Chapter 182 Ingranad Recovers

Within the heart of the Demon Fortress, a grotesque edifice of obsidian and corrupted flesh that pulsed with an unholy energy, a somber tableau unfolded. Ingranad, Commander of the Nightmare Legion and third prince of the Obsidian Revenant demon clan, stood over the still form of Principal Bartolmew. The Verdant Dawn Academy’s principal, even in death, exuded an aura of formidable power, a testament to the fierce battle they had waged. Ingranad, though bearing no visible scars, still felt the echoes of their clash, the lingering sting of Bartolmew’s magic.

He gazed down at the human’s corpse, a flicker of grudging respect in his crimson eyes. ‘A worthy adversary,’ Ingranad mused, his thoughts echoing in the cavernous chamber, ‘even in defeat, his magical essence resists the corruption. A testament to human resilience, perhaps… or simply stubborn foolishness.’ He dismissed the fleeting thought with a mental snort. Foolishness, most likely. Humans were so predictably sentimental, so easily swayed by fleeting emotions.

Ingranad raised a hand, his demonic energy flaring to life, tendrils of obsidian darkness coiling around his arm like living shadows. The air in the chamber crackled with raw demonic power, the very stones of the fortress seeming to vibrate in response. This was the power of the Obsidian Revenants, the ability to twist and corrupt, to bind and command, to raise the fallen as unholy soldiers in their unending legion.

“Rise, Principal Bartolmew,” Ingranad commanded, his voice resonating with demonic authority, the words themselves imbued with the force of his will. “Serve your new master. Serve the Nightmare Legion.”

The demonic energy surged forth, tendrils of blackness snaking across the chamber floor, reaching out to envelop Bartolmew’s corpse. The air grew heavy, thick with the stench of ozone and decay, as the transformation began. It was not a gentle process, not a seamless transition. Bartolmew’s body, even in death, resisted the demonic corruption, a faint golden aura flickering around his form, a stubborn echo of his life force, his potent magic heart still stubbornly radiating residual energy.

Ingranad gritted his teeth, a low growl rumbling in his chest. ‘Resisting, are you?’ he thought, his demonic will clashing against the fading vestiges of Bartolmew’s human spirit. ‘Stubborn to the very end. No matter. Obsidian Revenant magic bends all to its will. Resistance is… futile.’

He poured more demonic energy into the process, forcing the tendrils of darkness to penetrate Bartolmew’s flesh, to seep into his bones, to corrupt his very soul. The corpse began to convulse, shuddering violently on the stone floor. A guttural groan escaped Bartolmew’s lips, a sound of pain and violation, a death rattle twisted into a demonic shriek.

The golden aura around Bartolmew flickered and dimmed, struggling against the encroaching darkness, but Ingranad’s demonic will was relentless, overpowering. The obsidian tendrils tightened their grip, forcing their way deeper, corrupting, twisting, reshaping. Bartolmew’s skin paled, taking on a greyish, ashen hue, veins of blackness pulsing beneath the surface. His eyes snapped open, no longer the warm brown of a human, but glowing with an eerie, malevolent crimson light.

The transformation was agonizingly slow, a brutal tug-of-war between life and unlife, order and chaos, human will and demonic corruption. Ingranad felt the drain on his demonic energy, the strain of forcing such a powerful soul to bend to his will. He had revived lesser demons, hordes of them, with effortless ease, but Bartolmew was different. Bartolmew was… formidable, even in death.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of struggle, the golden aura around Bartolmew flickered one last time, then vanished completely, extinguished by the overwhelming demonic darkness. Bartolmew’s convulsions subsided, replaced by a slow, shuddering breath. He rose from the floor, his movements stiff and unnatural at first, then gradually regaining a semblance of fluidity, albeit a corrupted, demonic fluidity.

He stood before Ingranad, his crimson eyes fixed upon his new master, his face devoid of its former warmth, now a mask of cold, demonic obedience. The transformation was complete. Principal Bartolmew of the Verdant Dawn Academy was no more. In his place stood a demonic revenant, a twisted mockery of his former self, bound to the will of Ingranad, a weapon forged from the ashes of a noble foe.

