Chapter 272: Echoes of Disappearance, Seeds of New Wars

The smoking crater where the Steele Family territory had once stood was a scene of utter, bewildered desolation. Lord Ingranad, his colossal form radiating waves of suppressed fury, stared at the empty space. His eight Archdemon lieutenants, their demonic might momentarily useless, mirrored his stunned silence.

“Gone?” the corrupted Gideon Thorne rasped, his voice like grinding magma. “The entire fortress… vanished?”

“Impossible,” the spectral Rahel Klinghoffer whispered, shadows coalescing and dissipating around her in agitation. “Such large-scale spatial transference… the energy required… the precision…”

Martial King Patrick, his demonic plate armor still dented from his earlier skirmishes, simply roared in frustration, slamming a massive fist into the scorched earth. “Cowards! They fled like rats!”

Only Bartolmew, his dark eyes narrowed, seemed to be processing the event with cold, analytical detachment. “Not fled, Patrick,” he corrected, his voice a chilling rasp. “Relocated. Intact. That was no chaotic escape. That was… a planned strategic withdrawal of unprecedented scale.” He looked at Ingranad. “Lord Ingranad, this Alaric Steele… he is more than just a talented artificer. His understanding of spatial mechanics, or his access to technologies that manipulate it, is… alarming.”

Ingranad finally spoke, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the very air, causing the ground to tremble. “Find them.”

The command was simple. Absolute.

“Scour every inch of this blighted kingdom,” Ingranad continued, his multiple eyes burning with cold fire. “Deploy the Shadow Seekers. Unleash the Soul Hounds. I want every demonic scryer, every abyssal oracle, focused on locating that… anomaly. That fortress that flies.”

He turned, his gaze sweeping over his Archdemon commanders. “They cannot hide forever. And when we find them… their ingenuity will grant them no further escape. Only a more… thorough… annihilation.”

His frustration was immense. This Steele gnat had not only blunted his legions with advanced artifacts but had now denied him the satisfaction of a direct, crushing victory. The resources expended, the legions sacrificed to bring back his fallen Archdemons for this specific siege… all for naught. The humiliation was a burning coal in his demonic heart.

“For now,” Ingranad declared, his voice regaining its terrifying authority, “we consolidate our gains in Eloriath. The Steele Family has bought the other human remnants a brief respite. Let them enjoy it. Their time will come. Once Eloriath is fully ashes under my dominion, I will personally hunt down this Alaric Steele and his flying fortress, wherever he has scuttled off to.”

The Archdemons bowed, their earlier shock replaced by a renewed, vicious determination. Their Lord had spoken. The hunt would continue. But first, the remnants of a kingdom awaited their feasting.

News of the Steele Family’s impossible escape, and the subsequent, furious consolidation of demonic forces across Eloriath, sent shockwaves through the other major powers.

In Jorailia, King Rouben Yachvili was in his war room, staring at the updated map with a mixture of disbelief and dawning horror. His carefully crafted excuses for not aiding Steele now felt… dangerously shortsighted.

“Vanished?” Lord Kaelen, his chief minister, stammered, his usually gaunt face even paler. “The entire Steele territory? How is such a thing even conceivable?”

General Tauron, who had reluctantly accepted his King’s decision not to intervene, now slammed a gauntleted fist onto the table. “I told you, Your Majesty! Steele was not to be underestimated! We should have aided him! We could have crushed Ingranad’s legion!”

“And what now, General?” Baron Varis, the treasurer, sneered, though his voice lacked its usual confidence. “Steele is gone. The supply of those… artifacts… has ceased. Our legions in the east are already reporting increased demonic resistance, more sophisticated attacks. Without those Steele-tech advantages…”

King Rouben Yachvili silenced them with a raised hand. His mind raced. Steele had asked for aid. He had refused. Now, Steele was gone, taking his miraculous technology with him. And Ingranad’s forces, unhindered by a western threat, would undoubtedly turn their full attention eastwards. Towards Jorailia.

’He will not forget this,’ Rouben Yachvili thought, a cold dread settling in his heart. ’Alaric Steele is not a man to forgive a slight, especially one that endangered his entire family. When he resurfaces… and he will resurface, a man of his power does not simply vanish… he will remember who stood by and watched.’

The prospect of facing a vengeful Alaric Steele, perhaps allied with other powers, armed with even more devastating artifacts, was a terrifying one. Jorailia had gained territory, yes. But it had potentially made a far more dangerous enemy.

