Chapter 298 Meeting Lord Ingranad On Battlefield

Twelve hours.

For twelve unrelenting hours, the borderlands between the fallen Kingdom of Eloriath and the newly assertive Jorailia had been transformed into a charnel house, a maelstrom of steel, magic, and demonic fury. The grand offensive, orchestrated from afar by Alaric Steele and executed with ruthless efficiency by Queen Ondine Bellerose, had slammed into the demonic legions like a tidal wave.

General Tauron, his greatsword a blur of righteous fire, led the Jorailian vanguard. “Push them back! For the new Queen! For Jorailia!” he roared, cleaving a hulking brute in two. His soldiers, their shields shimmering with the protective light of Alaric’s ‘Sanctuary Shields’, held the line with a courage born of newfound technological superiority.

From the flanks, Alaric’s own elite factions carved paths of anihilation.

“Frozen Soul Severance!” Sect Mistress Meng Yao’s voice was a whip-crack of arctic cold. She moved like a phantom through the demonic ranks, her Martial King aura freezing the very air around her. Her Mystic Ice Sect disciples, a blizzard of silent death, followed in her wake, their ice-blades shattering demonic forms.

“Elemental Concord: Prismatic Annihilation!” Professor Lilliana Valtor, from a fortified position, unleashed beams of multi-hued energy that vaporized entire squads of demonic sorcerers, her elemental mastery a devastating force on the battlefield.

And everywhere, the golden light of Saintess Ceanna and her clerics pulsed, mending wounds, bolstering spirits, and searing demonic flesh with waves of pure, System-fueled holy power. The war was a brutal, grinding affair, but they were winning. The demonic lines were bending, breaking under the combined, coordinated assault.

But the demons had aces yet to play.

Just as a major demonic command post was about to be overrun, the very air seemed to thicken, to curdle with a new, overwhelming malice. The sky, already a bruised purple, darkened to an oppressive black.

And they appeared.

The corrupted heroes of Eloriath, Lord Ingranad’s favored lieutenants. Archmage Gideon Thorne, a being of living magma and shadow-lightning. The spectral Archmage Rahel Klinghoffer, her form a vortex of dark wards. The demonic Martial Kings, Patrick and Madleen, avatars of brutal strength and silent, predatory death. They materialized at the head of the demonic army, their Archdemon auras a crushing weight that brought the Jorailian advance to a grinding, terrified halt.

“So, the little insects still have some fight in them,” the corrupted Gideon rasped, his voice the sound of grinding stone. He raised a hand, and a storm of shadowflame began to gather, threatening to incinerate the entire Jorailian vanguard. “A pity it must end now.”

The tide of battle, so recently in their favor, was about to turn into a massacre.

In the secluded inn, miles from the front lines, Alaric’s attention was not on the scrying mirror. It was focused entirely on the two magnificent, naked Archmages who were currently his playthings.

He was buried deep inside Priscilla, her magnificent, voluptuous body pinned beneath his on the large armchair. Her initial, defiant resistance had long since been shattered, replaced by a desperate, pleading need for his touch. She was a storm of sensation, her moans and cries a testament to his absolute mastery over her.

Zylle Mordan knelt before them, her own maid’s uniform in tatters, her eyes glazed with a mixture of lust and humiliation as she was forced to watch, her hands busily, expertly, caressing his balls.

Alaric saw the shift on the scrying mirror out of the corner of his eye. The arrival of the corrupted heroes. The gathering storm of demonic power. He saw Ondine’s forces falter, the initial shock and fear rippling through their ranks.

‘Predictable,’ he thought, a flicker of annoyance in his mind. ‘Time to end this little game.’

He pulled out of Priscilla, leaving her gasping and trembling on the armchair. He stood, his magnificent erection, a testament to his Archmage-level virility, still hard and ready. He strode towards Zylle, who looked up at him with wide, expectant eyes.

He didn’t speak. He simply took her, there on the fur rug, his thrusts hard and fast, a final, brutal claiming. He came inside her with a deep, guttural roar, his seed flooding her womb.

