Chapter 254 Request For Help By Mystic Ice Sect

The morning after Lady Ondine Bellerose’s… comprehensive education… in the art of submission, Alaric was the picture of magnanimous composure. He had escorted her back to her temporary chambers within the Sunken Pearl Estate, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary on her waist as he bid her a good morning, a silent reminder of the night’s events and her new, unbreakable bond to him.

Ondine, though her body ached with a delicious soreness that made her walk with a subtle, almost imperceptible stiffness, had managed to project an air of renewed, albeit subdued, confidence. The raw terror and humiliation had faded, replaced by a cold, pragmatic acceptance and a burgeoning, twisted sort of excitement. She had faced a true predator, been utterly broken, and in that breaking, found a strange clarity. Alaric Steele was a force to be reckoned with, and aligning with him, even as his… possession… was far more advantageous than opposing him.

Later that morning, Alaric summoned her to his study once more. This time, the atmosphere was less charged with overt sexual tension, more focused on the cold realities of power and planning. He was dressed immaculately, his ruby eyes sharp and assessing.

“Lady Ondine,” Alaric began, his voice smooth, devoid of the previous night’s rough edges. “I trust you rested well?”

Ondine met his gaze, a flicker of something – memory, perhaps a hint of residual fear, or even a spark of the addictive pleasure – in her dark eyes before she composed her features. “As well as can be expected, Lord Steele,” she replied, her voice a carefully modulated purr. She knew better than to call him ‘King’ in this more formal setting, yet the memory of screaming it echoed in her mind. ‘He wants formality now. Fine. I can play that game too.’

“Excellent.” Alaric smiled, a brief, almost businesslike expression. “We have much to discuss regarding your… return to Jorailia and the implementation of our… mutual understanding.”

He gestured for her to sit, and this time she did, sinking gracefully into the plush armchair, her posture regal despite the lingering physical reminders of his dominance.

“You will depart today, Lady Ondine,” Alaric stated, not as a question, but as a directive. “Your formidable escort awaits. They will, no doubt, ensure your swift and safe passage back to Lysandra.”

Ondine inclined her head. “Indeed. My men are… efficient.”

“I have no doubt,” Alaric said, a faint smile playing on his lips. He produced a small, intricately carved obsidian disc – a Recall Anchor – and placed it on the polished desk between them. “A parting gift. Or perhaps, a tool for our continued… collaboration.”

Ondine looked at the disc, recognizing its potent magical signature. She had heard whispers of these artifacts from Lilliana. “A Recall Anchor?”

“Precisely,” Alaric confirmed. “Keyed to this manor. Should you ever find yourself in… an untenable situation in Jorailia, activate it. It will bring you back here. Instantly. Consider it… insurance for my investment in you.” The unspoken message was clear: she was his asset, and he protected his assets.

Ondine picked up the disc, its coolness a stark contrast to the heat that still seemed to linger on her skin from his touch. ‘Insurance. Or a leash. Likely both.’ She met his gaze. “Your generosity is… noted, Lord Steele.”

“Now, regarding Kenneth,” Alaric continued, his tone shifting, becoming colder. “He will not be returning with you.”

Ondine raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, feigning mild surprise, though she had anticipated this. “Oh? And why is that? While his actions were… regrettable, he is still a mage of some talent. And technically, under Bellerose protection during his mission.”

“His ‘talents’ do not outweigh his transgressions,” Alaric stated flatly. “He attempted to lay hands on my family. In my home. He sought to use his… pathetic charms… on what is mine.” His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “His will, his spirit… it is not yet sufficiently broken. Releasing him now would be… problematic. He might harbor foolish ideas of revenge, or worse, prove a liability by blabbering about things he shouldn’t.”

‘He knows Kenneth is dangerous, a potential rival despite his current state,’ Ondine thought. ‘Alaric leaves no loose ends. Smart. Ruthless.’