A few days later, in the training arena of the Demon Fortress, the clash of demonic power echoed through the cavernous space. Ingranad, eager to test the combat prowess of his newly resurrected lieutenant, faced Bartolmew in a sparring match. Demonic Bartolmew, clad in corrupted armor that mirrored his former academy robes but now pulsed with dark energy, moved with a chillingly familiar grace, yet imbued with a newfound demonic ferocity.

“Show me what you have learned, Bartolmew,” Ingranad commanded, his voice echoing through the arena, his demonic energy crackling around him. “Show me the strength of your demonic rebirth.”

Bartolmew bowed his head in silent acknowledgement, his crimson eyes burning with unwavering loyalty. Then, with a speed that belied his former human limitations, he launched himself at Ingranad, demonic magic flaring around him, his movements a whirlwind of corrupted grace.

“Demonic Firestorm Assault!” Bartolmew roared, unleashing a torrent of black flames tinged with obsidian energy, a corrupted echo of his former fire magic, now imbued with demonic power.

Ingranad met the demonic assault head-on, his own obsidian energy surging forth, forming a shield of impenetrable darkness. “Obsidian Barrier!” he countered, the demonic shield absorbing the black flames, dissipating their corrupted heat. He moved with lightning speed, closing the distance to Bartolmew, his demonic claws extended, sharp as obsidian shards.

The spar became a brutal ballet of demonic power, a clash of corrupted magic and enhanced martial prowess. Bartolmew, even in his demonic form, retained the core of his fighting style, the fluid movements, the precise strikes, the mastery of elemental magic. But now, his attacks were imbued with demonic energy, his magic twisted and corrupted, his movements enhanced by demonic strength and speed.

“Demonic Earth Shatter!” Bartolmew bellowed, slamming his fist into the arena floor, unleashing a wave of corrupted earth magic, fissures of black energy裂开 the stone, attempting to destabilize Ingranad’s footing.

Ingranad leaped into the air, avoiding the earth-shattering attack, his demonic wings unfurling, granting him aerial maneuverability. “Obsidian Descent!” he roared, diving down towards Bartolmew like a demonic hawk, his claws aimed at his opponent’s vital points.

Bartolmew met Ingranad’s aerial assault with a barrage of demonic ice shards, corrupted versions of his former ice magic, now imbued with a chilling, necrotic energy. “Demonic Ice Shard Barrage!” he chanted, unleashing a hail of black ice that streaked towards Ingranad.

Ingranad weaved and dodged through the ice barrage, his movements fluid and unpredictable, his demonic agility allowing him to evade the deadly projectiles. He closed the distance again, engaging Bartolmew in close combat, their demonic claws and corrupted magic clashing in a furious exchange.

“You fight well, Bartolmew,” Ingranad grunted, parrying a demonic fire-infused strike from Bartolmew’s corrupted staff, their demonic energies colliding in a shower of sparks. “You have adapted to demonic magic… seamlessly. As expected of one of your… caliber.”

Bartolmew, his crimson eyes burning with demonic intensity, responded with a guttural growl, his voice still retaining a hint of his former human cadence, yet now laced with a demonic rasp. “I serve the Nightmare Legion, Master Ingranad,” he rasped, unleashing a flurry of demonic strikes, his corrupted staff a blur of motion. “My strength… my magic… all are yours to command.”

The spar continued, a brutal and exhilarating display of demonic power, a testament to Ingranad’s ability to corrupt and command even the most formidable of foes. Bartolmew fought with the same skill and ferocity he had displayed as a human, but now amplified by demonic strength and corrupted magic, his loyalty absolute, his will completely subservient to Ingranad’s command.

After the sparring match concluded, with Ingranad declaring himself satisfied with Bartolmew’s demonic prowess, they retreated to Ingranad’s command chamber. Bartolmew stood rigidly at attention, awaiting his master’s orders, his crimson eyes unwavering.

