Chapter 168: Revival of Archmages As Demons

Within the grand halls of the Steele Family mansion, Alaric Steele busied himself with the affairs of his house, his mind occupied by both business and personal matters. Though the outside world was spiraling into chaos, within these walls, he held dominion.

He attended meetings, reviewed reports on the Phone’s distribution, and, in the quiet hours of the night, indulged in more… intimate affairs. His bonds with Aunt Cassandra and her daughter, Fiora, grew stronger, their relationships deepening behind the closed doors of the mansion.

But while Alaric remained engaged in his own sphere of influence, beyond the estate’s protective walls, a storm was brewing. One that would shake the foundations of the world itself.

For weeks, the demons had remained eerily silent, their forces stationed in the ruins of Verdant Dawn Academy unmoving.

It was as if they were content to revel in their victory, basking in the destruction they had wrought. Some had dared to hope that perhaps the demons had expended too much energy in their assault and required time to recover, or maybe—just maybe—their attack had been a singular event, an aberration rather than the start of a campaign.

But those hopes were shattered the moment the demons stirred.

The world first learned of their resurgence when the town of Eldermere was razed to the ground.

No warning, no chance for escape.

One night, it was a bustling settlement, its people going about their lives. By dawn, it was nothing more than smoldering ruins, the air thick with the scent of charred flesh. Reports from survivors—if they could even be called that—painted a horrifying picture.

Shadowed figures emerging from the darkness, their eyes glowing with malevolent hunger. Clawed hands tearing through flesh and steel alike. Screams echoing through the night, only to be abruptly silenced.

And Eldermere was only the beginning.

The demons launched a coordinated assault on every village and town surrounding the ruins of Verdant Dawn.

Each settlement had fallen under the jurisdiction of noble houses, some with formidable defenses, yet none were prepared for the sheer brutality of the attack. Hastily built fortifications crumbled as the demons tore through them like paper. Guards and knights, some of them seasoned warriors, barely lasted minutes against creatures that moved with unnatural speed and ferocity.

Even the presence of Master Martialists and Master Mages did little to stem the tide of slaughter.

It was a massacre.

A cruel, merciless culling.

Women and children were given no quarter. Those who tried to flee were hunted down with chilling efficiency. Even those who surrendered were shown no mercy. The demons had no interest in negotiations or prisoners. They had only one purpose: destruction.

Yet, amidst the widespread horror, a peculiar pattern emerged.

After each settlement was razed to the ground, after every human within had been slaughtered, the demons simply… stopped.

They did not advance further. They did not press into the heart of the kingdom. Instead, they remained within the ruins of the conquered settlements, standing like grotesque sentinels amidst the corpses. No one understood why. Fear spread like wildfire—what were they waiting for? Was this only the beginning? Were they gathering for something even worse?

King Thaleon, upon hearing of the carnage, felt a cold dread settle in his bones. The weight of responsibility bore down upon him as he listened to report after report detailing the horrors that had unfolded. He sat in his private war chamber, his advisors gathered around him, their faces pale with fear.

“Your Majesty,” one of his generals said, his voice trembling. “We have confirmed that Verdant Dawn’s ruins remain their primary base of operations. The attacks have been devastating, but… there is something odd.”

“Odd?” King Thaleon’s gaze was sharp.

The general hesitated, then took a breath before continuing. “The demon commander… the one who led the assault on Verdant Dawn… he has not been sighted. Nor have the fallen Archmages who were said to have been corrupted.”

A flicker of hope ignited within the king’s eyes. “You’re certain?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. If they were present, we would have seen destruction on an even greater scale. But for now, there have been no sightings.”

King Thaleon leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping against the armrest in thought. Was it possible? Could it be that the demons could not simply revive anyone at will? If that were the case, then perhaps the Archmages—those who had once stood as humanity’s greatest bulwarks—were beyond the demons’ reach.

“Perhaps…” he murmured, “they lack the means to corrupt beings of such power.”

The hope was fragile, delicate as glass. But it was enough for the king to cling to, even as his advisors exchanged uncertain glances.

Yet, while the king grasped at this sliver of optimism, the truth was far more insidious.

He was half-right. And half-dangerously wrong.

The demons could not easily convert Archmages. Their sheer magical prowess, even in death, made them resistant to corruption. The bodies of Archmages retained a powerful magical residue, centered around their magic cores—cores that acted as a natural defense against demonic influence. The process of turning an Archmage into a demon was not impossible, but it was incredibly difficult.

However, if the demon commander, Ingranad, had been at his full strength, that difficulty would have been nothing more than a temporary obstacle.

But he was not at full strength.

Ingranad, the monstrous being who had led the assault on Verdant Dawn, had been gravely wounded in that battle. Principal Bartolmew, in his final act of defiance, had struck him with a spell so powerful, so deeply infused with his very will to destroy, that even demonic regeneration struggled to undo the damage.

