The village of Allen lay at the foot of a mountain, backed by deep forest. Most of its people were hunters, living off the game they caught.
That evening, as dusk painted the sky red, the hunters began returning home. They laughed and bragged about their day's kills, comparing pelts and trophies — debating whose prey would fetch the best price at the trading post run by the lord's merchants in town.
When talk turned to silver coins and profits, their tones grew full of gratitude. Everyone agreed — under the new lord's rule, life had become fairer and far more prosperous. They earned more, ate better, and no longer lived on the edge of starvation.
Just then, the tranquil dusk was broken by the sound of hooves — heavy, rhythmic, and fast.
Everyone turned toward the sound. Down the road, framed by the blood-red sunset, five silver-clad figures rode swiftly toward the village.
As they drew closer, the villagers could finally see them clearly — five knights in full silver armor, their helms gleaming gold in the fading light. The great warhorses beneath them were wrapped in plated barding, their hooves thundering against the dirt road. From their saddles hung shields, swords, and long lances. Even at a distance, the faint red stains on the steel — blood not yet dried — glimmered under the sun.
A chill swept through the villagers. They tensed instinctively, gripping bows and axes, ready to defend their homes to the death.
Then someone shouted —
"They're the lord's knights!"
Every gaze turned to the chestplate of the leading rider — emblazoned on it was a black shield insignia: a sword thrust upright behind nine entwined dragon heads.
The villagers exhaled in relief. The weapons lowered. Eyes once wary turned bright with awe and respect.
So these were the knights — the legendary warriors who followed their great lord through countless battles, conquering lands and slaughtering werewolves across the north and south!
But why had such noble warriors come to their remote little village?
They'd heard that only true knights — those officially knighted by the lord himself — were allowed to bear his insignia upon their armor. Even the lowest-ranked Black Iron Knights had to prove their worth by slaying an enemy knight in single combat before earning the title.
It was said that among the lord's forces, there were only about a hundred such knights, most of them men who had served in his earliest guard.
As the villagers whispered in excitement, the lead knight dismounted and strode toward them — tall, broad-shouldered, radiating quiet power.
Before anyone could speak, the knight suddenly went down on one knee in front of old Jack.
The crowd froze, stunned.
Jack himself blinked in disbelief — and then, as if remembering something, his weathered face broke into trembling joy.
The knight reached up, lifted his helm — revealing a young, stern, familiar face beneath.
"Father… Oliver has returned."
His voice shook, his eyes red with emotion, though he refused to let the tears fall.
"Oliver! My boy! I knew it — I knew you'd come back!"
The old man's hands trembled as he tried to pull his son up — but the armored knight didn't budge. Laughing softly, Oliver rose on his own, towering over his father, his chestplate gleaming in the light. Jack's rough fingers brushed across the black insignia on his son's armor, his voice breaking with pride.
"Good… good! My son, you've made it!"
The villagers erupted in excited chatter.
"It's Oliver!"
"So old Jack wasn't lying — his son really became a knight!"
"Our village has a noble of its own now!"
"He was always the best shot with a bow — even better than his father!"
Soon, women and children rushed over from the cottages. The news spread like wildfire — Jack's son, Oliver, had become one of the lord's knights.
Oliver had been one of Chen Mo's earliest guards — part of the first group he personally trained. In the campaign against Count Warren, Oliver had slain many soldiers, but never a knight.
As battles passed, he grew stronger, but never fast enough to seize the moment. Watching his comrades rise, one by one, into knighthood, he'd burned with determination.
Then, in a recent skirmish, his moment came — he fought with all his strength and finally slew an enemy knight single-handedly. Chen Mo himself knighted him afterward, granting him the title of Black Iron Knight and four squire knights under his command.
This time, he'd been sent to hunt a stray werewolf near the mountains — and since his mission brought him close to home, he'd requested permission from Captain Andrew to visit his village afterward.
Andrew, understanding how rare rest was for these knights, readily agreed.
And so, this touching reunion unfolded at sunset.
Over the past year, Chen Mo's realm had transformed beyond recognition.
His lands now thrived — economically, militarily, and agriculturally.
New farming tools and techniques had doubled harvest yields. Taxes were low. For the first time, peasants had grain left over after winter — and the peace of mind that came with it.
The knights' relentless purging of werewolves made his lands the safest in all the region. No longer did families huddle in fear at night.
With food and safety secured, his people lived better than any peasants in Europe — healthy, well-fed, and smiling.
Soon, refugees began to arrive — desperate folk from neighboring lands, fleeing famine, war, or beasts.
Chen Mo accepted them all.
In this harsh medieval world, population was the greatest resource — farmers for the fields, soldiers for the armies. Europe's total population barely reached ten million; every able-bodied man or woman was precious.
Each newcomer received land, tools, and seed grain. Within weeks, villages grew and the people settled into steady, hopeful lives.
After defeating several powerful lords, Chen Mo's domain stretched nearly ten thousand square kilometers — larger than several English counties combined.
Though forests and mountains covered much of it, vast tracts of fertile land awaited cultivation.
And still, his expansion continued.
With overwhelming strength, superior steel, and disciplined knights, Chen Mo's armies swept across the map like wildfire.
Some nobles resisted — and were crushed. Others surrendered before his banners even appeared on the horizon.
Those who submitted were stripped of their titles and authority, though Chen Mo often spared their lives. Capable ones were reassigned as administrators. The corrupt and despised were tried publicly and executed.
To Chen Mo, rebellion or surrender made little difference — both led to the same result. His army was unstoppable. The more resistance he met, the sharper his troops became.
Among the many nobles who surrendered without a fight, one name stood out — Victor.
And when Chen Mo finally met him in person, his suspicions were confirmed.
This world — this realm — was indeed the world of Underworld.
Only this was long before Victor became a vampire.
At the time, Victor was still human — a stern and honorable noble who led forty elite knights in his own campaign against werewolves.
Chen Mo, recognizing his discipline and loyalty, chose not to disband his forces but to integrate them, leaving Victor in command of his men.
He didn't fear betrayal. Not only could Victor never match his power — this was also a test.
Through careful observation and private conversation, Chen Mo came to know him well.
Victor was a man of principle — stubborn, proud, unyielding. A noble in every sense.
He valued law and honor above all — even above family. In the future, when his daughter Sonja defied the vampire clan's pureblood laws and fell in love with the lycan slave Lucian, it would be Victor himself who ordered her execution — torn between love and duty.
Most importantly, Victor was not driven by greed or ambition. He didn't dream, like Marcus, of ruling the world as an immortal overlord.
In his heart, Victor believed one thing above all —
That mankind was meant to rule this world.
But for now, he was still human.
Still a lord.
And now — one of Chen Mo's own.