“Kenneth will remain here,” Alaric declared, his voice final. “In my dungeons. For… further re-education. Until I am satisfied that his loyalty – or at least, his fear – is absolute. Perhaps then, if he proves… useful… I might consider his future. But for now, he is my prisoner. A lesson to others who might contemplate crossing me.”

Ondine nodded slowly. “I understand. A pity. He had potential.” She felt a fleeting sense of disappointment. Kenneth, for all his flaws, had been a useful, malleable tool. But Alaric was now her primary focus. Kenneth was a small price to pay.

“His potential will be… re-evaluated… under my tutelage,” Alaric said, a cruel hint of a smile touching his lips. “But his absence provides you with an opportunity, Lady Ondine.”

Her eyes sharpened. “Opportunity?”

“Indeed. Upon your return to Jorailia,” Alaric leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “you will begin consolidating your power within House Bellerose. Patriarch Theron… he has outlived his usefulness, wouldn’t you agree? He is an obstacle to your ambitions. To our ambitions.”

Ondine’s heart gave a little jump. He was being so blatant. ‘Kill my husband?’ The thought was not new to her, a dark seed she had nurtured for years. But to have it voiced so casually, by this powerful young man…

“He is old,” Alaric continued smoothly, as if sensing her thoughts. “His grip on power weakens daily. A timely… accident? A sudden illness? Perhaps even a… tragic encounter with ‘demonic remnants’ during a hunting trip? Jorailia is a dangerous place these days. Such things happen.” He smiled, a cold, predatory flash. “You are a resourceful woman, Lady Ondine. I trust you can arrange for a smooth transition of leadership within the Bellerose Clan. To yourself, naturally.”

Ondine met his gaze, a thrill of dark excitement coursing through her. He wasn’t just offering her artifacts; he was offering her a crown. Her clan’s crown. “And once I am… unburdened… by my dear husband?” she asked, her voice a silken purr.

“Then you expand,” Alaric stated simply. “The Bellerose Clan, under your decisive leadership, will become a dominant force in Jorailia. Absorb weaker houses. Secure strategic territories. Gain influence in King Rouben Yachvili’s court. And all these new acquisitions, Lady Ondine,” his ruby eyes gleamed, “will, of course, be considered assets of our… mutual alliance. Territories and resources that will ultimately benefit the Steele Family. Benefit me.”

He was asking her to conquer in his name, to be his viceroy in Jorailia. It was audacious. Terrifying. And incredibly, irresistibly appealing to her boundless ambition.

“That is… a grand vision, Lord Steele,” Ondine murmured, her mind racing.

“It is merely the beginning,” Alaric replied. “And there is one more… task. A more personal one, perhaps.” His gaze turned thoughtful, a hint of cruelty flickering within. “Kenneth. For all his failings, he possessed a certain… boyish charm. Enough to attract a few… admirers, I believe. Young noble heiresses, perhaps? Women who saw him as a hero, a potential husband?”

Ondine nodded slowly. “Yes. There were several. Naive, impressionable girls, mostly. Infatuated with his displays of power.”

“Excellent,” Alaric smirked. “You will identify these women, Lady Ondine. All of them. And you will arrange for them to be… persuaded… to travel here. To my estate.”

His eyes darkened with a possessive, almost sadistic light. “Tell them Kenneth pines for them. Tell them he requests their presence. Tell them whatever lies are necessary. Lure them here. To me.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “I intend to have my… fun… with Kenneth’s little collection. To show him, personally, how a true Emperor claims his women. Each one he desired, each one he thought was his… will scream my name. And he,” Alaric’s smile was utterly demonic now, “will listen to every moment of it from his cell. A fitting torment for his arrogance, wouldn’t you agree?”

Ondine felt a shiver trace its way down her spine. The sheer, calculated cruelty of it was breathtaking. To not just defeat a rival, but to systematically dismantle his spirit, to defile everything he held dear, while he was forced to witness it… Alaric Steele was truly a monster. A magnificent, terrifying monster. And she, Ondine Bellerose, was now irrevocably bound to his monstrous ambition.