“Bartolmew,” Ingranad began, his voice resonating with demonic authority, “now that you have… acclimated to your new form, it is time to put your… knowledge to use. Tell me of the Eloriath Kingdom. Tell me of their strengths, their weaknesses. Tell me of those who might pose a… challenge to the Nightmare Legion.”

Bartolmew bowed his head, his demonic mind instantly accessing the vast reservoir of knowledge he had accumulated in his human life, his memories perfectly preserved, now filtered through the lens of demonic loyalty. “Eloriath Kingdom, Master Ingranad,” he began, his voice now devoid of any human warmth, cold and analytical, “is… deceptively resilient. Their military is… moderately strong, well-trained, but not exceptional. Their magical academies… possess some skilled mages, but none who can compare to your demonic legions in raw power.”

Ingranad listened intently, his crimson eyes narrowed, absorbing Bartolmew’s assessment. “And what of… individuals?” Ingranad pressed, his voice laced with a hint of impatience. “Are there any… exceptional humans? Martialists, mages, anyone who stands out? Anyone who might… impede our advance?”

Bartolmew paused for a moment, his demonic mind sifting through his memories, categorizing and prioritizing information with cold, calculating efficiency. “There are… a few,” he conceded, his voice devoid of emotion. “Among the mages, Archmage Gideon Thorne of the Royal Court possesses… considerable power, specializing in offensive elemental magic. And Archmage Rahel Klinghoffer of the Obsidian Tower… her mastery of defensive magic and arcane wards is… noteworthy.”

Ingranad nodded slowly, absorbing the names, filing them away for future consideration. “And martialists?” he prompted, his gaze fixed intently on Bartolmew. “Are there any human warriors who warrant… attention?”

Bartolmew hesitated for a fraction of a second, a flicker of… something unreadable in his crimson eyes, before he responded. “There are two,” he stated, his voice flat and devoid of inflection. “Martial King Patrick, commander of the Royal Knights. His mastery of the blade is… unparalleled among humans. And Martial King Madleen Hector, leader of the Crimson Guard. Her strength and combat prowess are… formidable.”

Ingranad processed the information, his demonic mind assessing the potential threats. “Two Archmages, two Martial Kings,” he murmured, his brow furrowing slightly. “Four individuals… of note. And you, Bartolmew,” he turned his crimson gaze directly upon his demonic lieutenant, “where do you rank amongst these… ‘noteworthy’ humans?”

Bartolmew responded without hesitation, his voice utterly devoid of pride or ego, simply stating a cold, objective fact. “I was… fifth strongest, Master Ingranad,” he declared, his crimson eyes unwavering. “Among the humans of Eloriath, before my… transformation, I was ranked fifth in overall power.”

Ingranad’s crimson eyes widened slightly, a flicker of genuine surprise, even shock, registering in his demonic features. “Fifth strongest?” he repeated, his voice laced with disbelief. “You, Bartolmew, who fought me to a standstill, who possessed such… formidable magical power, you were only… fifth strongest in this… insignificant human kingdom?”

Bartolmew remained impassive, his demonic features betraying no emotion. “Indeed, Master Ingranad,” he confirmed, his voice cold and factual. “My power, while… considerable by human standards, was… merely fifth amongst the most powerful individuals in Eloriath.”

A stunned silence descended upon the command chamber, broken only by the crackling of demonic energy and the distant echoes of the fortress. Ingranad stared at Bartolmew, his demonic mind reeling, grappling with the implications of this shocking revelation. ‘Fifth strongest,’ he repeated internally, his thoughts a whirlwind of disbelief and grudging respect. ‘If Bartolmew, a human who could stand against me, was only fifth strongest… then just how powerful are these other four individuals? These Archmages, these Martial Kings… just what kind of strength do they possess?’

A new wave of… not fear, but a profound sense of… anticipation washed over Ingranad. The Eloriath Kingdom, initially perceived as a weak, insignificant human realm, was proving to be far more… intriguing, far more challenging than he had anticipated. If their fifth strongest warrior could pose such a threat, then the top four… they might actually prove to be… worthy opponents.

