Chapter 181 Great Talents of Eloriath Kingdom

While Alaric dedicated his days to the intricate art of artifact creation at Steele Manor, a world away, a different kind of battle was being waged across the ravaged lands of Eloriath. Kenneth, alongside his hastily assembled team of noble heirs, was carving a bloody path through demon-infested territories. Leading their small band was the formidable Professor Lilliana, her hair appeared to be a beacon of defiance against the encroaching darkness, her elemental magic a devastating force against the demonic hordes.

Their journey was a relentless cycle of travel and combat, village to village, town to town, each location a grim testament to the demons’ destructive rampage. Ruined homes, desecrated temples, and the lingering stench of demonic corruption marked their progress. Yet, amidst the desolation, Kenneth moved with a grim determination, his heart hardening with each demon he felled.

His comrades, noble scions like Petre Kendall, Jovan Hillington, and Milos Frinton, fought with a mixture of fear and grim resolve. They were skilled warriors and mages, trained from birth in the arts of combat, but even their noble lineage and rigorous training barely prepared them for the sheer brutality and relentless onslaught of the demonic forces. Each battle was a grueling test of endurance, a desperate struggle for survival against creatures whose very essence seemed to defy the natural order.

“Kenneth, behind you!” Jovan Hillington yelled, his voice strained as he deflected a clawed swipe from a Lesser Demon. “Another one flanking from the left!”

Kenneth, his eyes narrowed, reacted instantly, his blade a blur of motion as he parried a crude demonic axe wielded by a hulking Imp. “[Eternal Emperor’s Swift Strike!]” he roared internally, channeling his system’s power into a lightning-fast counterattack that cleaved through the Imp’s demonic flesh, felling the creature with a sickening thud.

“Damn these things are relentless,” Milos Frinton grunted, sweat dripping from his brow as he unleashed a barrage of fire magic, incinerating a pack of Gremlins that swarmed towards them. “Professor Lilliana, how much further to the village?”

Lilliana, her crimson robes swirling around her as she effortlessly conjured a swirling vortex of wind to scatter a cloud of poisonous spores, pointed towards the horizon. “Just over that ridge, Milos,” she replied, her voice calm and authoritative amidst the chaos of battle. “The scouts reported heavy demonic presence. Be prepared for anything.”

Unbeknownst to his weary companions, Kenneth fought with an inner fire that went beyond mere duty or survival. Each demon he dispatched was not just a threat neutralized, but a step further on his path to power. With every demonic kill, the Time-Locking Orb, nestled discreetly within his inner robes, pulsed with a faint surge of energy, subtly replenishing its reserves. And with each fallen foe, the Eternal Emperor System showered him with experience points, fueling his rapid ascent through the ranks of power.

[Experience Points Gained: 500]

[Eternal Emperor System Level Up! Current Level: 29]

[System Rank: Expert Mage (Level 29/30)]

Kenneth felt the familiar surge of power coursing through his veins with each notification, a silent symphony of growth playing out beneath the surface of the brutal battles. He was acutely aware that he was on the cusp of a major breakthrough, just a few more villages, a few more demonic hordes, and he would ascend to the coveted rank of Master Mage, a milestone that would signify a significant leap in his abilities.

‘Almost there,’ Kenneth thought, his gaze hardening with resolve as he surveyed the battlefield, his blade dripping with demonic ichor. ‘Just a little bit more… and I will reach System Rank 30. Then… then things will truly become interesting.’

His teammates, however, remained oblivious to the true source of Kenneth’s unwavering determination and the silent power accumulating within him. They saw only a fellow noble heir, fighting with commendable courage and skill, a valuable member of their struggling team. They had no inkling that while they were expending every ounce of their strength and magic, battling demons that even at their weakest were formidable opponents, Kenneth was reaping a hidden harvest, growing stronger with each swing of his blade, each demonic corpse that littered the ravaged landscapes.

