Chapter 266 Demon Forces Attack Steele Family Barrier

The weeks following Alaric’s… intensive integration… of the Mystic Ice Sect’s leadership settled into a rhythm that was, for him, exquisitely satisfying. The ‘Arctic Warden’ barrier, even with the minor, unaddressed fluctuations Noah had caused, held firm, a shimmering azure promise of security against the frigid northern winds and the lingering demonic taint beyond. Within its embrace, the Sect, once teetering on the brink of annihilation, now pulsed with a renewed, albeit subtly altered, vitality.

Alaric, the architect of this salvation, did not remain idle. While Sect Mistress Meng Yao diligently consolidated her unexpected breakthrough to the Martial King rank, her formidable aura now radiating an even more potent, regal chill, Alaric turned his discerning gaze – and his other attentions – towards the Sect’s… lesser treasures.

The enchanted bikinis, hidden beneath their shimmering illusionary robes, had done their work. The female disciples, their Battle Auras flowing with unprecedented freedom, their martial prowess visibly enhanced, viewed Lord Alaric with a reverence that bordered on worship. He was their savior, their benefactor, the handsome, powerful young lord from the west who had gifted them strength and security. And his [Emperor’s Presence!], a constant, subtle thrum in the Citadel’s icy halls, ensured that reverence was always tinged with a delicious, confusing flutter of attraction.

He had, of course, taken Young Sect Mistress Han Xinfeng as his personal… apprentice… in matters both martial and intimate. Their “private training sessions” in secluded ice grottos or her warm, fur-lined chambers were frequent, always resulting in Xinfeng emerging flushed, exhausted, and utterly devoted, her already impressive Grand Martialist aura thrumming with new power after each encounter.

But Xinfeng was just the beginning. The Mystic Ice Sect, Alaric discovered with growing delight, was a veritable garden of untouched, icy beauties. He hadn’t needed to “taste” Elder Suyin, Disciple Lingfeng, or Liyue again after that first marathon session in his chambers; they were thoroughly broken, utterly his, ready to obey any command with trembling eagerness. They were now part of his established, if secret, rotation within the Sect.

His current focus was on the other “high-potential” inner sect disciples, the ones whose beauty and latent power had caught his eye during the initial measurements. He cultivated them with the same meticulous care he applied to his artifacts.

Disciple Meixiang, for instance. A willowy girl with hair like polished jet and eyes like frozen midnight, her ice techniques were known for their exquisite precision but lacked raw power. Alaric offered her “private tutoring” in aura projection, his hands “guiding” her stance, his body brushing against hers, his [Resonant Heart!] subtly whispering thoughts of her hidden strength, her captivating grace, and her undeniable attraction to her wise, powerful Lord. It didn’t take long for Meixiang’s icy reserve to melt, her gratitude for his “attentive instruction” expressed in breathless moans and eager submission in the privacy of a secluded meditation chamber.

Then there was Disciple Bingyi, a more robust beauty with a cascade of silver-white hair and a surprisingly fiery spirit. Her ice-blade techniques were fierce but unrefined. Alaric sparred with her, effortlessly disarming her, his strength overwhelming, his [Captivating Gaze!] holding her mesmerized. He “corrected” her form with touches that lingered, his body pressing against hers during demonstrations, his praise for her spirit laced with seductive compliments about her… resilience. Soon, Bingyi’s fiery defiance was channeled into a passionate, almost desperate, desire to please him, to earn his approval, both on the training field and, more frequently, on the thick furs of his chamber floor.

He moved through the ranks of the Sect’s virgin beauties like a connoisseur, savoring each unique “flavor.” There was the shy Disciple Chunhua, whose blush was as delicate as a spring blossom against the snow, and whose soft whimpers of pleasure as he claimed her in a hidden alcove were utterly intoxicating. There was the fiercely ambitious Disciple Zhelan, who initially resisted his advances with cold disdain, only to shatter completely under a carefully orchestrated [Fantasy Weaver!] dream sequence that tapped into her deepest, secret desires for power and submission, leading her to offer herself to him with a fervent, almost desperate intensity.

Each conquest was a delicate dance of power and seduction. He used his System skills subtly, amplifying their admiration, their gratitude, their burgeoning desires, until they willingly, eagerly, offered themselves to him. And with each intimate encounter, their Battle Auras resonated with his, growing stronger, their loyalty binding them ever tighter to their magnificent, terrifying Lord. He was careful, of course. No unwanted pregnancies here, not yet. His plans for progeny were specific, reserved for his core family. These Ice Sect beauties were for pleasure, for power consolidation, for expanding his influence.

