak privately."
Not one voice protested. Vaelith bowed, Kitsune smirked knowingly, and Daniel did not answer. The silence stretched long enough for the weight of his presence to fill the grand hall, the commanders still poised in reverence, the duchess still watching with hawk-like patience. His hand brushed absently against the hilt of his blade, a gesture that to the casual eye seemed nothing, but to the Duchess, it was signal enough. She knew her son well; his silence was not indecision but calculation.
With a slight inclination of his head, Daniel turned toward her. "Mother," he said, voice low, steady, yet edged with iron, "this matter… is not for all ears."
The duchess's eyes flickered with understanding. She gave a subtle nod, then raised her hand to the gathered host. "You have all done well, and your loyalty honors House Rothchester. But for now, I ask your patience. Remain in the hall, and await further instruction. The young lord and I will speak privately."
Not one voice protested. Vaelith bowed, Kitsune smirked knowingly, the Nyxiel folded wings, and even the massive ogres lowered their heads in respect. With their obedience secured, Elleena led Daniel and Melgil from the chamber, their steps echoing down the marble corridor until heavy doors closed behind them.
The private study of the Duchess was lit by tall candles and smelled faintly of parchment and ink. Maps of the kingdom lined the walls, and battle records and merchant ledgers were stacked neatly on carved oak shelves. Only here, behind layers of wards and enchantments, could the truth be spoken aloud.
"You wish to hide the truth," Elleena said, seating herself behind a desk of blackwood. "But rumors are already sharpened to a blade. To deny outright will cut us deeper than to bleed carefully."
Daniel did not immediately answer. Instead, he drew from his satchel a small, black core, that he pluck out of a high rank Infernal Demon ,the remnant of the vile demon and used formless armor that became his clothing, him during the Rift's awakening. the dark core pulsed faintly, like a heart of shadow. He laid it upon the desk, and the light seemed to dim around it.
"This," Daniel said quietly, "is enough to make them believe."
He pressed his hand over the broken core, he injected his chaos mana flowing into it. making it look he has learned a spell that can transform and shape the broken core to be manipulated to look and feel like a sentient being, as the air shimmered, the shadows of the room twisting unnaturally as the formless armor began to stir. Bit by bit, it rose from the desk, reshaping itself into a figure, tall, hollow, and faceless. Its form was jagged, plated in darkness, its helm empty save for two flickering eyes of pale violet. It stood there, silent, a phantom echo of what they feared: soon the formless armor just reshape it to look like the Netherborn.
nobody knew about the formless armor, the Duchess have some inclination about it but she never openly reacted on it nor want to , as she got her revenges nevertheless she was still amaze to see the things Daniel can do,
Melgil gasped softly, her fingers tightening at her side as she was again amaze to see what he can do, as if magic bends to his will, Daniel's gaze was steady, almost cold. "We let them see this," he continued. "We craft the lie that the Netherborn walked the coliseum while I fought alongside my allies. That we clashed, two beings in the same place, at the same time. The illusion will hold as long as we leave behind convincing evidence."
The duchess's lips curved, not in joy, but in approval of his cunning. She leaned forward, her eyes sharp as blades. "Then we shall arrange a spectacle. Witnesses who swear they saw you and this… shadow together. Perhaps even a staged battle on the city's edge, where no one can tell what is true and what is not."
Daniel released the armor, and the figure dissolved back into black mist, leaving only the shard upon the desk. The tension in the room thickened, as if the shadows themselves leaned in closer.
"If this works," Elleena said slowly, "you will not only distance yourself from the Netherborn… you will turn it into your enemy. And in doing so, you will give the people a story they will cling to."
Daniel met her gaze, his voice quiet but resolute. "Then let that be the tale they believe. The kingdom must never know that the shadow and I are one."
The candle flames flickered as though the shadows themselves approved, sealing their pact in silence. folded their wings, and even the massive ogres lowered their heads in respect. With their obedience secured, Elleena led Daniel and Melgil from the chamber, their steps echoing down the marble corridor until heavy doors closed behind them.
The private study of the Duchess was lit by tall candles and smelled faintly of parchment and ink. Maps of the kingdom lined the walls, and battle records and merchant ledgers were stacked neatly on carved oak shelves. Only here, behind layers of wards and enchantments, could the truth be spoken aloud.
"You wish to hide the truth," Elleena said, seating herself behind a desk of blackwood. "But rumors are already sharpened to a blade. To deny outright will cut us deeper than to bleed carefully."
Daniel did not immediately answer. Instead, he drew from his satchel a small, black shard—the remnant of the formless armor that had once clothed him during the Rift's awakening. It pulsed faintly, like a heart of shadow. He laid it upon the desk, and the light seemed to dim around it.