In a different corner of the Eloriath Kingdom, far removed from Kenneth’s bloody path, another transmigrator was forging his own destiny amidst the demonic chaos. Noah, wielding the power of the Ultimate Alchemist System, was orchestrating a different kind of war against the demonic forces. His battlefield was not the front lines, but the alchemical laboratory, his weapons not swords and spells, but potent elixirs and concoctions designed to empower demon slayers.

Noah’s team, unlike Kenneth’s band of noble warriors, was a diverse assembly of alchemists and artificers, individuals whose strengths lay not in direct combat, but in strategic support and magical innovation. Leading this unconventional group was Professor Maelis, a formidable Archmage whose mastery of Magic Martial Arts was legendary, her elegant movements belying a devastating combat prowess.

“Noah, are the potency elixirs ready for distribution?” Professor Maelis asked, her voice sharp and efficient as she oversaw the meticulous preparations in their makeshift alchemical workshop, a repurposed guild hall in a relatively untouched town.

Noah, his brow furrowed in concentration as he carefully measured out ingredients for a complex potion, nodded, his movements precise and deliberate. “Almost, Professor,” he replied, his voice focused. “Just finalizing the stabilization process for the ‘Demonic Bane’ elixir. It’s proving… volatile, even with the enhanced binding agents.”

His teammates, Pavlina, Aneta Pennington, and Dijana, worked with focused intensity around him, each contributing to the complex alchemical process, grinding herbs, distilling essences, and meticulously labeling vials filled with glowing liquids. Their workshop was a symphony of bubbling beakers, fragrant fumes, and the soft clinking of glass, a stark contrast to the brutal chaos that reigned outside.

“We’re receiving urgent requests from the ranger patrols near the Silverwood Forest,” Aneta Pennington reported, her voice laced with urgency as she consulted a hastily scribbled message. “They’re facing a surge of Shadow Demons. They desperately need the ‘Sunstone Draught’ and any anti-shadow elixirs you can spare.”

Noah nodded grimly, his expression hardening with resolve. “Prepare a priority shipment, Dijana,” he instructed, his voice decisive. “Maximize the concentration of ‘Sunstone Draught’ in each vial. And include a batch of ‘Shadow Veil’ antidote. Those ranger patrols are our first line of defense in that sector.”

Noah’s strategy was clear: empower others to fight the demons, indirectly reaping the rewards of their victories. Each time an elixir concocted by him was used to slay a demon, each time a demon fell to a warrior enhanced by his potions, the Ultimate Alchemist System rewarded him with experience points, fueling his own growth and unlocking new, even more potent recipes.

[Experience Points Gained: 750 (Elixir-Assisted Demon Kill)]

[Ultimate Alchemist System Recipe Unlocked: ‘Greater Demonic Ward Potion’]

[System Points Gained: 100]

Noah felt the familiar surge of system energy, a quiet satisfaction blooming within him with each notification. His path to power was different from Kenneth’s, less direct, less overtly combative, but equally effective. He was a master manipulator of energies, a weaver of alchemical wonders, growing stronger by empowering others, by indirectly contributing to the war effort.

‘The ‘Greater Demonic Ward Potion’,’ Noah thought, his mind already racing, analyzing the newly unlocked recipe. ‘Potentially invaluable for fortified settlements. If we can mass-produce this…’

While both Kenneth and Noah were rapidly ascending the ranks of power, their respective teams unknowingly benefiting from their transmigrator companions’ hidden systems, a darker, more ominous development was brewing on the demonic front. The truly powerful demons, the Demon Lords and their lieutenants, had thus far remained largely absent from the scattered skirmishes and village raids. Instead, they were gathering their forces, consolidating their power, amassing their demonic legions at a strategically significant location: an ancient, ruined fort overlooking a major dungeon entrance, not far from the Royal Capital, Eryndal.

