DEMON CASTLE-Chapter 39: CAHPTER

Hejna patrolled the dark mountainous skies of the forbidden zone and quickly realized the gravity of the situation upon noticing a significantly larger number of patrol groups of bats and even werewolves. This meant that the matter had escalated, as the werewolves were the messengers of Mordred, and the bats belonged to Vlad. Now, both princes of darkness had become aware of the hostile force within their territory.

Meanwhile, a massive undead army, a hundred thousand strong, commanded by the great demon undead general, had secured several astonishing victories near the obsidian mines. With a little thought, it was obvious why both princes were so concerned. On the other hand, the empire was beginning to doubt whether their main enemy during this short period of unrest was truly the faction of darkness. Numerous adventurers and mercenaries were patrolling the borders, leading to conclusions that reminded Hejna of his youth—when he was entangled in multi-front wars. Despite the boiling of his blood, he felt no joy. Those days were gone, and now he wasn't sure whether his king could withstand these threats. But regardless of what happened, there was little he could do—or so he thought, until he saw the very people he had prayed all day not to encounter.

A colossal battalion of witches soared through the air on their broomsticks, cackling and hooting. Two thousand witches erupted into cheers, resembling a swarm of youthful-looking old hags on a hunt for boys who had maintained their vows of celibacy.

Upon seeing them, Hejna didn't know which god of his world to pray to. As he rushed toward the center of the undead territory and the castle, he desperately hoped that the commander of this vast battalion of witches was not the one he feared. Because if it was, then a far greater threat loomed over the entire region, especially in the absence of Hazard and the Thirty Mares.

Hejna, accompanied by an undead witch, attempted to keep pace. However, given the witches' ability to share magic among themselves, they had greater speed. The undead witch sacrificed herself, boosting Hejna's speed momentarily, but she soon lagged behind, froze completely, and then shattered into snowflakes.

"Morgan, please!"

His fears were confirmed the moment he saw the magic at work. The commander of this massive battalion was none other than Morgan le Fay—the greatest witch, and once, for a brief time, the lover of Dietrich, the Winter King. However, due to her aggressive and warlike nature, she had been exiled from both the court and the North.

"Well, well... Look who we have here."

Her enchanting voice froze Hejna in place, and in an instant, she appeared before him, her white wand in hand. She traced a delicate finger over Hejna's red lips.

"My queen..."

Of course, she was no queen, but among the witches, her status was so high that they regarded her as such. With her mature beauty, pale skin, silver hair, and sky-blue eyes, she was the perfect waifu material for any story. But in this world, there was no room for such things.

"I see... It's Hejna. How long have you been stuck at this level?"

Morgan's hands slid behind Hejna's head, and due to the overwhelming aura of her presence, he was unable to move. She kissed him on the lips.

Power? Freedom? The vanishing of sorrow? The sensations her kiss awakened in Hejna were fleeting. But the searing pain that followed made him scream in agony.

"Another child of mine... has returned to my embrace."

However, things didn't go as she expected. Her magic failed, and she stared at Hejna in disbelief.

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"How...? You! You actually signed a slave contract!?"

She could tell immediately. The marks of such a contract on a lord-ranked being were easily visible to someone of her caliber, especially an ancient entity like herself.

There were a few ways to resist her magic, which turned others into her thralls. But in Hejna's case, with the clear signs of a contract binding him, there was only one explanation—he already had a master.

"How dare you?"

Hejna trembled, searching for a way to save himself.

"They enslaved me, my queen! Please, save me!"

Morgan frowned.

"Then why did you run from me? Are you seriously trying to lie to me? Do you think I can't tell truth from falsehood?"

Hejna had no answer. If she wished to take his life, he saw no way to escape. His only hope was Hazard, but he was nowhere in sight. The last thing Hejna saw was the queen's hand striking him—a slap so powerful that half his face was obliterated, and his neck, unable to withstand the force, snapped.

"Filthy traitor."

Morgan then turned and led her army toward a place teeming with powerful presences, unaware that her previous actions had drastically altered her fate.

In front of the obsidian mines, the great undead general dismounted from his colossal bat and swiftly wiped its purple blood from his blade.

The liches and generals gathered before him.

"Victory is ours."

"Only a few managed to escape."

"The gods will be displeased with us."

"Yes, their wrath was evident just moments ago."

However, the great general raised his hands, silencing them all.

"The Archlich has requested our return. It seems the crows are circling in our skies."

The fire in their eyes flared. An enemy that dared defile their domain? Did they not know that the obsidian mines had been the graveyard of thirty thousand dark beings? Those who had merely defended a place the undead now rightfully claimed?

Minutes passed, and the undead cavalry and infantry, accompanied by undead giants and the corpses of thirty thousand dark creatures—now reanimated as zombies of varying strength—stood behind the great general. He rode a two-headed Hellhound, a zombie warlord-class beast. Anyone who saw this force would wonder how such an army had conquered a warlord-tier elite without even a single warlord-ranked specialist in their own ranks.

Regardless, as the general led his army forward and reported his movements to the Archlich, his eyes burned with resolve.

"The land that belongs to death will never accept the living as its masters. Any futile resistance upon the soil of the dead will only turn you into one of us."