Sect Mistress Meng Yao, now a newly minted Martial King, observed Alaric’s… activities… from a distance. She was no fool. She saw the way her disciples looked at him, the subtle shifts in their auras after their “private tutoring sessions.” She knew what was happening. A part of her, the centuries-old, disciplined Sect Mistress, felt a pang of unease, of violated tradition.

But another, larger part, the part that now belonged utterly to Lord Alaric, the part whose body still hummed with the memory of his earth-shattering possession, felt… nothing but a strange, possessive pride.

He was their Lord. He was claiming his due. And if these encounters strengthened her disciples, made them more loyal, more powerful assets for him, then who was she to interfere?

Her own desires for him were a constant, aching thrum beneath her icy composure, a hunger only he could satiate. She awaited his summons each night with a mixture of dread and desperate anticipation, eager to offer her own newly enhanced Martial King body for his pleasure, her gratitude, her submission.

Alaric was in the midst of one such… particularly invigorating… “aura harmonization session” with two exceptionally beautiful twin disciples, Meiyue and Meixue, in a secluded hot spring grotto he had “discovered” (and warded for privacy), when the insistent chime of his Phone Artifact shattered the steamy tranquility.

The twins, both exquisite examples of Mystic Ice Sect beauty with long, flowing black hair, pale skin, and surprisingly full curves clad in their now standard (for Alaric’s private viewing) enchanted bikinis, gasped softly as Alaric abruptly pulled away from their eager ministrations.

Meiyue had been diligently working his still-impressive erection with her skillful mouth, while Meixue was pressed against his back, her surprisingly large breasts kneading his shoulders, her hands exploring his muscular thighs.

“Forgive me, my little snow blossoms,” Alaric murmured, a flicker of annoyance in his ruby eyes as he reached for the Phone Artifact. “It seems duty calls, even in paradise.”

He activated the connection. His mother Lyra’s face appeared on the screen, her expression grim, her usual regal composure strained. The background was indistinct, but he could hear the distant, faint sounds of battle.

“Alaric!” Lyra’s voice was urgent, laced with a tension he hadn’t heard since the fall of the Demon Fortress. “Thank the gods you answered! We are under attack!”

Alaric’s easy smile vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp focus. The two naked twins, sensing the shift in his demeanor, immediately fell silent, their earlier playful arousal replaced by a wide-eyed apprehension.

“Attacked?” Alaric’s voice was deceptively calm. “Mother, the barrier. Is it holding?”

“The barrier holds, Alaric,” Lyra confirmed, a note of profound relief in her voice. “Your craftsmanship is… miraculous. Without it, the manor would have been overrun hours ago. But the assault… it is relentless. And the sheer power… Alaric, it is unlike anything we have faced here before.”

“Details, Mother,” Alaric commanded, his mind already racing, calculating.

Lyra took a shaky breath. “It began just after dusk. A massive demonic legion materialized almost directly outside the barrier’s perimeter, as if they teleported in force. Their numbers… at least ten thousand, perhaps more. Hulking brutes, shadowflame sorcerers, winged horrors… the usual refuse, but in overwhelming numbers and led by… by something far worse.”

She paused, her blue eyes filled with a grim light. “Alaric… our long-range scrying, confirmed by Priscilla’s own arcane senses… there are Archdemons. Not one or two. We have confirmed eight distinct Archdemon-level energy signatures leading this assault.”

Alaric’s blood ran cold for a fraction of a second. Eight Archdemons. ‘Ingranad,’ he thought instantly. ‘He’s finally decided to deal with me directly. And he’s not holding back.’

A surge of fury, cold and absolute, washed through him. His territory. His family. His women. Under direct assault by such overwhelming force. The sheer audacity!

But the fury was quickly suppressed, replaced by a chilling, pragmatic calm. Panic was useless. Strategy was paramount.

“The barrier is holding against eight Archdemons and ten thousand lesser demons?” Alaric asked, his voice betraying none of his inner turmoil. He needed to confirm its resilience under such extreme pressure.

“It is holding, praise your genius,” Lyra reiterated. “But it is under immense strain. The Seventh Order core is draining at an alarming rate to maintain integrity against their coordinated assaults. Priscilla estimates… perhaps a few days, no more, before the core is depleted or the barrier suffers a catastrophic failure if this intensity continues. They are systematically battering it, focusing their attacks, trying to find weaknesses.”