Whispers of this demonic consolidation reached the ears of the Eloriath Kingdom’s war council, carried by frantic scouts and desperate refugees. The reports painted a chilling picture: tens of thousands of demons, low-ranking Gremlins and Imps, alongside more formidable Hellhounds and Shadow Demons, and even the terrifying presence of elite Abyssal Knights, all converging upon this ancient fortress, transforming it into a demonic stronghold, a staging ground for a major offensive.

The direction of this demonic mobilization was unmistakable, chillingly clear. Their target was not isolated villages or remote noble estates. Their target was Eryndal, the Royal Capital, the heart of the Eloriath Kingdom, the seat of its power, the symbol of its resilience.

In response to this looming threat, King Thaleon issued a royal decree, a desperate call to arms that echoed across the beleaguered kingdom. Armies stationed at distant borders were recalled, knights from every corner of Eloriath were summoned, and even the traditionally independent guilds and trade unions were urged to contribute their strongest members to the Royal Capital’s defense.

Eryndal, the once-proud capital, transformed into a city under siege, a bustling hub of military mobilization. The streets thronged with soldiers in gleaming armor, mages in flowing robes, and grim-faced guild warriors, all converging upon the city, preparing for the inevitable demonic onslaught. The air crackled with tension, a mixture of fear and grim determination, a kingdom bracing itself for a battle that would determine its very survival.

~~

Amidst the rising tide of demonic chaos engulfing the Eloriath Kingdom, and while Alaric Steele delved into the intricacies of artifact creation, another figure of considerable talent was making his way towards the besieged capital of Eryndal. This was Eskil, a mere sixteen years of age, yet already a name whispered with respect and a touch of apprehension amongst the military ranks – a martial prodigy who, in his own youthful ambition, considered the aloof Alaric Steele as his rival, though the artificer himself remained blissfully unaware of this self-proclaimed rivalry.

For Eskil, the past month had been a grueling period of recovery. The forbidden techniques he had unleashed during the conflict with the Jorailian Kingdom, coupled with the brutal clashes against their disciplined soldiers and commanders, had left him battered and broken. Only recently had he managed to claw his way back to full strength, his youthful resilience finally overcoming the lingering aches and internal injuries. His hard-won recovery was abruptly shattered by the horrifying news of the demonic emergence, the chilling tales of villages and towns falling to the encroaching darkness spreading like wildfire across Eloriath.

As a Major in the Eloriath army, stationed at the volatile Eastern Borders bordering the Jorailian Kingdom, Eskil was among the first to receive the urgent recall order to Eryndal. The border garrisons, stretched thin and facing no immediate threat from Jorail, were being stripped of their forces to bolster the capital’s defenses. Eskil, despite his recent recovery, was deemed a vital asset, his Master Martialist rank and burgeoning reputation as a combat prodigy making him a valuable addition to the city’s desperate defenses against the demonic onslaught.

The journey to Eryndal was far from a simple march. The roads, once bustling arteries of commerce and travel, were now treacherous paths haunted by roaming packs of demons, stragglers from the larger incursions, preying on isolated travelers and undefended settlements. For Eskil and his detachment of soldiers, the journey became a constant series of bloody skirmishes, each encounter a brutal test of their skills and resolve.

“Major Eskil, demons sighted ahead!” Sergeant Photios yelled, his voice strained as he pointed towards a cluster of ruined buildings in the distance, dark figures flitting amidst the debris. “Looks like a pack of Gremlins, maybe some Imps mixed in.”

Eskil, his youthful face set in a grim line, drew his blade, the polished steel gleaming in the dim light filtering through the overcast sky. “Prepare for engagement!” he commanded, his voice ringing with authority despite his young age. “Boris, Nedelko, flank left! Dimitrij, Serije, cover the right! Saskia, Tabea, Anke, Hannah, maintain ranged support! We move as one, no stragglers!”