The remnants of Bartolmew’s magic lingered within Ingranad’s body like a cursed toxin, gnawing at him, preventing him from recovering. His regenerative abilities, which should have restored him within days, were being thwarted by the sheer force of the former principal’s final stand.

And so, as Ingranad lay within the ruins of Verdant Dawn, locked in a bitter struggle against the magic eating away at him, he devised a solution.

A brutal, pragmatic solution.

If his own power was insufficient to complete the Archmages’ resurrection, then he would find another way.

And so he gave the order.

His forces would descend upon the human settlements, not just to sow terror, but to harvest.

The slaughter was not random. It was not senseless. Every soul torn from its body became fuel. Each life extinguished fed the demonic energy needed for his plan.

The process was already underway.

Within the ruins of Verdant Dawn, twisted by dark magic, something was stirring. The corpses of the fallen Archmages—Professor Natia, Professor Sofiko, Professor Clayton—were no longer at rest. Their bodies, once vessels of wisdom and knowledge, now trembled with unnatural energy.

They were changing.

Their magic, once a beacon of human potential, was being warped, perverted into something monstrous. Their minds, once brilliant, were unraveling, reshaped into something dark and malevolent.

They were no longer human.

And with each passing moment, the demons grew stronger.

Unbeknownst to the Eloriath Kingdom, the balance of power was shifting.

And humanity remained tragically unaware of the full depth of the impending darkness.

~~

The air within the ruined halls of Verdant Dawn Academy was thick with the scent of burning stone and corrupted magic. Darkness clung to the broken pillars and shattered walls, tendrils of malevolence curling like smoke through the once-hallowed corridors of what had been one of humanity’s greatest institutions of magical learning. Now, it was something else entirely. Something far worse.

At the heart of the ruins, where the grand lecture hall once stood, a new throne had been erected from the remnants of fallen spires and broken marble. It was jagged, brutal, and unnatural, pulsating with demonic energy. Atop it sat Ingranad.

Even weakened as he was, the demon commander exuded an aura of overwhelming power. His massive form, clad in darkened armor that seemed to pulse with life, rested against the obsidian seat. His crimson eyes, burning like smoldering embers, studied the figures before him with cold scrutiny.

Kneeling in reverence were three beings who had once been among the greatest mages of their time. Now, they were something else entirely. Their bodies, once vessels of human intellect and mastery, had been twisted, reshaped, and reforged into monstrous new forms. Their eyes—once alight with wisdom—now burned with the sickly green glow of demonic corruption.

Demonic Archmage Natia knelt first, her form still bearing a cruel resemblance to the elegant scholar she had once been. Her once silken robes had been transformed into flowing black garments laced with strands of shadow, her long hair now dark as the abyss itself. Bat-like wings curled behind her, their edges dripping with wisps of dark energy.

Beside her, Demonic Archmage Clayton loomed, a hulking figure whose body seemed to shift unnaturally between corporeal and incorporeal. His limbs were elongated, his fingers ending in talon-like claws. His once-pristine silver hair had become a mane of writhing tendrils, shifting like mist caught in a storm.

And lastly, there was Demonic Archmage Sofiko. Her beauty had been twisted into something eerily captivating, her skin ashen gray, her eyes completely devoid of pupils—two endless pools of glowing green. A pair of curved horns jutted from her temples, and her every movement carried an unnatural, predatory grace.

They knelt, waiting, their expressions vacant yet brimming with a quiet, terrifying anticipation.

Ingranad regarded them for a long moment before speaking, his voice low, a guttural rumble that carried through the ruined chamber like the echo of a distant earthquake.

“Rise.”

The three demonic Archmages obeyed instantly, standing as one.

“Tell me,” Ingranad said, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest of his throne. “What age does this world find itself in now? What kingdom claims these lands? What has become of humanity?”

His words carried a quiet amusement, but underneath it, there was something else. Something cold. A deep, terrible certainty that the world had changed far beyond what he remembered.

Natia was the first to speak, her voice smooth yet carrying an unmistakable edge of malice.

“We find ourselves in the Ninth Age of the Holy Calendar, Lord Ingranad. The exact year… Nine thousand six hundred and thirty-two.”

Ingranad stilled.

For a moment, the ruined throne room was silent. The flickering torches of demonic energy lining the walls crackled in the oppressive stillness.

Then, Ingranad let out a low chuckle, a deep and unsettling sound that sent a tremor through the stone beneath them.

“Nine thousand… Six hundred… Thirty-two,” he repeated, savoring the words. His eyes narrowed, something ancient and dark stirring behind them. “It has been that long?”

Clayton inclined his head. “Yes, my lord.”

“How amusing,” Ingranad mused, though there was no mirth in his tone. “That means it has been well over ten thousand years since our kind was sealed away. And yet…” He gestured to them with a slow, deliberate movement. “You know nothing of it.”