"This," Daniel said quietly, "is enough to make them believe."
He pressed his hand over the shard, his mana flowing into it. The air shimmered, the shadows of the room twisting unnaturally as the formless armor began to stir. Bit by bit, it rose from the desk, reshaping itself into a figure, tall, hollow, and faceless. Its form was jagged, plated in darkness, its helm empty save for two flickering eyes of pale violet. It stood there, silent, a phantom echo of what they feared: the Netherborn.
Melgil gasped softly, her fingers tightening at her side, but Daniel's gaze was steady, almost cold. "We let them see this," he continued. "We craft the lie that the Netherborn walked the coliseum while I fought alongside my allies, that we were two beings in the same place at the same time. The illusion will hold as long as we leave behind convincing evidence."
The duchess's lips curved, not in joy, but in approval of his cunning. She leaned forward, her eyes sharp as blades. "Then we shall arrange a spectacle. Witnesses who swear they saw you and this… shadow together. Perhaps even a staged battle on the city's edge, where no one can tell what is true and what is not."
Daniel released the armor, and the figure dissolved back into black mist, leaving only the shard upon the desk. The tension in the room thickened, as if the shadows themselves leaned in closer.
"If this works," Elleena said slowly, "you will not only distance yourself from the Netherborn… you will turn it into your ally . And in doing so, you will give the people a story they will cling to."
" not an ally but my master, i will say Neatherborn has chosen me to be its disciple."
Daniel met her gaze, his voice quiet but resolute.
"Then let that be the tale they believe. The kingdom must never know that the shadow and I are one." The candle flames flickered as though the shadows themselves approved, sealing their pact in silence.
By midday, the Duchess's mansion no longer stood in quiet isolation. Word had spread like wildfire through the capital that House Rothchester would address the rumors, and by high noon the estate's open courtyard was filled with a sea of reporters, scribes, and heralds. Their voices clashed like waves upon stone, desperate for scraps of truth, for a headline that would shake the kingdom.
The Duchess had given the order hours earlier, and Daniel's loyal officers had obeyed without hesitation. Vaelith, Kitsune, Nyxiel, Bralthor, Imgrim, and their forces had withdrawn to the War forge bastion at Lúthien, leaving the courtyard free of their overwhelming presence. Their absence allowed the gathering of reporters and common folk, but their watchful commanders still lingered unseen, hidden in shadows or upon the rooftops, ensuring their leader remained protected.
At the stroke of noon, the courtyard gates opened. Daniel emerged, clad not in the torn garments of battle, but in the ceremonial black and silver of House Rothchester. Melgil walked at his side, her expression composed but pale, while Duchess Elleena herself followed, radiating authority. The crowd's clamor rose, but a single raised hand from the Duchess was enough to quiet them.
Daniel stepped forward. His voice, firm yet calm, carried across the courtyard.
"You demand answers. I will not insult you with silence or denial." His mismatched eyes one golden, one blue, seemed to pierce through the gathered crowd. "What you saw in the coliseum was no trick of light nor rumor's fancy. A Rift opened, and from it came demons… and one other. The Netherborn."
Gasps rippled through the assembly. Quills scratched frantically, heralds whispered the words to their runners. Daniel lifted his chin, his voice steady. "But I am not the Netherborn. I am its chosen disciple."
Murmurs turned into shouts, accusations, demands—but Daniel raised his hand, and silence fell again.
"It is true. The Netherborn saved me once, and in return, I swore to bear its mark. Yet it does not command me. It does not own me. Its promise was simple: I may choose my own fate."
He secretly commanded the formless armor to move on its own, soon the air shimmered, shadows rippling like disturbed water. The formless armor answered his call, spilling from a different location miles above the mansion, like liquid night, coiling and violently swirl , and reshaping into a overwhelming force that they call all feel it was a surge of mana unlike nobody has seen and felt before, soon the figure of the Netherborn manifested. Blackened armor gleamed like obsidian, a the mask it was wearing lit only by violet embers within its eyes socket. Its presence was suffocating, its aura pressing down upon the crowd until several reporters staggered back in fright. The earth itself seemed to grow heavier beneath its weight.
many mages , reporters and hunters watcher scan the being making sure it wasn't a illusion or a fabricated spell to fool the mind, the force it was emitting was real , they were getting dizzy as their life was being crush, and they can sense a heavy and very power full core residing inside its swirling smoky fused with burning embers, with a swirling metallic ink moving in all directions.
Then the Netherborn spoke, its voice a distorted echo that reverberated through the stone walls.