His soldiers, a mix of seasoned veterans and fresh recruits, moved with practiced efficiency, their faces grim, their hands gripping their weapons tightly. They had witnessed Eskil’s prowess in battle, his almost preternatural skill with the blade, his unwavering courage in the face of overwhelming odds. They trusted his command, even as fear gnawed at their hearts.

As they approached the ruined village, the demonic figures materialized from the shadows, screeching and gibbering, their grotesque forms a horrifying mockery of life. Gremlins, small, agile demons with razor-sharp claws and teeth, darted forward, while hulking Imps, wielding crude axes and exuding a stench of sulfur and decay, lumbered into the fray.

“For Eloriath!” Eskil roared, launching himself into the heart of the demonic horde, his blade a whirlwind of motion. “Crimson Wave Slash!” he bellowed internally, channeling his martial energy into a devastating technique. His sword blurred, leaving behind a crimson arc of pure force that cleaved through the air, bisecting a charging Gremlin and sending it sprawling in two pieces.

Boris and Nedelko, flanking left as ordered, engaged the remaining Gremlins, their swords flashing in a flurry of parries and ripostes. “Steel Wall Defense!” Boris yelled, his shield raised, deflecting a flurry of demonic claws, while Nedelko, nimble and quick, danced around the demonic attacks, his blade finding gaps in their crude defenses.

Dimitrij and Serije, on the right flank, faced the lumbering Imps, their heavier armor and sturdier weapons better suited for engaging the hulking demons. “Ironclad Formation!” Dimitrij commanded, their shields locking together, forming a defensive line against the Imps’ brute force attacks. Serije, wielding a heavy warhammer, smashed into the Imps’ ranks, his blows cracking demonic bones and sending them reeling.

From the rear, Saskia, Tabea Ruhle, Anke Mader, and Hannah Fitche unleashed a barrage of ranged attacks, arrows tipped with silver and bolts of elemental magic raining down upon the demonic horde. “Silver Arrow Volley!” Saskia commanded, her bowstring humming as she loosed a stream of projectiles, each arrow finding its mark with deadly accuracy. “Frostbolt Barrage!” Tabea Ruhle chanted, her hands weaving intricate gestures, unleashing bolts of ice magic that froze Gremlins in their tracks, shattering them into brittle fragments.

The battle raged, a chaotic dance of steel and magic against demonic claws and teeth. The demons, though individually weaker than Eskil and his elite soldiers, were relentless in their attacks, their sheer numbers threatening to overwhelm the small detachment. Casualties began to mount. Sergeant Photios cried out as a Gremlin’s claws raked across his arm, drawing blood. Anke Mader stumbled back, a searing burn mark on her leg where an Imp had spat a glob of demonic fire.

Yet, amidst the carnage, Eskil moved like a force of nature, his blade a blur of lethal precision. He danced through the demonic ranks, his movements fluid and deadly, each strike perfectly aimed, each parry flawlessly executed. He unleashed a flurry of techniques, each strike bearing a three-word name that echoed in his mind as he fought, channeling his martial prowess into devastating attacks.

“Whirlwind Steel Dance!” he thought, spinning in a whirlwind of motion, his blade a silver cyclone that carved through demonic flesh, leaving a trail of dismembered limbs and severed heads in his wake. “Piercing Dragon Thrust!” he roared internally, lunging forward with blinding speed, his sword a silver serpent striking with deadly precision, piercing through an Imp’s thick hide and impaling it through the heart. “Raging Tiger Cleave!” he bellowed in his mind, unleashing a powerful overhead strike, his blade a descending arc of steel that cleaved an incoming Gremlin in half.

With each demon that fell to his blade, Eskil felt a subtle yet undeniable surge of power coursing through him. The dark essence seed within his core pulsed with a dark energy, feeding on the demonic essence released upon their demise, growing denser, more potent. The Iron Fanged Tiger beast essence within him stirred, roaring silently within his soul, its predatory instincts sharpening, its primal strength amplifying.