“We must… bolster our own defenses,” King Rouben Yachvili said finally, his voice strained. “Increase artifact research. Perhaps… attempt to replicate Steele’s designs? And send… discreet envoys. To other kingdoms. To the Phantom Assembly, even. We may need… new alliances.” The game had changed, and Jorailia was suddenly feeling very exposed.

Within the shadowy depths of the Phantom Assembly’s hidden strongholds, Lord Vortan received the news of the Steele Family’s disappearance with a rare, almost visible, flicker of surprise within his obscuring darkness.

Archmage Zylle Mordan stood before him, her beautiful face impassive, though her obsidian eyes held a hint of grim satisfaction. She had delivered the news of Steele’s request for aid, and Vortan’s subsequent refusal. Now, she delivered the outcome.

“They vanished, Lord Vortan,” Zylle stated calmly. “The entire Steele territory. Lifted from the earth. Our operatives confirm the site is now a crater. No trace of their destination.”

Silas, the gaunt martialist, let out a dry chuckle. “So, the young Lord Steele had one final trick up his sleeve. Impressive. Annoying, but impressive.”

Lord Vortan remained silent for a long moment, the shadows around him seeming to coil and writhe. ’Teleporting an entire estate… The resources… the power… the sheer audacity… This Steele is more than just an artificer. He is a force of nature. A dangerous, unpredictable one.’

He, like King Rouben Yachvili, had calculated the odds of Steele surviving Ingranad’s assault as minimal. He had anticipated scavenging the remnants of Steele’s genius. Now, that genius was gone, taking its secrets with it. And taking the future supply of those remarkably effective anti-demonic artifacts.

“Our operatives equipped with his Orbs and Traps,” Zylle reported, her voice devoid of emotion, “have already noted a significant increase in the difficulty of their… cleansing operations. The demons are adapting, and without a steady resupply of Steele’s specialized tools…”

“Our expansion will slow,” Vortan finished, his voice a silken whisper that nevertheless carried a chilling weight. “Our casualties will rise. Ingranad, unburdened by the Steele threat, will undoubtedly focus more of his might against us and the Jorailians.”

He had played a strategic game, refusing aid to a potential rival, hoping to benefit from his fall. Now, that game had backfired. Spectacularly.

’Steele will not forget this betrayal,’ Vortan knew. ’He will see our refusal not as a strategic calculation, but as a deliberate act of abandonment. When he re-emerges, and a power like his will always re-emerge, he will be an enemy. A powerful, resourceful, and utterly ruthless enemy.’

The Phantom Assembly thrived in chaos, yes. But a chaotic force as potent and unpredictable as Alaric Steele, now bearing a grudge… that was a different kind of chaos altogether. One that could potentially unravel even Lord Vortan’s carefully woven webs.

“Zylle,” Vortan commanded, his voice regaining its usual shadowy authority. “Double our internal research efforts. We must replicate Steele’s artifact principles. The knowledge exists; it is merely… obscured. Find it. Unlock it. We cannot remain dependent on a source that is now… hostile.”

“And Silas,” he continued, “increase surveillance on all known associates of Alaric Steele. Any communication. Any movement. We must know where he has gone. And what he plans next.”

Lord Vortan understood. The game had changed. And the Phantom Assembly, for all its shadowy power, might soon find itself facing a reckoning from a young lord they had grievously underestimated.

While kings and dark lords fretted over their miscalculations, the Steele Family fortress, now nestled within the secluded, snow-swept valley of the Mystic Ice Sect, was a hive of activity.

The teleportation had been jarring, disorienting, but remarkably successful. The massive estate – manor, Sunken Pearl annex, workshops, and a significant swathe of surrounding land – now occupied a vast, magically flattened plateau within the valley, shielded by the towering Dragon’s Spine Peaks.

Alaric’s first priority was security and stability.

“Priscilla! Iridelle! Meng Yao!” Alaric’s voice commanded attention in the manor’s war room, which was already operational, holographic displays flickering with energy readings and territorial maps. “The Azure Leviathan array depleted its primary cores during the jump. We are currently running on the manor’s internal Seventh Order Behemoth core and the six reserve Sixth Order cores. It’s stable, but not optimal for long-term defense against repeated Arch-level assault.”

Priscilla, her Archmage senses already analyzing the new environment, nodded. “The ambient magical energy here is different, Lord Alaric. Colder. More attuned to ice and wind. The Seventh Order Behemoth core, with its storm affinity, resonates well, but it’s being strained maintaining the localized climate within our translocated territory.”