"Daniel Rothchester, my disciple, you are bound to me by fate, but fate is not a prison. You are free to choose the path you walk. My power stands with you, but never above you."
The declaration was like a hammer's strike, shaking both the reporters and the duchess's aides who stood watching from the edges. Carefully crafted, rehearsed in secrecy, yet executed with terrifying believability. The Netherborn appeared not as a master puppeteer but as a distant, unknowable entity, one who had selected Daniel but had given him freedom.
Daniel bowed his head slightly, as though acknowledging a mentor rather than a master.
"I serve its purpose, though even I do not yet know what that purpose is. But I swear this to you all my loyalty lies with this kingdom, with its people, and with the will of House Rothchester."
The Netherborn raised one shadowy hand, and the sky seemed to dim for a heartbeat, casting the courtyard into unnatural twilight. Then, just as suddenly, its form dissolved into smoke, leaving nothing behind but silence and the pounding of fearful hearts.
Reporters erupted into a frenzy, shouting questions, scribbling madly, and tripping over one another to capture the words and the spectacle they had just witnessed. To them, the truth was undeniable: Daniel Rothchester was not the Netherborn, but the chosen of the Netherborn. It was dangerous, yes, but it was separate. And most importantly, it left both Daniel and House Rothchester shielded from direct suspicion.
The Duchess's eyes lingered on her son, pride veiled beneath calculation. The plan had worked. The crowd had seen what they needed to see. By the time the East Lazarus Guild departed westward in two days, carrying their reports across the gorge and toward the Empire of Graves, the kingdom would already be shaping the narrative: Daniel Rothchester, disciple of the Netherborn, free in his choices, ally to the people.
It was a dangerous mask, but for now, it was a mask that fit.
The spectacle ended at the stroke of noon, yet its ripples carried far into the hours that followed. The crowd in the Duchess's courtyard poured out into the streets in a frenzy of awe and rumor. Merchants abandoned their stalls just to speak of what they had seen, children re-enacted the moment when the Netherborn's formless armor shimmered into being, and every tavern in the capital became thick with heated debate.
To the common folk, Daniel was no longer just a young lord of noble birth, he had become the chosen disciple of a calamity-ranked being, the kind of legend whispered in sagas rather than lived in daylight. Whispers spread like wildfire, each voice embellishing details until the whole city seemed to pulse with the tale.
But not all hearts were stirred with mere wonder. Among the nobles, shock quickly gave way to calculation. Foreign emissaries, who had been standing among the reporters only hours earlier, now retreated into the shadowed chambers of their lodgings, scribbling coded letters back to their monarchs and councils.
To them, the revelation was not a miracle but a shift in the balance of power. A disciple bonded to a calamity-ranked being could change the destiny of kingdoms. Some plotted to entice Daniel with promises of alliances and wealth, while others already weighed the blades they might sharpen in secret, should the "disciple" one day pose a threat to their lands.
The Duchess, however, moved with her usual precision and foresight. Behind the closed doors of her mansion, she summoned her most trusted aides and began laying down the first threads of a countermeasure. She knew too well that attention of this magnitude was both a shield and a snare.
The performance had succeeded in severing her family from suspicion; Daniel was no longer mistaken for the Netherborn itself but rather portrayed as its chosen servant. Yet in severing one tie, they had bound themselves to another: the boy now stood at the center of a web of political intrigue that would only tighten with each passing day.
Meanwhile, within the palace, joy reigned unrestrained. The king, resplendent in his gilded halls, raised a goblet high before his court. He and the royal household could scarcely contain their delight, for word had already reached them from the Royal Guild, Netherborn, by their
classification, was a calamity-ranked entity. A force equal to the most fearsome beings of the age, and now it had chosen not the Empire of Graves nor the foreign guilds, but their kingdom, their soil, and their young lord. Cheers rang through the corridors as if victory itself had been secured.
The princes and princesses exchanged eager whispers of what this might mean for the throne's prestige. The king himself declared the news would be sent at once to allied kingdoms, so that the name of his house might rise upon the winds of triumph.
Yet beneath the ringing of celebration bells, the Daneil remained vigilant. He knew the East Lazarus Guild was already preparing its venture toward the western gorge, and within two days they would pass into the routes that led toward the Empire of Graves. The world would not wait for them to bask in applause. Time, like a sharpened blade, pressed against them all. Clearing the quest will be the starting point, as many players have forgotten what the first floor was really all about; it's just the tutorial stage of the Arcane Crusade game where players must use their 5 skills to level up and increase their stats to gain a skill seed.
If they remember this part, the players that level up and gain the status of a ranker, a level higher than a player, know very well what is on the higher floors..