The three Archmages exchanged brief glances, confusion flickering across their corrupted features.

Natia hesitated before speaking. “Sealed… My lord, forgive my ignorance, but I do not recall any such history.”

“No, you would not,” Ingranad said, his voice turning cold. “Because your precious human historians erased it.”

Sofiko frowned. “They erased the record of your existence?”

“They did more than that.” Ingranad’s fingers flexed against the armrest of his throne. “They buried it. They ensured that no mortal mind would even remember that our war ever took place.”

He exhaled, the sound coming out in a slow, measured growl. “How fitting, then, that history shall soon remember us once more.”

Clayton took a step forward. “My lord, if history has forgotten us, then humanity will be ill-prepared for our return.”

“Precisely,” Ingranad said. “But we are still few. That must change.”

The three Archmages straightened, sensing the shift in their master’s tone.

“I have slept for far too long,” Ingranad continued, his voice dark and brooding. “But even now, I can still feel them. The others. My brethren, sealed away in the depths of ancient dungeons across this world.”

His eyes burned brighter, and the air around him crackled with malefic energy. “You three will go forth and release them.”

Clayton’s monstrous form tensed slightly. “Do you know where they are, my lord?”

“I know their presence,” Ingranad said, his tone impatient. “I can sense the locations of their prisons, but I care not for the mortal names of the kingdoms that now claim the land. You, however, will determine their whereabouts.”

Natia placed a hand over her chest and bowed slightly. “Then we shall go at once, Lord Ingranad. If you would grant us the directions…”

Ingranad extended one clawed hand and gestured in the air. Dark energy pulsed from his fingertips, tracing three separate paths, each stretching toward a different horizon.

“You will each take a path,” he commanded. “Follow the direction I have given you, and you will find the dungeons. There, you will shatter the ancient seals and awaken those who have long been denied their vengeance.”

His burning gaze fell upon each of them in turn.

“Natia, your path leads toward the east. It is the second dungeon that you will come across after flying for a thousand miles.” His lip curled in disdain. “Unseal my brethren and slaughter the nearby territories of these foolish humans.”

Natia’s wings unfurled slightly, her eyes gleaming. “As you command, my lord.”

“Clayton,” Ingranad continued, “yours leads to the west and it must be the fifth dungeon that you will come across. After unsealing my brethren, create a region of pure terror there.”

Clayton’s grin widened, revealing jagged, blackened teeth. “It will be my pleasure.”

“And Sofiko.” Ingranad’s voice dropped slightly, his tone filled with dark satisfaction. “Yours lies closer as in the south just a few hundred miles away is the dungeon where my brethren are trapped. Create a reign of terror in that place.”

Sofiko bowed her head, a cruel smirk playing on her lips. “They will know despair before the end.”

Ingranad leaned forward, his fingers steepled together. “Your tasks are simple. Find the dungeons. Break the seals. And let our true forces rise.”

The three demonic Archmages knelt once more, their voices speaking as one.

“It shall be done, Lord Ingranad.”

With that, they turned, their corrupted forms shifting, their wings unfurling as dark energy surged around them.

Then, with a single, powerful motion, they took to the skies.

The three demonic Archmages traversed vast distances in mere hours, cutting through the skies like falling stars of blackened flame. Their presence left trails of corruption in the air, streaks of malevolence that warped the very wind around them.

Natia descended first, landing before an ancient dungeon hidden beneath the ruins of an old fortress within the Jorailian Kingdom. Clayton arrived at the dense, fertile lands of the bordering kingdom, finding his dungeon hidden beneath the roots of an ancient, sacred tree. And Sofiko, guided by the presence of her brethren, reached the dungeon buried beneath the southern cliffs of Eloriath’s border.

Each dungeon was different, but they shared one common trait—at their heart, buried deep within their depths, lay the statues.

Row upon row of silent, foreboding figures, their forms encased in stone.

With wicked grins, the demonic Archmages raised their hands and unleashed their magic.

Dark energy surged forward, crashing against the seals that had long held their brethren captive.

The seals groaned in protest. But time, and corruption, had weakened them.

Cracks spread.

And then—

With a deafening roar, the seals shattered. The statues trembled.

And then, one by one, they began to awaken.

The invasion had truly begun.

~~

The echoes of shattering stone reverberated through the depths of the dungeons as the seals broke, one after another. The air itself seemed to tremble, charged with a suffocating malice that spread outward in rippling waves. It was as though the world recoiled at what had just been unleashed.

Demonic Archmage Natia stood in the dimly lit chamber of the Jorailian dungeon, watching as the first of the statues before her cracked, glowing fissures spreading across its surface like veins of molten hatred. A low, guttural growl rumbled through the chamber, followed by a sound she had not heard in millennia—breath. The ragged, shuddering exhalation of something that had long been denied life.