Indeed, Alaric had immediately activated a secondary array Iridelle and Natasha had prepared – the ’Temperate Haven Matrix’. Drawing power from the main core, it created a bubble of moderate climate around the Steele lands within the icy valley. The meticulously cultivated herb gardens, the pastures for their non-arctic mounts like Kai, the very soil of their farmlands – all required a climate far removed from the natural state of the Dragon’s Spine Peaks.

“The Temperate Haven is drawing approximately thirty percent of the Behemoth core’s current output,” Iridelle reported, her fingers flying across a console. “Leaving the main defensive barrier, the repurposed ’Arctic Warden’ which is now our outermost shield, at seventy percent capacity. It’s strong, but if Ingranad were to find us and launch another eight-Archdemon assault…”

“He won’t find us easily,” Alaric stated confidently. “The Azure Leviathan jump was designed to leave minimal spatial residue. And this valley is shielded by ancient Ice Sect wards and its own remote geography. But we cannot be complacent.”

He turned to Meng Yao. “Sect Mistress. Your Mystic Ice Sect’s territory is now our shared home. We need to integrate our defenses. Your ancient ice barriers, while vulnerable to demonic fire, are still potent against other threats and can act as a first line of detection. We will reinforce them, link them to our own power grid.”

Meng Yao bowed deeply, her obsidian eyes shining with devotion. “Lord Alaric, my Sect and all its resources are yours to command. Our ice formations, our knowledge of these peaks… we will weave a defense that no demon can breach.”

“Good.” Alaric then addressed his other women. “Lyra, Cassandra, Fiora. Your martial prowess is needed. The lands surrounding this valley, beyond the immediate Sect territory, are wild, untamed. Teeming with powerful ice-aspected beasts. Sixth Order, perhaps even dormant Seventh Order entities if the legends are true.”

His eyes gleamed. “We need cores. Many cores. To replenish our reserves, to power new artifacts, to bolster our defenses further. And,” his gaze flickered towards Brita, who stood silently observing, “to complete certain… personal upgrades.”

Brita met his gaze, a shiver of anticipation running through her. The promise of fully awakening her Python Essence, fueled by Seventh Order cores, was a potent lure.

“Our existing mounts – Kai, Ignis, Solara, Nyx, Atlas – they are magnificent, but primarily air-aspected or shadow-aspected,” Alaric continued. “They will struggle in this extreme cold for prolonged periods without constant magical support. We need to acquire local, ice-adapted beasts. Frost Wyverns, Glacial Mammoths, Arctic Griffins. Creatures that thrive in this environment. They will serve as our new mounts, our heavy transport, our shock troops.”

“The hunt begins anew,” Lyra said, a fierce smile on her lips.

“And this time, the prey is on our doorstep,” Cassandra added, her hand instinctively going to her sword.

Fiora bounced eagerly. “More beasts to fight! My Dragon Heart thirsts for battle!”

“Griselda, my dear,” Alaric turned to his wife, his voice softening. “Your role is vital. Oversee the household. Ensure the comfort and well-being of our people – the servants, the artisans, the families. Maintain morale. You are the heart of our home, even in this new, icy land.”

Griselda beamed, her hand going to her still-flat stomach, a secret joy in her eyes. “I will, husband. I will make this a true home for us all.” She knew the importance of her role, not just as his wife, but as the future mother of his primary heir.

“Ceanna,” Alaric addressed his Saintess. “Your clerics will be crucial. Healing, blessings, and,” he lowered his voice slightly, “begin establishing shrines. Small, discreet sanctuaries dedicated to… our new divine patron.” He winked. “The power of faith, even newly cultivated, can be a potent shield.”

Ceanna bowed, her eyes shining with fervent devotion. “The light of Lord Alaric will illuminate even these frozen peaks, my Lord.”

“Rosalind, Iridelle, Natasha, Shaila,” Alaric turned to his technical and logistical experts. “Rosalind, assess the Sect’s resources. Identify valuable herbs, minerals, arcane knowledge. Establish trade routes if possible, through neutral mountain passes, discreetly. Iridelle, Natasha, begin integrating the Sect’s ancient warding techniques with our own barrier arrays. Find synergies. Enhance our defenses. Shaila, your knowledge of natural reagents, even ice-aspected ones, will be invaluable. Work with Iridelle’s apothecaries. We need potions for cold resistance, for combating ice-based demonic entities should they ever appear here.”

They all nodded, their minds already racing with plans.

