Inside Mandrake Fortress, within the heart of Mandrake City.
The Duke of Mandrake sat uneasily upon his throne. Ever since Uriel's disappearance, he had withdrawn his forces from the Mandrake Pass.
After enduring repeated invasions by beastmen and undead, the entire Mandrake Territory had become unsafe—save for Mandrake City itself. For the sake of his own life—and to continue basking in the power and privilege his ducal title afforded—he had abandoned the pass without hesitation.
As for the commoners stationed there? He had simply discarded them like useless pawns.
Now, all his troops had retreated to Mandrake City, where the city's grand defensive barrier had been activated. Only within its shimmering walls did the duke feel even a sliver of safety.
But just a few days after his return, eight colossal pillars of light pierced the heavens—plunging him into despair.
No one could look upon that unnatural, nauseating glow and believe it to be anything good.
As a fifth-tier powerhouse, he had enough arcane knowledge to recognize what was happening: some kinds of magic required the activation of multiple nodes to complete the Ouroboros Ring.
And those seven outermost pillars of light… their coverage perfectly encompassed the entire Mandrake City.
At first, the duke had considered fleeing. But after estimating the distance between himself and the pillars, and comparing it to his own movement speed, he'd abandoned the thought.
He would never make it beyond the formation's range before it activated. If he was caught outside when it did—he'd die instantly.
Inside the city, however, protected by the barrier, there was at least a chance he might survive.
But when the formation finally came alive… countless dark, twisted thoughts began to surge within his mind.
Why should he bow to the royal court? Why should he tolerate those useless nobles feasting on his wealth? Why shouldn't he kill them all, seize total power, rally every soldier under his command—and overthrow that damned kingdom himself?
Though a shred of reason still clung to his mind thanks to his strength, he knew all too well that acting on those thoughts would bring him eternal ruin.
Yet those vile impulses kept gnawing at his sanity like maggots in his brain.
Then, from beyond the doors, came a growing clamor—angry voices, chaotic footsteps.
The noise swelled until the grand doors of the castle were violently kicked open.
Dozens of soldiers stormed inside, weapons drawn.
"Kill him! Slay the Duke! Take his riches—then we'll never have to bow to that bastard again!"
The duke's expression darkened.
How dare a bunch of first- and second-tier rabble rise up against him?
But his face grew even darker when he saw who was among them—his Mandrake Knights, his supposedly most loyal elite guard.
Seeing their betrayal, the last of his restraint snapped. Roaring in fury, he seized his longsword and charged into the mob, hacking them down in a storm of blood and steel.
And though the Duke was only fifth-tier, against these weaklings he was an unstoppable slaughterer.
When it was over, the grand hall was strewn with corpses, the marble floors painted red.
The duke stood panting amid the carnage, sword dripping crimson, his reason slowly returning.
But peace lasted only moments—before the doors burst open again.
This time, it was not soldiers who entered, but nobles—men and women in tattered finery, spattered with blood.
Compared to the rabble before, these opponents were far more dangerous.
Some among them were even fourth-tier.
"Duke Mandrake," sneered a middle-aged knight at their head, raising his sword, "your time on that throne is over."
The duke's eyes narrowed. He recognized the man—the Marquis of Northhill, a veteran fourth-tier warrior. Even on his best day, defeating him would not be easy.
And now, the marquis had allies at his back.
Under normal circumstances, the duke would have chosen to flee—retreating to the secret chamber beneath Mandrake Fortress to wait for the chaos to pass.
But the corruption inside him—those festering, maddening whispers—burned away all reason.
Now, there was only one thought left in his mind:
Kill them all.
And so, the hall once again descended into bloodshed.
No one knew how long the battle lasted.
When the Duke finally regained some semblance of consciousness, his entire body was drenched in blood. The great hall was a slaughterhouse, the floor slick with gore.
Then, the doors creaked open once more.
Instinctively, the Duke snatched up his sword, his body tense, eyes fixed on the entrance.
But this time, it was not another enemy—only a disheveled woman.
"Oh heavens—my dear, what happened to you?"
The newcomer froze at the grisly sight before her—blood, corpses, and her husband standing amid them, drenched scarlet.
Still, swallowing her terror, she rushed forward to support him.
Seeing her, the Duke exhaled in relief.
It was his third consort—the one he favored most. A young woman from a minor noble family in the Federation Empire. She possessed little magical talent and no combat skill—hardly a threat to him.
"Quickly," the Duke rasped. "Take me… to the secret chamber on the second floor."
He staggered, nearly collapsing, but bit down on his tongue to stay conscious.
After much effort, the two of them finally made it to the chamber.
Feeling secure at last, the Duke collapsed onto the floor, tearing open his bloodstained garments without a shred of dignity.
With a wave of his hand, an assortment of potions and medicines materialized before him.
He glanced at his consort, but his paranoia won out—he would not let even his favorite wife touch his wounds. He tended to them himself, staunching the bleeding and restoring some strength.
At last, he breathed a sigh of relief. He was weak, but not helpless.
Then he turned toward his consort—and froze.
She had already slipped out of her bloodied gown, standing before him in only her undergarments, cheeks flushed, eyes shimmering with emotion.
It was as if she were deliberately tempting him.
In that instant, lust crashed over him like a tidal wave, drowning what little reason he had left.
Forgetting his wounds, he lunged at her like a starving beast.
After their fevered coupling, the Duke's mind began to clear once more.
But as he felt something strange spreading through his veins, his face suddenly twisted in shock and fury.
He leapt up from the bed, pointing a trembling finger at the woman.
"You… you vile wench! You poisoned me?!"