~~

While demonic forces massed and plotted their assault on the Eloriath Kingdom, a different kind of drama was unfolding within the elegant walls of Steele Family Mansion. Saintess Ceanna Paxton, with her serene smile and eyes that missed nothing, had embarked on a quiet campaign of purification. Over the past few days, whenever an opportunity presented itself, she would subtly extend her hand, a gentle touch, a fleeting moment of contact, and in that instant, unleash a silent wave of holy energy.

Her targets were the women of Steele Manor who, she had discerned, were subtly tainted by the same heretical energy that pulsed so strongly around Alaric. Iridelle, with her sharp intellect and focused dedication to artifice; Fiora, Alaric’s spirited cousin, always ready with a witty retort; Cassandra, the composed and ever-efficient aunt; Lyra, the matriarch herself, radiating a mature and captivating beauty; Rosalind, Alaric’s former academy senior, carrying an air of quiet competence; and even the maids, Ulriya and Kara, their youthful energy subtly tinged with the unsettling aura.

Each time Ceanna performed her silent purification, she felt a surge of satisfaction as the heretical energy, a discordant note in their life force, dissipated under the purity of her divine touch. She would offer a kind smile, a gentle word, and observe them closely for any sign of change, any indication of the cleansing taking effect.

Yet, a growing unease began to gnaw at her serenity. The next day, invariably, the faint heretical taint would return, subtly re-emerging within their auras, as if it were being… re-infused. It was a persistent, unsettling phenomenon that defied her understanding. ‘It returns,’ she thought, her brow furrowing slightly as she pondered this perplexing recurrence. ‘It is as if… as if the source of this corruption is ever-present, constantly replenishing the taint, no matter how many times I cleanse it.’

Frustration began to simmer beneath her composed exterior. She repeated the purifications, day after day, each time experiencing the fleeting satisfaction of banishing the heretical energy, only to find it stubbornly returning, like weeds in a garden, no matter how diligently she weeded. ‘This is… unsustainable,’ she mused, her golden eyes narrowing in concentration. ‘This constant cleansing is but a temporary measure, a mere palliative. It does not address the root of the corruption.’

A chilling realization began to solidify in her mind, a conclusion that sent a shiver of apprehension down her spine, despite her unwavering faith. ‘The heretical energy… it is tied to him,’ she thought, her gaze turning inward, her thoughts focusing on Alaric Steele, the source of the unsettling aura that permeated Steele Manor. ‘It emanates from him, and it is he who, unknowingly or otherwise, is re-infusing these women with this taint.’

The implication was stark, unsettlingly clear. If Alaric Steele was indeed the source of this persistent heretical energy, then perhaps, purification alone was not enough. Perhaps, the only way to truly purge this corruption, to truly eradicate this taint, was to… eliminate the source. ‘Could it be?’ she wondered, a tremor of reluctance in her heart. ‘Could it be that this heretical energy cannot be purged without… ending his existence?’

The thought was abhorrent, a stark contradiction to her Saintess vows of compassion and healing. But the encroaching demonic darkness, the growing threat to Eloriath, and the unsettling nature of Alaric Steele’s power, forced her to confront the grim possibility. ‘If his system is indeed heretical, if it is a source of corruption, then… then perhaps drastic measures are necessary. For the greater good, for the salvation of Eloriath, for the purity of the Radiant Light.’

Yet, a flicker of doubt lingered, a nagging question that refused to be silenced. In her purifications, in her subtle observations, she had noticed a curious pattern. The heretical energy, it seemed, was exclusively confined to the women who were… close to Alaric. She had not sensed it in any of the male servants, nor in any of the male guards of Steele Manor. ‘Only women,’ she mused, her brow furrowing in thought. ‘Only those women… who are… intimately connected to him.’