‘A few days,’ Alaric mused. ‘Enough time. But not much to spare.’ His mind, a whirlwind of calculation, immediately began assessing his assets, his options.

He knew his Steele Family forces, even with Lyra, Cassandra, and Fiora at their Grand Martialist peaks, even with Ceanna’s clerics and the newly empowered maids, could not repel such a force directly if the barrier fell. They could inflict heavy casualties, yes, but eight Archdemons… it was too much.

His thoughts flew to his… extended assets.

Kyss’andra, his captive Siren Queen. Her power was Arch-level, certainly. That was one.

Archmage Priscilla, at the Steele manor. Her loyalty was still primarily to the Eloriath crown, or what was left of it, but she was a pragmatist. She would fight to defend her Queen and the sanctuary she resided in. That was two.

Himself. With his Grandmaster Mage rank, amplified by the Azure Spirit Lion essence, he could fight an Archdemon, perhaps even kill a weaker one, as he had proven. But eight? No. He could likely hold one, maybe two, at bay for a time, especially within his own territory with prepared defenses. That was three.

Meng Yao, here in the Mystic Ice Sect. A newly minted Martial King. Her power was formidable, especially her ice techniques which were anathema to fire demons. She was utterly devoted to him. That was four.

Professor Maelis, also here, an Archmage of considerable skill and combat prowess. She was… complicated. Grateful, perhaps. Intrigued, certainly. But her loyalty was not yet absolute. Still, she would likely fight to protect herself and her students, and perhaps… him. That was five.

Professor Lilliana Valtor, back in Jorailia. Another powerful Archmage. He had given her a Recall Anchor. She had pledged her aid. She could be summoned. That made six.

Six Arch-level combatants, including himself, against eight Archdemons. Not good odds. Especially since their coordination as a team was untested, and their individual power levels, except perhaps Kyss’andra’s raw abyssal might, likely varied. They could perhaps handle six Archdemons in a desperate, drawn-out battle, but eight… the remaining two would be free to wreak havoc, to target the barrier, to slaughter his lesser forces.

‘Direct confrontation is suicide,’ Alaric concluded grimly. ‘Not yet. We need to even the odds. Or, better yet, stack them overwhelmingly in our favor.’

His mind flashed to the Recall Anchors. He could use them. Bring Meng Yao and Maelis back to the Steele manor instantly. That would bolster their immediate Arch-level defenders to five (himself, Kyss’andra, Priscilla, Meng Yao, Maelis). With Lilliana summoned, it would be six. Still not enough to comfortably face eight Archdemons, but a significant improvement.

But even then, the ten thousand lesser demons, including numerous Grandmaster and Master-level demonic commanders, were a massive threat if the barrier fell prematurely.

‘No,’ Alaric decided. ‘A direct fight is the last resort. First, diplomacy. Or rather… manipulation.’

He had traded his artifacts. He had established… connections. With Jorailia. With the Phantom Assembly. Both were powerful factions, currently engaged in their own brutal wars against the demons. Both were also… indebted to him, in various ways. And both would suffer greatly if the Steele Family, their primary supplier of advanced anti-demonic technology, were to fall.

“Mother,” Alaric said, his voice calm and decisive once more. “Maintain the defenses. Priscilla is in command of the barrier’s energy distribution. You, Aunt Cassandra, and Fiora will lead the mobile guard units, repel any minor breaches if they occur, but do not engage the Archdemons directly. Your safety is paramount. Kyss’andra…” he paused, a cold glint in his eyes, “is to remain in her… meditation chamber… for now. Her unique talents will be reserved for a more… opportune moment.” He had plans for his Siren Queen, but unleashing her too soon, especially against Ingranad’s main force, was risky.

“I will return within two days,” Alaric continued. “With reinforcements. Do not, under any circumstances, lower the main barrier or engage in a full-scale counter-attack until I arrive.”

“Two days, Alaric?” Lyra’s voice was laced with worry. “Can the barrier hold that long against such an assault?”

“It will have to, Mother,” Alaric stated firmly. “Trust in my craftsmanship. And trust in Priscilla’s skill to manage its energy. Now, I must make arrangements. Stay strong. I will not let our home fall.”