‘He doesn’t just want power; he wants absolute, soul-crushing dominance over his enemies,’ she realized. ‘And he expects me to be his willing instrument in this. To procure women for his pleasure, for his rival’s torment.’

The price of her own ambition, she understood, was not just submission to Alaric, but active participation in his dark games. Yet… the rewards he offered were immense. Control of her clan. Influence over a kingdom. And perhaps… a share in the power of this terrifyingly brilliant young man.

She looked at him, at his handsome face, his ruby eyes burning with cold fire, his lips curved in that predatory smile. He was offering her a path to everything she had ever craved. All she had to do was become his agent, his weapon, his… queen in the shadows.

“I understand your terms, Lord Steele,” Ondine said, her voice calm, betraying none of the turmoil within. She met his gaze, a flicker of her own ambition rekindling in her dark eyes. “Patriarch Theron’s health has been… failing… of late. And young Kenneth did seem quite… attached… to several lovely ladies in Lysandra. I shall see to it that they are… informed of his continued interest.” Her agreement was absolute, pragmatic. She would play her part.

“Excellent,” Alaric purred, genuinely pleased. He stood, offering her his hand. “Then I bid you a swift and successful journey, Lady Ondine. I eagerly await news of your progress. And the arrival of your… gifts.”

Ondine took his hand, her fingers closing around his. His grip was firm, possessive. “You shall not be disappointed, Lord Steele.”

She departed shortly thereafter, her formidable escort falling into formation around her carriage. As she rode away from the Steele territory, the Recall Anchor clutched tightly in her hand, Ondine Bellerose felt a strange mixture of fear, exhilaration, and a dawning, chilling sense of purpose. The game had begun, and she was no longer just a player; she was Alaric Steele’s queen, moving his pieces on the bloody chessboard of Jorailia.

A few days later, as the echoes of Ondine’s departure settled and the Steele estate resumed its rhythm of intense training and quiet consolidation, Alaric was in his private laboratory, reviewing the final schematics for a new series of localized defensive artifacts with Iridelle. Natasha was meticulously cataloging the vast influx of knowledge from the Royal Archives.

Suddenly, the black Phone Artifact on Alaric’s workbench pulsed with a soft, insistent chime – an incoming priority communication request.

Alaric raised an eyebrow. This was unusual. His private line was rarely used for unsolicited calls. He picked up the device, his ruby eyes scanning the flickering glyphs on the screen. The call was heavily encrypted, routed through multiple arcane relays, originating from… the far north.

“Interesting,” he murmured, gesturing for Iridelle and Natasha to remain silent. He activated the connection.

The screen shimmered, then resolved into the image of a woman. She was undeniably beautiful, but in a stark, almost severe way. Long, jet-black hair was pulled back tightly, revealing high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and eyes the color of polished obsidian that held a depth of ancient wisdom and current, palpable desperation. She wore simple, dark robes adorned with intricate silver symbols that seemed to shimmer with internal cold – the markings of the Mystic Ice Sect. A single, ornate pin depicting a stylized snow lotus clasped her robes at the throat. This was not just any disciple; this was a figure of immense authority.

“Lord Alaric Steele?” the woman’s voice was low, clear, and carried an accent that hinted at the harsh, frozen lands of the north. Despite the formality, an undercurrent of urgency, almost panic, laced her tone. “Forgive this unsolicited intrusion. I am Sect Mistress Meng Yao, of the Mystic Ice Sect.”

Alaric leaned back, his expression carefully neutral, though his mind raced. ‘Sect Mistress Meng Yao. The leader of one ofthe most reclusive and powerful martial sects in the north. What could possibly compel her to contact me directly, bypassing all formal channels?’

“Sect Mistress Meng Yao,” Alaric replied, his voice smooth and polite. “An unexpected pleasure. To what do I owe this call?”

Meng Yao’s obsidian eyes seemed to pierce through the screen, searching his face. “Lord Steele,” she began, her voice trembling slightly despite her efforts at control, “I will not waste your time with pleasantries. The Mystic Ice Sect is… in dire peril.”

