Blackwood Keep was more broken and desolate than any depiction of hell Lucian had ever seen.
The icy wind howled through the cracks in its crumbling walls like the wailing of tortured souls.
This so-called fortress was nothing but a heap of scorched stones and rotting timber, haphazardly stacked together.
The lone watchtower had partially collapsed, resembling a giant's half-chewed skull.
Within the territory, barely a dozen families struggled to survive.
The peasants were little more than skin and bone, their hollow eyes void of hope, like walking corpses who had forgotten they were dead.
As Lucian stepped into the keep under the towering shadow of Azagor, a figure that sharply contrasted the bleak surroundings blocked his path.
A rotund steward, polished and well-dressed, his oily face gleaming unnaturally, stared at Lucian with none of the reverence owed to a lord.
His gaze was calculating, greedy, and faintly mocking—like appraising livestock.
"Your Highness, welcome," the steward greeted, his oily voice grating against the cold wind.
"Your chambers have been prepared. However, as you can see, this cursed frozen land yields nothing. Food and supplies are scarce."
He spread his hands with feigned helplessness, smirking, "I'm afraid you won't enjoy the comforts of the capital here."
A blatant provocation.
A test.
Lucian calmly looked past him, taking in the empty weapon racks and servants clothed in patchwork rags.
He knew very well: Azagor's axe could crush skulls but not grow wheat. Fear bred obedience, but not order.
He needed brains.
"My Lord," Azagor's deep, rumbling voice sounded like boulders grinding together. "Shall I crush his head like a rotten melon?"
"Violence is the last resort, not the only option," Lucian replied softly, shaking his head.
His consciousness sank into the depths of his soul, touching the pulsing [Abyssal Dominion Core].
Thanks to the Emergency Protocol, his second summon within twenty-four hours cost barely anything.
Without hesitation, he reached for the name radiating wisdom and deceit:
[Mephistor – Demon Lord of Wisdom and Deception]
There was no earth-shattering spectacle.
A swirl of black mist, so deep it seemed to devour light, silently coalesced beside him.
The mist receded like a retreating tide.
Standing there was a man dressed in a dark noble suit, handsome and devilishly charming. He elegantly flipped a golden coin that constantly shifted form. Upon seeing Lucian, he bowed with a playful smirk.
"My master, it seems you've encountered... minor inconveniences."
Lucian's eyes remained cold and steady.
"I want full control. Now."
Mephistor's gaze swept across the fat steward before whispering into Lucian's ear at lightning speed.
A flicker of golden light flashed through Lucian's eyes.
He smiled.
"I understand the food shortage," Lucian said softly. "But as your new lord, it is only proper that I share a meal with my people to celebrate my arrival."
"Open the granary. Bring out every last grain. Tonight, everyone feasts."
The steward's face instantly contorted, his smile freezing.
"Your Highness, this is unwise! Our supplies are limited. If we consume everything tonight, tomorrow—"
"Tomorrow will take care of itself," Lucian interrupted, his voice calm but absolute. "Unless... you're questioning my orders?"
Azagor stepped forward.
BOOM!
The ground trembled beneath his colossal frame, and crimson flames licked the edge of his massive axe.
Sweat poured from the steward's greasy forehead.
Trembling, he reluctantly ordered the servants to open the granary.
The people and servants gathered, eyes filled with faint hope.
Inside, only a thin layer of black rye lined the floor—barely enough for a single meal.
The peasants' hopes dimmed, while the steward exhaled in secret relief.
But then—
With a flick of his fingers, Mephistor sent a barely perceptible wisp of dark energy into the steward's mind.
[Mind Fracture – Echo of Sin]
Lucian's cold voice rang out like a judge's gavel:
"Tell me. Where is the real stockpile?"
The steward's body convulsed violently. His eyes lost focus as though gripped by invisible nightmares.
His chubby face twitched uncontrollably, and he screamed:
"No! Don't make me say it!"
"I sold it! I sold ninety percent of the grain to the bandits at Black Iron Mine!"
"I gave them the castle's defense plans too! Once the mountains are sealed by snow, they planned to raid the keep and take everything! They promised me half of the spoils!"
Like spilling a bag of beans, every crime was confessed hysterically for all to hear.
Silence.
A deadly pause, then volcanic eruption.
The once lifeless eyes of the peasants ignited with fury.
"Kill him! That monster starved us to death!"
"My son... my son died of hunger because of him!"
Lucian ignored the angry cries.
He simply gazed coldly at the blubbering steward beneath him.
"Azagor."
"At your command."
"Execute him. Confiscate his assets and redistribute them as food."
"As you command!"
Azagor seized the screaming steward like a fattened pig, dragging him into the snowy courtyard.
The axe rose.
The axe fell.
The severed head flew high, its blood staining the pure snow crimson.
Blood marked the dawn of order under the new lord.
When the peasants held the grain bags recovered from the steward's cellar, their gazes toward Lucian shifted—from numbness to a mix of awe and fervent loyalty.
He had taken the first step.
"My Lord, that was merely an appetizer," Mephistor whispered behind him, his voice elegant yet lethal.
"While you enjoyed the show, my shadow agents gathered some intriguing intelligence."
He smirked. "The bandits at Black Iron Mine? Their leader used to serve as a centurion under your dear brother, the crown prince."
"Their task was to ensure your quiet death in this wasteland, never to rise again."
Lucian's eyes turned icy cold.
Black Iron Mine.
Not merely a threat, but an opportunity.
A resource. A forge.
A sacrificial offering to announce his return to the capital's high and mighty.
He turned toward Azagor, eager for blood, and Mephistor, master of deception.
"Azagor," Lucian commanded, his voice calm but echoing throughout the courtyard.
"Prepare for war."
Mephistor chuckled, adding like a dark chorus:
"No, my master."
"Our kingdom... has only just begun."