He cut the connection, a grim smile on his lips. Ingranad had finally made his move. A direct, overwhelming assault. Foolish. The demon lord underestimated Alaric’s true strengths – not just his personal power, but his intellect, his resources, and his ability to manipulate kings and dark lords alike.

Alaric turned to the two naked, wide-eyed twin disciples who had been silently witnessing his intense, commanding presence during the call. Their earlier playful arousal was completely gone, replaced by awe and a palpable fear. They had just seen a glimpse of the true Lord Alaric Steele, the master strategist, the commander facing an apocalyptic threat.

“Meiyue, Meixue,” Alaric said, his voice softening slightly, though the underlying authority remained. “Forgive the interruption to our… session. It seems matters of state require my immediate attention.”

He gestured towards their discarded bikinis. “Dress yourselves. Then, find Sect Mistress Meng Yao. Inform her that I require her presence in my chamber. Urgently. And also send word to Professor Maelis at the Western Guest Palace. Tell her to prepare for immediate departure. It is a matter of utmost importance concerning the Steele Family’s survival.”

The twins scrambled to obey, their movements quick and efficient, their eyes still wide with a mixture of fear and reverence. They dressed hastily, their usual playful chatter absent, and rushed out of the grotto, leaving Alaric alone with his thoughts.

He rose, stretching languidly despite the grim news. His own personal desires would have to wait. The game had just escalated significantly.

Sect Mistress Meng Yao arrived at Alaric’s chambers within minutes, her expression a mixture of concern and grim determination. She had already sensed the shift in his aura when he returned from the grotto, the sudden, cold focus that replaced his earlier playful demeanor. The summons, and the mention of the Steele Family’s survival, had confirmed her fears.

Professor Maelis arrived shortly after, looking equally serious. She had received Alaric’s Recall Anchor days ago, a silent promise of sanctuary, and she knew this urgent summons meant that sanctuary was now desperately needed.

Alaric didn’t waste time with pleasantries. He quickly, concisely, outlined the situation: the massive demonic assault on his territory, the eight Archdemons, the dwindling time before his barrier potentially failed.

“I require your strength, Meng Yao,” Alaric stated, his gaze locking with hers. “Your newfound Martial King power will be invaluable. And yours as well, Professor Maelis. Your Archmage skills are desperately needed.”

He produced two Recall Anchors from his storage ring – one for Meng Yao, and he confirmed Maelis still had the one he’d given her. “These will transport us directly back to my manor. Instantly. We depart now.”

Meng Yao didn’t hesitate. Her loyalty to Alaric was absolute. Her Sect was secure behind his barrier. Her duty was now to him. “As you command, Lord Alaric. The Mystic Ice Sect stands with you.” She quickly delegated command to Elder Shuyun and her most trusted elders, ensuring the Citadel’s defenses would be maintained.

Maelis also nodded, her expression resolute. She had seen Alaric’s power. She had felt his protection. And she knew the fall of the Steele Family would have catastrophic consequences for all remaining human strongholds. “I am ready, Alaric. My students here are relatively safe for now. Lead the way.”

Alaric took Meng Yao’s hand, then Maelis’s. He focused his will, activating the Recall Anchors. A flash of azure light, a brief sensation of spatial distortion, and the three of them vanished from the Ice Heart Citadel, reappearing moments later within the familiar confines of Alaric’s private study in Steele Manor.

The transition was jarring. One moment, the frigid calm of the northern peaks; the next, the palpable tension and distant, muffled roars of battle outside the manor walls.

Lyra, Cassandra, and Fiora were waiting for them, their faces pale but resolute. Griselda stood beside them, looking terrified but determined to be brave for her husband. Saintess Ceanna and her clerics were also present, their holy auras pulsing faintly. Even Archmage Priscilla had joined them, her expression grim.

“You’re back!” Lyra exclaimed, relief flooding her voice as she rushed to embrace Alaric.

“And you brought reinforcements,” Cassandra noted, her gaze sweeping over Meng Yao and Maelis with cool assessment.

“Reinforcements are good,” Fiora added, though her eyes were fixed on Alaric with worried affection.

Alaric quickly made the introductions, explaining Meng Yao’s new Martial King rank and Maelis’s Archmage status. Priscilla’s eyes widened slightly at the mention of another Archmage joining their ranks, and a peak Grandmaster who had ascended to Martial King. Their defensive capabilities had just increased significantly.