With a final, thunderous crack, the stone prison collapsed, revealing the beast within.

It was enormous—its body wreathed in shifting tendrils of black smoke, its fur ablaze with dark fire. Its eyes burned like emerald embers, piercing the dim chamber with an eerie, inhuman intelligence. The Infernal Hound lifted its head and released a howl that sent ripples of corruption through the air. The rest of the statues began to tremble in response, one by one awakening from their ageless slumber.

A twisted smile curled across Natia’s lips.

“Rise, demons,” she purred, stepping forward. “Your slumber is over. The world that cast you into the shadows has forgotten you… but I promise you, they will remember soon enough.”

More howls joined the first, the sound overlapping into a chorus of monstrous cries. The Infernal Hounds stepped free of their shattered prisons, dozens upon dozens of them, their claws carving deep gouges into the stone floor. Some of them flickered in and out of sight, their bodies phasing between this world and the abyss from which they had been banished. Others prowled forward, their flames licking hungrily at the air as if tasting the magic around them.

Natia extended her arms, feeling the raw, boundless energy of the beasts before her. These creatures were not simply war animals. They were destruction given form, creatures of relentless pursuit and merciless slaughter.

Experience new stories on ReadNovelFull.com.Côm

“Come,” she commanded, her wings unfurling as she turned towards the exit of the dungeon. “Let us set this world ablaze.”

And the Infernal Hounds obeyed.

Far to the west, in the neighboring kingdom, Demonic Archmage Clayton let out a breath of satisfaction as the last of the stone seals collapsed. The air was thick with a sickly, venomous haze, the remnants of broken wards still flickering like dying embers.

Before him, the newly freed Gloomwings unfurled their massive, leathery wings, their twisted, nightmarish forms stretching for the first time in thousands of years. Their bodies were long and sinewy, humanoid yet insect-like, their elongated fingers tipped with dripping claws that oozed a black, viscous substance. Their eyes—dozens of them, scattered across their faces and torsos—blinked open one by one, their eerie, pupil-less glow locking onto Clayton in silent recognition.

“Ahhh… This is such beauty,” Clayton murmured, stepping forward. He reached out and gently ran a clawed hand along the wing of the nearest creature, feeling the rough, leathery texture beneath his touch. It shuddered at his contact, but it did not pull away.

“My lord wanted to know if you remember…” he whispered to the creatures, his voice velvety smooth, dripping with poisonous intent. “You remember the sky, the hunt, the taste of flesh on your tongues…”

One of the Gloomwings let out a rattling hiss, its wings snapping open with a sharp whoosh that sent a gust of wind howling through the chamber. The others followed suit, their wings expanding, their hunger awakening.

Clayton chuckled, his grin widening.

“Yes, my darlings. You are free now. And I have a feast prepared for you.”

Without another word, he turned, his form shifting into dark mist as he ascended towards the surface. The Gloomwings screeched in unison, their cries high and piercing, unnatural and maddening.

Then, with a great rush of wind and shadows, they took to the skies, blotting out the sun.

Meanwhile, at the southern border of the Eloriath Kingdom, Demonic Archmage Sofiko stood amid the rubble of her own dungeon’s shattered seals. The dust had barely settled, but already the ground trembled beneath her feet.

Abyssal Guardians.

They emerged from their prisons like titans shaking off the remnants of time. Their hulking forms were covered in thick, chitinous plates, their spiked limbs moving with eerie precision despite their massive size. Their eyes burned cold, devoid of emotion, their monstrous visages resembling neither man nor beast.

Sofiko watched them with silent admiration.

“My lord mentioned that you were the last line of the abyss,” she said softly, her voice carrying through the cavern. “The unbreakable vanguard. Even as the gods themselves sought to erase our kind, you stood. And now… you shall stand once more.”

The largest of the Abyssal Guardians turned to her, its glowing eyes locking onto hers. There was no need for words—only understanding. Only obedience.

She lifted a hand, her fingers curling slightly.

“Follow me,” she commanded.

And the ground shook as they obeyed.

The night sky above Verdant Dawn Academy was empty, save for the crimson glow of the corrupted moon. Ingranad sat upon his throne, his fingers still steepled, his burning eyes fixed upon the horizon.

He could feel them now.

His newly awakened forces spread across the land, moving like shadows upon the world. The Infernal Hounds, slipping through the forests of Jorailian, setting the earth ablaze in their wake.

The Gloomwings, descending upon towns, their venomous claws turning the once-thriving settlements into husks of writhing madness.

The Abyssal Guardians, marching through the southern borders like an unstoppable tide, their presence alone a force of dread.

And it was only the beginning.

A slow smile spread across Ingranad’s lips.

The world had forgotten the demons.

But it would remember them soon enough.