A tentative hypothesis began to form in her mind, a nascent understanding of the nature of Alaric Steele’s heretical system. ‘Could it be… that his Growth Ability System… is focused on empowering women?’ she pondered, her golden eyes widening slightly in surprise. ‘Could it be that his power… enhances the abilities of those women around him, forging a… symbiotic link, a… heretical bond?’

If this was indeed the case, then the nature of Alaric Steele’s system, while still heretical in its godless origin, was perhaps not as inherently malevolent as she had initially feared. A system that empowered women, that fostered strength and ability in the fairer sex… it was… unconventional, certainly, and still outside the divine order, but not necessarily… evil. ‘Not demonic,’ she clarified in her mind, a subtle distinction that offered a sliver of… not comfort, but perhaps… nuance to her grim assessment.

‘But heretical nonetheless,’ she reminded herself sternly, banishing any nascent sympathy for Alaric Steele and his unsettling power. ‘Heretical, uncontrolled, and therefore… dangerous. As a Saintess, it is my duty to rectify such deviations from the divine order. To return this heretical system to the Heavenly Realm, to ensure it is brought back under divine control, to be… repurposed, perhaps, to be bestowed upon a worthy soul, a hero who would wield its power for the greater glory of the Gods.’

And to achieve that righteous goal, the grim necessity remained. Alaric Steele, the vessel of this heretical power, would have to be… neutralized. His system extracted, returned to its rightful place in the divine order. But not yet. Not now. Eloriath needed him. His genius, his artifact-crafting abilities, were desperately needed to combat the demonic threat. Her duty to the kingdom, her responsibility to protect its people, outweighed her immediate desire to purge this heretical taint. ‘I must wait,’ she concluded, a sigh escaping her lips, a silent acknowledgment of the difficult path ahead. ‘I must bide my time. For now, Alaric Steele serves a purpose. But his time… will come.’

Meanwhile, Alaric Steele, oblivious to the Saintess’s internal conflict and her grim pronouncements about his future, was not entirely unaware of her subtle actions. He had noticed, with a detached amusement, Saintess Ceanna’s seemingly random acts of… ‘blessing,’ as he cynically termed them, directed towards the women of his household. He had observed her gentle touches, her whispered words, her serene smiles, and he had, with his ever-present analytical mind, begun to piece together the puzzle.

‘Purification,’ he mused, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. ‘That is what she is doing. Purifying them. But from what, exactly? And why?’ He had no knowledge of the heretical energy that clung to him and his ‘harem,’ no understanding of the Saintess’s divine senses, her ability to perceive the subtle currents of spiritual energy that flowed unseen through the world. He could only observe, deduce, and speculate, based on the limited information available to him.

He had, however, noticed a curious correlation. After each of the Saintess’s ‘purifications,’ he would attempt to engage his Harem God System with the affected women, only to find… resistance. The familiar notifications, the system prompts, the subtle enhancements, were… absent. It was as if a barrier had been erected, a shield of… something, preventing his system from functioning as intended.

‘Interesting,’ Alaric thought, his ruby eyes narrowing in concentration. ‘Her ‘purification’… it seems to interfere with my system’s abilities. It blocks… the connection, somehow. Temporarily, at least.’ He had tested his hypothesis repeatedly, observing the pattern with clinical detachment. Each purification was followed by a period of system… dormancy, as far as those specific women were concerned. Until… until he re-established the connection, in the most direct, most… physical manner possible.

‘Sex,’ Alaric concluded, a hint of amusement lacing his thoughts. ‘It seems that physical intimacy… bypasses her ‘holy’ defenses. It re-establishes the system’s link, overriding her ‘purification’ with… my own brand of ‘corruption,’ I suppose.’ The irony was not lost on him. The Saintess, in her attempts to cleanse his women, was inadvertently highlighting the very nature of his heretical system, its intimate, almost parasitic connection to those he… ‘bonded’ with.