“Welcome, Sect Mistress Meng Yao, Professor Maelis,” Priscilla greeted them with a professional nod. “Your arrival is most timely.”

“Now,” Alaric said, turning to a large writing desk. “Reinforcements are one thing. But we still need to thin the enemy’s numbers before we engage their Archdemons directly. It is time to call in some… favors.”

He began to write a text on his phone. Two messages. One addressed to King Rouben Yachvili of Jorailia. The other, to Lord Vortan of the Phantom Assembly.

His message to King Rouben Yachvili was a masterpiece of subtle coercion and feigned alliance.

“Your Majesty King Rouben Yachvili,” it began respectfully. “Urgent news. The Steele Family territory is currently under a massive, direct assault by a demonic legion led by no less than eight Archdemons, including, we believe, the infamous Lord Ingranad himself. Our barriers hold, for now, but the pressure is immense. This is clearly a concentrated effort to eliminate the Steele Family, the primary supplier of the advanced anti-demonic artifacts that have proven so effective for your valiant Jorailian legions.”

He paused, letting the implication sink in, before continuing. “Should our fortress fall, Your Majesty, the flow of these vital artifacts will cease. Your armies, currently making such impressive gains against the demonic hordes in the east, will find themselves facing a far more resilient, unhindered enemy. The consequences for Jorailia, and indeed for all remaining human kingdoms, would be… catastrophic.”

He then offered the ‘solution’. “However, there is opportunity in this crisis. If Jorailia were to lend its military might, sending a significant force to strike at the besieging demonic legion from their flank while our own forces engage them from within our barrier, we could crush this threat decisively. Such a victory would not only secure the continued supply of Steele artifacts but would also deal a devastating blow to Ingranad’s main army, significantly weakening the demonic presence across the entire continent. The Steele Family would, of course, offer substantial compensation for Jorailia’s timely and decisive aid – further access to advanced artifact schematics, rare resources from our vaults, and perhaps even territorial concessions in mutually agreed-upon border regions once the demonic threat is fully pacified.”

He was offering Rouben Yachvili exactly what the ambitious king craved: more power, more resources, more territory.

His message to Lord Vortan was different. Colder. More direct. A command disguised as a request.

“Lord Vortan,” it began, dispensing with pleasantries. “The Steele territory is besieged by Ingranad’s main force. Eight Archdemons. A significant threat, even to my defenses. Your Phantom Assembly relies heavily on my artifacts to secure its… acquisitions… and to combat its own demonic adversaries. Should I fall, your shadow war becomes significantly more difficult. Your operatives will die in greater numbers. Your expansion will halt.”

He let the threat hang, then offered the ‘opportunity’. “Ingranad has concentrated his strongest forces here. This is a unique chance to strike a decisive blow against our mutual enemy. Send your elite strike teams. Your assassins, your battle-mages. Target the Archdemons. Sow chaos within their ranks. Create diversions. If we succeed in shattering Ingranad’s legion here, the Phantom Assembly will find its own path to power far less… cluttered. As a sign of good faith, and in recognition of your… assistance, I will ensure a generous portion of any Archdemon cores recovered from this battle are… allocated… to the Assembly for your… research purposes.”

He was appealing to Vortan’s pragmatism, his desire for powerful resources, and subtly reminding him that Alaric still held one of his high-ranking operatives.

After dealing with these messages, Alaric turned back to the assembled women. Lyra, Cassandra, Fiora, Griselda, Ceanna, Meng Yao, Maelis, Priscilla. His mother, his aunt, his cousin-lover, his wife, his Saintess, his new Martial King ally, his rescued Archmage, and the Eloriath Kingdom’s remaining Archmage. A formidable collection of power and beauty, all now looking to him for guidance.

“Now,” Alaric said, a predatory glint returning to his ruby eyes, “we wait. We reinforce our defenses. We prepare. And while we wait for our… potential allies… to respond, we ensure our own forces are at their absolute peak.” His gaze swept over them, lingering for a moment on Meng Yao, then Maelis. ‘TwoArch-level women here, plus Kyss’andra and Priscilla. Four. And me. That’s Five. If Lilliana answers my call… Six. Still two short if Jorailia and the Assembly offer no aid against eight Archdemons.’

His mind was already calculating, strategizing. The next few days would be crucial. The fate of the Steele Family, and perhaps the entire continent, hung in the balance. But Alaric Steele was not a man to be cowed by impossible odds. He was a player. And he intended to win.