“And Kyss’andra,” Alaric’s gaze finally fell upon the bound Siren Queen, who had been silently observing the proceedings from her warded corner. Her pearl-like eyes held a mixture of resentment and grudging curiosity. “Your task, my dear Queen, is to advise Meng Yao on the potential threats from the deep abyss that might, just might, reach even these remote mountains. Your knowledge of sea monsters, their tactics, their weaknesses… it could prove useful in fortifying the valley against… unexpected aquatic incursions, should any of those southern seas connect to hidden underground rivers.” He was subtly probing her willingness to cooperate, to share her unique knowledge.

Kyss’andra met his gaze, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. “The deep holds many secrets, surface lord,” she hissed mentally, her voice still suppressed by his enchantments. “And many horrors. Perhaps I shall share them… for a price.”

Alaric merely smiled. ’Still defiant. Good. Breaking her completely will be a delightful, ongoing project.’

With his orders issued, the Steele Family, now transplanted into the heart of the Mystic Ice Sect’s domain, sprang into action. Hunting parties, led by Lyra, Cassandra, and Fiora, ventured into the surrounding frozen wilderness, returning with Sixth Order Frost Wurm cores, Glacial Bear pelts, and Ice-Claw Roc feathers. The creatures were formidable, their ice magic potent, but against three Grand Martialists wielding Royal-level techniques and supported by Ceanna’s increasingly powerful System-fueled blessings, they fell swiftly.

The only disappointment was the lack of Seventh Order beasts in the immediate vicinity. The legends spoke of ancient ice titans and slumbering frost dragons, but they remained elusive, hidden deep within the most treacherous, magically saturated peaks, or perhaps, merely legends. For now, Sixth Order cores would have to suffice for replenishing their reserves.

Alaric, meanwhile, divided his time. Days were spent overseeing the integration of defenses, refining artifact designs with Iridelle and Natasha, and subtly guiding the training of his expanding forces. He also began delving deeply into the Mystic Ice Sect’s ancient libraries, Meng Yao herself often acting as his personal guide, her initial scholarly demeanor frequently giving way to flushed cheeks and stammered explanations under his [Captivating Gaze!] and suggestive “queries” about certain… esoteric… cultivation techniques.

And the nights… the nights were for consolidation of a different kind. Meng Yao, her Martial King body now fully attuned to his touch, her icy reserve completely melted, eagerly awaited his summons, offering her magnificent form and her profound gratitude with a passion that rivaled even Lyra’s. Han Xinfeng, her youthful exuberance now tinged with a knowing, possessive desire, also found herself frequently “invited” for private cultivation sessions. And, of course, Alaric didn’t neglect Elder Suyin, Disciple Lingfeng, or Liyue, ensuring their continued devotion and… advanced training. His harem within the Ice Sect was flourishing, their collective power subtly feeding back into his System, his mana reserves constantly topped up, his [Emperor’s Presence!] growing more potent with each satisfied conquest.

It was during one of these relatively peaceful evenings, while Alaric was “reviewing” a particularly ancient and obscure Ice Sect martial scroll with Meng Yao (a review that primarily involved him exploring the intricacies of her bikini-clad form while she breathlessly tried to explain the scroll’s meaning), that his Phone Artifact chimed.

It was Lady Ondine Bellerose.

“My Lord Alaric,” her voice, a silken purr, emanated from the device. “Forgive the late hour. But I have… news. Regarding House Bellerose.”

Alaric gently disentangled himself from a particularly enthusiastic Meng Yao, who pouted prettily at the interruption. “Speak, Lady Ondine,” Alaric said, his voice calm.

“Patriarch Theron Bellerose… met with a most unfortunate accident this morning, my Lord,” Ondine reported, her tone laced with perfectly feigned sorrow. “A hunting trip in the Dragon’s Tooth foothills. A sudden rockslide, they say. Tragic. Utterly tragic. He was… found too late.”

Alaric smirked. ’Accident. Of course.’ Ondine wasted no time.

“The clan elders, in their grief and wisdom, have unanimously requested that I, as his grieving widow and a woman of… proven capability… assume interim leadership of House Bellerose,” Ondine continued, a subtle note of triumph in her voice. “To guide us through these troubled times. Naturally, I have… reluctantly… accepted this heavy burden.”