‘Why is she doing this?’ Alaric wondered, his mind circling back to the Saintess’s motives. ‘Is she trying to… disrupt my system? To weaken me, somehow? Or is it something else? Some… misguided attempt at ‘salvation’?’ He considered the possibilities, but none of them quite clicked into place. The Saintess’s actions seemed… pointless, ultimately ineffective. A minor annoyance, perhaps, but hardly a serious threat.

‘Perhaps,’ Alaric mused, a shrug in his thoughts, ‘she is simply… meddling. Saintesses, with their divine pronouncements and holier-than-thou attitudes… they do tend to be… interfering, I suppose. Perhaps she simply disapproves of my… romantic life. Perhaps she sees my ‘harem’ as… unholy, in some way. Perhaps she is simply trying to… ‘correct’ my… sinful ways.’ He chuckled softly, a cynical sound devoid of genuine humor. ‘As if a Saintess has any right to judge my… personal preferences.’

Ultimately, Alaric dismissed the Saintess’s purifications as a minor, insignificant annoyance. He had more pressing concerns, more important projects to focus on. The artifact blueprints were nearing completion, the resources were flowing in, and the looming demonic threat demanded his full attention. The Saintess’s… meddling… was a distraction, a minor irritation to be tolerated, and ultimately, ignored. He had a kingdom to help save, artifacts to create, and a harem to… maintain. Saintess Ceanna Paxton’s petty attempts at purification were hardly worth his serious consideration.

Days later, the workshops of Steele Manor buzzed with anticipation. The five sets of blueprints, meticulously crafted by Iridelle and Natasha, were finally complete. The ‘Holy Energy Amplifier,’ a complex device designed to channel and amplify divine power; the ‘Divine Ward Amulet,’ a personal protective artifact imbued with potent holy wards; the ‘Celestial Fire Projector,’ a ranged weapon capable of unleashing blasts of searing holy fire; and the ‘Sanctified Barrier Generator,’ a defensive construct capable of erecting powerful barriers of consecrated energy. Four artifacts, each designed to bolster the forces of light against the encroaching darkness, each a testament to Alaric Steele’s extraordinary genius and the combined talents of his inner circle.

Alaric presented the completed blueprints to Saintess Ceanna with a flourish, a subtle hint of pride in his ruby eyes. “Saintess Paxton,” he announced, his voice calm and confident, “the designs are complete. The ‘Holy Energy Artifacts,’ as you requested, are ready for production.”

Ceanna Paxton examined the blueprints with a keen eye, her golden gaze scanning the intricate diagrams, the arcane equations, the detailed specifications. A flicker of genuine awe crossed her serene features, a silent acknowledgment of the sheer brilliance and complexity of Alaric’s designs. “These are… remarkable, Master Steele,” she conceded, her voice laced with a hint of impressed surprise. “Truly… ingenious. You have exceeded all expectations.”

Alaric inclined his head in polite acknowledgment. “Merely fulfilling my… contractual obligations, Saintess,” he replied, his tone deliberately understated. “Mass production can commence immediately. Steele Family Industries is… well-equipped for such endeavors. I anticipate a substantial initial batch, ready for deployment within a week, perhaps less.” He assured her that the artifacts would be delivered directly to the Royal Capital Eryndal, ready for distribution to the kingdom’s defenders.

Ceanna Paxton nodded, her expression thoughtful, her gaze lingering on Alaric’s face for a moment longer than strictly necessary. “A week,” she murmured, her voice soft, almost to herself. “That is… commendable speed, Master Steele. Indeed, your… contributions to Eloriath are becoming… increasingly significant.” She offered a serene smile, a subtle undercurrent of… something unreadable in her golden eyes. “We shall await your delivery in Eryndal, Master Steele. And we shall pray that these artifacts prove… decisive in the battles to come.”

With a final exchange of polite courtesies, Saintess Ceanna Paxton, accompanied by the trio of princes, departed Steele Manor, their royal carriage disappearing down the long, winding drive, heading back towards the besieged capital. Ceanna knew, as she gazed back at the receding silhouette of Steele Manor, that she had a week to prepare, a week to solidify her plans, a week to steel herself for the difficult choices that lay ahead.