She took a shaky breath. “Our ancient barriers… the ones that have protected our sacred valley for centuries… they have been breached. By the demons.”

Alaric’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. ‘Breached? The Mystic Ice Sect’s defenses were legendary, rumored to be woven from the very essence of the frozen peaks, capable of repelling even Arch-level threats.’

“The initial demonic incursions in the north were… manageable,” Meng Yao continued, her voice tight with strain. “Our disciples, trained in the arts of ice and cold, fought bravely. We repelled their scouting parties, their lesser legions. But then… something changed. A new wave of demons, far more powerful, far more organized, led by creatures radiating an unnatural heat that melts our sacred ice… they overwhelmed our outer defenses.”

She gestured, and the image on Alaric’s screen shifted momentarily, showing a terrifying vista – jagged peaks wreathed in black smoke and unholy fire, the pristine white snow stained with blood and ichor. Figures in dark robes, the disciples of the Mystic Ice Sect, could be seen engaged in desperate combat against hulking, flame-wreathed demons.

“Our martialists fight even now, Lord Steele,” Meng Yao’s voice returned, laced with anguish. “They hold the inner sanctum, the Ice Heart Citadel. We are attempting to repair and reinforce the ancient magical barriers passed down within our Sect, but… they are weak against these new demonic assaults. Their fire magic, their chaotic energy… it shatters our ice wards with terrifying ease. We estimate… we have perhaps a week, no more, before the inner barriers fail completely.”

Her composure, so carefully maintained, finally cracked. A tear traced a path down her cheek. “Lord Steele,” she said, her voice now a desperate plea, “I… I was wrong. Terribly wrong. I admit my folly. When your initial offers of trade for advanced defensive artifacts reached us through merchant channels months ago, I dismissed them. I trusted in the ancient ways, in the power of our ancestors, in the sanctity of our valley. I believed our ice and our martial prowess would be enough.”

She looked directly at Alaric, her obsidian eyes filled with a mixture of shame and desperate hope. “I see now the arrogance of that belief. Your Steele Family barrier… the rumors of its impenetrable strength… they have reached even our remote peaks. Lord Steele, I implore you. We need your technology. We need a barrier that can withstand this demonic fire, that can grant us precious weeks to recover, to regroup, to save our sacred traditions from utter annihilation.”

Alaric listened intently, his expression unreadable. ‘So, the reclusive Ice Sect Mistress, humbled and desperate. Interesting. Her ancient barriers, failing. Her pride, shattered. And now, she comes begging to me.’

He recalled the earlier, tentative inquiries from the Mystic Ice Sect, the ones Rosalind had handled, offering them standard, less potent defensive glyphs at exorbitant prices, an offer Meng Yao had clearly refused at the time. Now, circumstances had forced her hand.

“You seek my barriers, Sect Mistress Meng Yao?” Alaric asked, his voice calm, almost gentle, yet with an underlying current of steel. “After dismissing my earlier overtures?”

Meng Yao flinched, but met his gaze. “Yes, Lord Steele. I… I was foolish. Arrogant. My pride has cost my people dearly. I am willing to pay any price, offer any resource the Mystic Ice Sect possesses, in exchange for your aid. Our ancient ice cultivation techniques, our unique spiritual herbs that thrive only in the frozen peaks, our hidden libraries of martial lore… all of it. It is yours, if you will but help us survive.”

‘Any price, she says,’ Alaric mused, a predatory glint entering his eyes. ‘Resources, knowledge… and perhaps… other assets as well? The Mystic Ice Sect is known for its female disciples, their beauty as renowned as their deadly skill with ice. A whole sect of icy beauties… an intriguing addition to my collection.’

He let the silence stretch for a moment, savoring her desperation. Then, he spoke, his voice now carrying a tone of magnanimous consideration.

“Sect Mistress Meng Yao,” Alaric said, his voice resonating with a carefully crafted blend of authority and compassion. “Your plight is indeed dire. And your admission of error… is noted.” He paused. “Very well. The Steele Family does not stand idle when allies, or potential allies, face annihilation, especially when such annihilation could ultimately threaten our own borders.”