‘Yes…’ Eskil thought, a grim satisfaction hardening his gaze as he cleaved through another demon. ‘This is it. This is the way. Slaughter them all. Let their deaths fuel my power. Let their essence make me stronger.’

He knew he could not openly utilize the full extent of his dark powers, not in front of his comrades, not in the service of the Eloriath Kingdom. The dark essence seed and the Iron Fanged Tiger beast essence were forbidden knowledge, powers deemed heretical, dangerous, and corrupting by the Radiant Church and the kingdom’s orthodox mages. He kept them hidden, a secret weapon, a hidden source of strength to be used only when absolutely necessary, or when he could conceal their true nature.

In front of his soldiers, he remained the disciplined, honorable Major Eskil, relying solely on his honed sword techniques, his martial skill, his unwavering resolve. He presented his demon slaying as a matter of duty, of righteous fury against the demonic invaders, a moral imperative to protect the innocent civilians caught in the crossfire.

“We must press on!” Eskil commanded, his voice ringing with righteous conviction after the last Gremlin fell, its demonic form dissolving into wisps of black smoke. “There may be survivors in the village. We cannot leave them to the mercy of these monsters!” His words were met with nods of weary agreement from his soldiers, their faces etched with exhaustion and grief, but their resolve unbroken. They followed their Major, their young, formidable leader, deeper into the ruined village, seeking out any remaining demons, any sign of survivors, driven by a mixture of duty, fear, and a desperate hope for a glimmer of light in the encroaching darkness.

The journey to Eryndal continued in this grim fashion, a relentless cycle of travel, battle, and grim victories punctuated by the ever-present threat of demonic ambush. With each demon slain, Eskil grew stronger, his dark powers subtly amplifying, his martial prowess sharpening. He was becoming a force to be reckoned with, a whirlwind of steel and shadow, a warrior forged in the fires of demonic conflict, unknowingly walking a path that diverged further and further from the light, deeper and deeper into the shadows of forbidden power.

Even after reaching the besieged capital of Eryndal, the sense of grim purpose did not leave Eskil. The city was a hive of military activity, soldiers drilling in the streets, mages chanting incantations, the air thick with tension and the scent of steel and sweat. But even within the city walls, the threat of demons was ever-present, with reports of demonic incursions into the city outskirts, desperate skirmishes fought in the shadows of the city walls.

Eskil, restless and driven by his insatiable need to grow stronger, to fuel his dark powers, could not remain idle within the city confines. He sought out his commanding officer, requesting permission to lead patrols into the demon-infested areas surrounding Eryndal, ostensibly to scout for demonic activity and protect the city’s vulnerable perimeter.

“Major Eskil,” Captain Serije greeted him, his voice weary, his face etched with lines of stress. “You just arrived, lad. Shouldn’t you be resting? You and your detachment have been fighting non-stop since the border.”

Eskil stood tall, his youthful features set in a determined expression. “Captain,” he replied, his voice firm, “rest can wait. Civilians are still trapped outside the city walls. Demons are still roaming free. We cannot afford to rest while innocent lives are at stake.”

Captain Serije studied Eskil’s unwavering gaze, a flicker of respect in his weary eyes. “You’re a driven one, Eskil, I’ll give you that,” he sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. “Alright, lad. Take your detachment. Patrol the western outskirts, towards the old quarry. Reports of demonic activity there. But be careful, Eskil. These aren’t just Gremlins and Imps anymore. Rumors of stronger demons, Shadow Demons, even Hellhounds, sighted near the capital.”

Eskil nodded, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous anticipation. “Understood, Captain,” he replied, a grim smile playing on his lips. “We will be… vigilant.”

As Eskil gathered his detachment once more, preparing to venture back into the demon-haunted lands surrounding Eryndal, his thoughts were far from the noble pronouncements he had voiced to his Captain. ‘Shadow Demons, Hellhounds…’ he mused, his dark essence seed stirring within him, a hunger awakening in his soul. ‘Stronger demons… more potent essence… more power for me.’