The salt air should have been peaceful, but for the Holy Kingdom of Rurva, it smelled like the end of an era.
Two months. That was all it took for the world to tilt on its axis. The disaster at the slave rig was no longer a secret whispered in dark alleys; it was a screaming headline. Despite Leornars legion of undead, a single slave trader—a man fueled by sheer, pathetic terror—had slipped through the cracks. He had seen the carnage, the cold eyes of the "Hero," and the monsters he commanded.
Now, the Church had a name for their nightmare.
"He is not a hero! He is the White Devil!"
Father Ezekiel's voice thundered through the vaulted ceiling of the cathedral, echoing off the stained glass. He slammed his fist against the mahogany pulpit, spittle flying from his lips as he glared at the thousands of kneeling devotees.
"And those who follow him? They are not children—they are devil-spawn! A true Savior does not burn the Church of Liverra to ash! A true Saint does not spill the blood of a consecrated Priest!"
A low, angry murmur rose from the congregation like a gathering storm.
"Heretic!" someone screamed from the back.
"Burn the devil!" shouted another.
Ezekiel's eyes flashed with a dark, satisfied zeal. "The heavens weep! Leonard has turned his back on the Light, and the Light shall demand its due!"
Once the doors were barred and the masses dismissed, the atmosphere shifted from fiery theater to cold, suffocating dread. The high-ranking priests sat around a circular stone table, the flickering candlelight casting long, skeletal shadows against the walls.
"He needs to be executed. Publicly," Ezekiel snapped, still riding the high of his sermon. He paced the room, his robes swishing aggressively. "We need to show the world that Rurva does not fear monsters."
"And who, precisely, is going to swing the sword?"
Father Grant spoke softly, not even looking up from his folded hands. His calmness was a sharp contrast to Ezekiel's heat. "Let us look at the map, Ezekiel. Leonard is hailed as a 'Messiah' by the Lutrians, the Seraphims, and the Avangardians. Do the math."
Grant looked up, his eyes cold. "That is nearly three-hundred million people. If we move against him, we aren't just starting a trial. We are triggering a global war—a war where we have absolutely no leverage."
Ezekiel clicked his tongue, his face flushing a deep purple. "So what? We just sit on our hands while he mocks us?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "What is your brilliant plan then, Father Grant? Do we send him a letter of recommendation?"
"We aren't powerless," Grant replied smoothly. "We seek alliances. The Empire has been looking for a reason to expand, and the Dirrium Kingdom has the sheer numbers. We weave a coalition. We turn the world's 'Hero' into the world's 'Enemy.'"
"A fool's errand!"
The voice belonged to Father Gerald. It wasn't loud, but it possessed a weight that made the other two flinch. He had been silent until now, staring at the reports of the "undead tide" Leonard had unleashed.
"Why is that, Gerald?" Grant asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Because numbers mean nothing to that abomination," Gerald said, finally looking up. His eyes were wide, haunted by the descriptions in the reports. "Is there anyone in Dirrium capable of resisting Erasure? Name one man in the Empire stronger than Leornars. Or worse..."
Gerald leaned forward, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Name one warrior who can stand against Stacian Von Gremohiah. If you have a list of men who are eager to commit suicide, Grant, please—show me. I'll write their eulogies now."
The silence that followed was absolute.
No one moved. No one breathed. In the quiet of the sanctum, the priests realized that while they were busy calling Leornars a devil, they had no idea how to fight one.
The dusty road to Dirrium stretched out endlessly, the rhythmic clack-clack of the wooden wheels serving as a hypnotic lullaby. Inside the cramped carriage, the air was thick with the scent of old leather and travel-worn cloaks.
Sasha's head had long since surrendered to gravity, resting heavily on Sahara's shoulder. Her soft, rhythmic breathing was the only thing keeping the silence from becoming absolute.
Sahara leaned her head back against the carriage wall, staring out at the passing trees with a hollow gaze. How long has it been now?
'I wonder what he's doing...' she thought, her fingers tracing the hilt of her blade out of habit. 'Leornars... it's been too long. The last time I saw that face, we were...'
The memory flickered in her mind like a dying candle, but it was cut short.
SCREECH!
The carriage lurched violently. The horses let out a panicked whinny as the driver slammed on the brakes. Sasha let out a small "mnh?" of protest, nearly sliding off the seat, but Sahara was already moving.
The driver's seat creaked as the man scrambled backward through the partition, his face pale as a sheet.
"What's the issue?" Sahara demanded. Her voice was sharp, all traces of her daydreaming gone. She was already on her feet, the cold weight of her sword gripped firmly in her hand.
"B-bandits!" the driver stammered, pointing a shaking finger at the road ahead. "They've blocked the path! We're trapped!"
Sahara didn't wait for the rest of his terrified rambling. She kicked the carriage door open, the hinges groaning as she stepped out into the harsh sunlight. A dozen men stood there, brandishing rusted axes and jagged scimitars, their faces twisted into ugly grins.
"Well, well! Look at this pretty little thing—" the lead bandit started, but he never finished the sentence.
Sahara didn't give them the luxury of a monologue. She took a single, explosive step forward, her mana surging through her veins like liquid fire.
"Light of Saber!"
A blinding flash of white-hot energy erupted from her blade. It wasn't just a swing; it was a horizontal line of pure, cleansing judgment. For a split second, the forest was silent. Then, the sound of tearing metal and flesh followed.
The bandits didn't even have time to scream. They were simply... divided.