“My deepest condolences on your… loss, Lady Ondine,” Alaric said, his voice dripping with insincere sympathy. “And my congratulations on your… new responsibilities. You have proven yourself… resourceful indeed.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Ondine purred. “And now, as acting head of House Bellerose, I am in a position to more… effectively… pursue our mutual interests. Regarding the… consolidation… of Jorailian assets…”

Alaric’s smile widened. “Excellent. And the other matter we discussed? The… young ladies… who were so fond of Kenneth?”

“Ah, yes,” Ondine’s voice turned playful. “They have received word of poor Kenneth’s… continued longing for their company. They are, shall we say, quite… eager… to journey west to offer him their comfort. A suitable escort, under my discreet arrangement, will ensure their safe passage to your… welcoming gates… within the next fortnight.”

“Magnificent, Lady Ondine,” Alaric praised. “You are a woman of remarkable efficiency. I eagerly await their arrival. And Kenneth, I am sure, will be… thrilled… to be reunited with his devoted admirers. Under my… supervision, of course.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Ondine chuckled, a dark, knowing sound. “Now, about destabilizing King Rouben Yachvili’s hold on the Jorailian throne… you mentioned leaving the direct military confrontations to the demons? But his Royal Guard is formidable, his Palace Mages numerous. How do I counter such entrenched power, even with my clan’s resources and your… artifacts?”

Alaric leaned back, his mind already formulating the next stage of his grand game. “My dear Ondine,” he began, his voice a silken whisper of manipulation and strategic brilliance, “direct military confrontation is for fools and desperate kings. You are neither.”

He paused, letting his words sink in. “The demons are a blunt instrument, yes. Let them shatter Jorailia’s armies, bleed its resources, create chaos and fear. That is their purpose, in our grand design. Your role, Lady Ondine, is far more… refined.”

“You will strike at the heart of Rouben Yachvili’s power not with swords and spells, but with whispers and shadows. Politically. Economically.”

“Identify his rivals within the Jorailian court,” Alaric instructed. “Ambitious nobles, disgruntled ministers, military commanders passed over for promotion. Cultivate them. Offer them support, resources, promises of future power under a… more enlightened… Bellerose-influenced regime. Sow dissent. Create factions. Turn them against each other, and against their King.”

“Economically,” he continued, “use your clan’s wealth and influence. Disrupt trade routes vital to the Crown but not to your own interests. Create artificial shortages of key resources in cities loyal to Rouben Yachvili, while ensuring cities under your influence, or those you wish to sway, remain prosperous. Use your merchant networks to spread rumors, to undermine confidence in the royal currency, in the King’s ability to provide stability.”

“And the artifacts I provide you?” Alaric’s voice turned colder. “They are not for open warfare against the Jorailian Crown, not yet. They are for… surgical strikes. Eliminating key loyalists to Rouben Yachvili discreetly. Protecting your own agents as they sow chaos. Ensuring your rivals within other noble houses understand the… wisdom… of aligning with House Bellerose.”

He smirked. “Let the demons be the hammer, Lady Ondine. You shall be the insidious rot that weakens the foundations from within. When Jorailia is sufficiently weakened, when its people cry out for a strong hand to restore order from the chaos you have so carefully orchestrated… then, and only then, will House Bellerose, under your magnificent leadership, step forward to ’save’ the kingdom. And the crown,” Alaric concluded, his voice a possessive caress, “will be yours for the taking. As my Queen of Jorailia.”

Ondine was silent for a long moment, absorbing the sheer Machiavellian brilliance of his plan. It was terrifying. It was ruthless. And it was utterly, undeniably, effective.

“I… I understand, my Lord Alaric,” Ondine finally whispered, a thrill of dark excitement coursing through her. “Your vision is… breathtaking. I will not fail you.”

“I know you won’t, Lady Ondine,” Alaric purred. “You are far too ambitious, and far too… beautiful… to fail.” He cut the connection, leaving Ondine Bellerose in Lysandra to set in motion a chain of events that would plunge the Kingdom of Jorailia into its own internal nightmare, all while Alaric Steele prepared for his next move from his icy northern fortress.

His gaze then turned inward, towards the knowledge he had yet to fully plumb. Saintess Ceanna. She had spoken of her former Radiant Church’s Kingdom, of other nations lying between it and the fallen Eloriath. Nations, perhaps, with power and resources beyond what he had yet encountered.

’Ceanna,’ Alaric thought, a new line of inquiry forming. ’It is time you told me more about the wider world. About the true powers that lie beyond these fractured kingdoms. About the places where Archmages are not the limit, but merely… a stepping stone.’ His ambition, as always, knew no bounds. The game was global, and he intended to be its ultimate master.