A wave of palpable relief washed over Meng Yao’s face. Tears welled in her eyes again, this time of gratitude. “Lord Steele! You… you will help us?”

“I will visit your Sect within the next few days, Sect Mistress,” Alaric stated. “I will bring with me the necessary components to erect a temporary, but highly potent, defensive barrier around your Ice Heart Citadel. I will also bring a selection of… holy artifacts… specifically designed to counter these flame-wielding demons, to assist your disciples in cleansing your sacred valley.”

He saw the hope flare brighter in her eyes.

“Once the immediate demonic threat to your Citadel is neutralized,” Alaric continued, his tone becoming more businesslike, “once your people are secure… then, Sect Mistress Meng Yao, we can discuss the terms of a more… permanent arrangement. The trade for my barrier technology, the exchange of resources and knowledge you have offered. And perhaps,” he added, a subtle, almost imperceptible hint of something else in his voice, “other matters of mutual interest.”

Meng Yao nodded eagerly, not daring to question his terms. Any hope was better than the swift annihilation they currently faced. “Yes, Lord Steele! Of course! That is… more than generous! We await your arrival with desperate anticipation. May the spirits of the frozen peaks guide your journey swiftly and safely.”

“They will,” Alaric replied with a confident smile. “Prepare for my arrival, Sect Mistress. And tell your disciples to hold the line. Help is on its way.”

He cut the connection, leaving Meng Yao staring at a blank screen, her heart pounding with a mixture of profound relief, desperate hope, and a dawning awareness of the immense power wielded by the young lord from the west. She had just placed the fate of her entire Sect in his hands.

Alaric leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. The Mystic Ice Sect. Another powerful, reclusive faction, now forced to turn to him. His influence spread, his power grew, the tendrils of his ambition reaching ever further.

He glanced at Iridelle and Natasha, who had listened to the entire exchange with rapt attention. “Prepare the ‘Arctic Warden’ barrier array components,” Alaric instructed Iridelle. “The smaller, rapidly deployable version. And gather a selection of the ‘Frostfire Quencher’ orbs and ‘Infernal Nullification’ charms.”

“At once, Alaric,” Iridelle replied, already moving towards her arcane storage units.

“Natasha,” Alaric continued, “compile all available data on the Mystic Ice Sect – their known cultivation techniques, their territory, their resources, their leadership structure. I want a comprehensive brief before I depart.”

“Yes, Lord Alaric,” Natasha said, her fingers already flying across a data slate.

The next morning, as the sun cast its first golden rays over the Steele Estate, Alaric Steele stood once more in the central courtyard, before his magnificent mount. Kai, the Azure Sky Emperor Roc, preened its azure feathers, its sapphire eyes fixed on its master with intelligent anticipation. The peak Sixth Order flying beast radiated an aura of immense power and speed.

Alaric swung easily onto Kai’s broad back, settling into the specially designed riding harness. He was travelling light this time – only a few essential artifacts in his storage ring, including the barrier components and the anti-demonic charms. He was relying on Kai’s incredible speed for this journey.

“To the Mystic Ice Sect, Kai,” Alaric murmured, patting the Roc’s sleek neck. “And swiftly.”

Kai let out a piercing cry that echoed across the estate, a sound of pure, untamed power. With a single, massive beat of its azure wings, it launched itself into the sky, climbing with astonishing speed. The Steele manor shrank rapidly below them, the defensive barrier a faint shimmer against the green landscape.

‘Two days,’ Alaric calculated, feeling the wind whip past him. ‘Two days to reach the northern peaks. Two days to assess the situation, save the Sect, and then… negotiate the terms of their submission.’

He smiled, a cold, predatory expression. The Mystic Ice Sect, with its ancient secrets and its beautiful, ice-powered warrior women… it would make a fine addition to his growing empire. The game continued, and Alaric Steele was playing to win. Absolutely.