Sahara stood amongst the settling dust, her cape fluttering in the wind. She let out a short, sharp breath, sheathing her sword with a metallic click that echoed through the trees.
She turned back toward the carriage, a bright, nonchalant smile crossing her face—as if she had just finished a mundane chore rather than a slaughter.
"Let's go!" she called out, checking to make sure Sasha was finally awake. "We have a delivery to make, and I don't plan on being late."
In the Kingdom of Avangard, the sun shone with a warmth that felt like a blessing. The streets were bustling with the sounds of commerce, laughter, and the steady rhythm of a peaceful life. That peace, however, was about to be tested by a stack of paper.
A news courier, sweating under the weight of a heavy satchel, stood in the center of the town square, holding up the latest dispatch from the Holy Kingdom of Rurva.
"Extra! Extra! Read all about it!" the courier shouted, his voice cracking. "The Holy Kingdom has issued a decree! The King of Avangard is officially labeled a Devil by the Church of Rurva! Read the crimes of the White Devil!"
The reaction was instantaneous, but it wasn't the fear the courier expected. The masses flocked to him, but they didn't buy the papers—they snatched them.
Rip. Tear. Shred.
"What kind of bullshit is this?" a burly farmer roared, striking a match and setting a pile of the papers ablaze. "The King gave us our lives back, and these priests call him a devil?"
"How dare you sully the King's name in his own lands!" a woman screamed, waving a pitchfork she had just purchased.
Within seconds, the 'messenger of truth' found himself being chased down an alleyway by a mob of furious citizens.
"I'm just a messenger! I'm just a messenger!" he wailed, tears streaming down his face as he narrowly dodged a flying head of cabbage. "I don't write the news, I just deliver it!"
"Then deliver this message back to Rurva!" the farmer yelled. "If our King is a devil, then we're proud to live in hell!"
Far from the political fires of the mainland, the air was filled with the scent of salt and the sound of crashing waves. Leornars stood on the pristine white sand of a private island, his eyes scanning the horizon.
Behind him stood his army—his subordinates and servants, every single one of them an undead bound to his soul.
Stacian stepped forward, her graceful movements unfazed by the sand. With a flick of her wrist, she tore open a shimmering pocket dimension.
"I took the liberty of preparing... appropriate attire," she said, pulling out a mountain of swimsuits and trunks.
"TIME TO PARTY!" Zaryter bellowed.
The massive warrior didn't even wait for a change of clothes. He sprinted toward the ocean like a runaway boulder, diving into the surf with a splash that soaked several nearby skeletons.
Stacian walked over to Leornars and sat on a bleached log beside him. "Lord Leornars, the water is at a perfect temperature. Do you wish to swim?"
"Later," Leornars replied calmly. He wasn't looking at the water; he was busy gathering dry twigs to start a small fire. "I want to make some coffee first."
He looked down the beach. It was a surreal sight. Thousands upon thousands of human resembling undead were engaged in... vacationing. They were intensely focused on a volleyball match. Sumi leapt high into the air, her pale skin glistening as she spiked the ball with enough force to shatter stone. On the other side, Zhyelena drifted upward, blocking the shot with an effortless flick of her wrist.
"Actually, I think I finally understand why the foreign delegates get so confused when they come to Avangard," Leornars remarked, blowing on the small flame he'd started.
"Why is that, My Lord?" Stacian asked.
"Look at them," he said, gesturing to the 83,789 undead scattered across the island. "All of them. White hair, crimson eyes, pale skin... every single one of them bears a resemblance to me. It's like a hive mind."
Stacian looked at the sea of white hair and red eyes. Some were playing, some were buried in the sand, and others were simply staring at the horizon. "I suppose... from a distance, it is quite the striking image."
Out on the water, Ayesha drifted by on a purple inflatable float, a glass of dark wine in her hand and a matching purple swimsuit hugging her frame. Further down the shore, Salene was crouched in the shallows in a bright yellow swimsuit that matched her blonde hair. She was currently hovering over a tide pool, staring at a small crab with a terrifying, sadistic intensity.
"No murder, Salene," Leornars called out without looking up from his coffee pot.
Salene visibly flinched. Gulp.
"Did she just vocalize the word 'gulp'?" Leornars muttered.
Stacian stood up. "I shall change as well." She disappeared for a moment, returning in a sleek blue swimsuit that made her azure hair and eyes pop against the white sand.
Leornars, meanwhile, had opted for a simple white shirt, black beach shorts, and slippers. As he leaned over his fire, his long white hair fell over his eyes. Before he could brush it away, Stacian leaned down, her fingers cool against his skin as she tucked his hair back with a black hairpin.
Leornars didn't even blink. "Pervert," he said internally to the core.
Althelia defended herself calmly.
"How is that vital?"
Leornars sighed, standing up and picking up a stray coconut. "Let's have some fun."
With a casual flick of his wrist, he lobbed the coconut toward Zaryter, who was wading back out of the water. The coconut struck the back of Zaryter's head with a loud THUNK. The warrior didn't even flinch, but his head bobbed forward.
"That's gotta hurt," Leornars noted.
"Probably," Stacian added, watching Zaryter look around in confusion.
Stacian looked at the sea of undead followers, then back at Leornars. Slowly, her deep blue hair began to shift, the color draining until it was a shimmering, snowy white.
"I guess I was right," Leornars said, noticing the change. "You can change your hair color at will."
"Yeah..." Stacian replied, looking a bit surprised herself, as if she were subconsciously trying to fit into the 'family' photo of the White Devils.