He then moved back to Priscilla, who had barely caught her breath. He took her again, just as quickly, just as brutally, his own climax a powerful, possessive surge that left her boneless and whimpering.

He stood amidst the two panting, utterly spent Archmages. He gave Zylle’s magnificent, curvy ass a sharp, stinging smack. “Up. Both of you.”

She whimpered but obeyed, pushing herself to her knees.

He did the same to Priscilla, whose magnificent buttocks were still red from his earlier attentions. “Get ready to fight,” he commanded, his voice now a low, dangerous growl. He leaned down and bit Priscilla’s large, swollen breast, not gently. “Your re-education is on hold. For now. It is time you remembered you are Archmages. And that your power… belongs to me.”

They stumbled to their feet, their bodies aching, their minds a chaotic whirlwind. But the command was absolute. They were his weapons now. And he was about to unleash them.

With a shimmer of azure light, the three of them vanished from the inn, reappearing moments later in the heart of the battlefield, a breathtaking display of spatial magic that stunned both friend and foe alike.

The air around them crackled with power. Alaric stood in the center, his Archmage aura a crushing, tangible pressure. Zylle and Priscilla materialized on either side of him, their own formidable auras flaring to life, their eyes burning with a mixture of residual lust, humiliation, and a newfound, chilling battle-readiness.

Zylle Mordan looked at the assembled demons, at the corrupted heroes who led them, and a wave of pure, unadulterated hatred washed over her.

‘These things,’ she thought, her hands clenching into fists, her Nether Bird essence stirring within her. ‘These foul, stinking abominations. They are the reason for all of this. The reason Lord Vortan sent me on this cursed mission. The reason I was captured. The reason… the reason I became his slut.’

Her loyalty to Vortan was a shattered ruin, but the habit of blaming external forces for her own submission remained. She hated Alaric with a passion that was almost as intense as the pleasure he forced from her. But in this moment, seeing the demonic horde, seeing the cause of her downfall, a new, more immediate target for her rage presented itself.

She couldn’t escape Alaric. She couldn’t kill him. But she could kill them. She could slaughter them. She could vent every ounce of her rage, her humiliation, her shattered pride, upon their grotesque, deserving forms.

“Master,” Zylle whispered, the word now a strange, twisted term of both submission and intent. “Permit me to engage.”

Alaric glanced at her, a knowing smirk on his lips. He saw the fire in her eyes. The bloodlust. “By all means, my dear Zylle,” he purred. “Unleash your fury. Show them what Lord Vortan’s top dog can do when her true Master removes her leash.”

Zylle didn’t need to be told twice. With a guttural shriek that was more avian than human, she unleashed her full power. “Nether Bird’s Descent!”

Her body erupted in a vortex of shadow and phantom feathers. Her dark wings spread wide, crackling with purple lightning. Her eyes glowed with a malevolent, violet light. She was no longer just an Archmage; she was a Valkyrie of the abyss, an avatar of shadow and death.

She shot forward, a blur of motion, her Void Weaver Scythe a whirlwind of dark energy. She didn’t target a single demon; she targeted all of them. The corrupted heroes, Patrick, Madleen, and the Frost Archdemon who had joined their vanguard, saw her coming and braced themselves, their own Arch-level auras flaring.

“Insolent whelp!” Patrick roared, his demonic strength surging. He swung his massive, clawed fist at her.

“Nether Wing Cyclone!” Zylle shrieked, spinning, her scythe and her shadow wings creating a vortex of cutting shadow and lightning that met his fist head-on. The impact was catastrophic. Patrick roared in pain as the shadow energy tore at his demonic flesh, his powerful charge brought to a dead halt.

Madleen moved to flank her, a shadow herself, but Zylle was faster. “Umbral Talon Strike!” Her free hand, now clawed and wreathed in darkness, lashed out, parrying Madleen’s shadow blades with contemptuous ease.

The Frost Archdemon unleashed a wave of soul-chilling ice, but Zylle’s Nether Bird essence seemed to feed on the cold, the darkness. “Void Feather Barrage!” She shed a storm of razor-sharp shadow feathers from her wings, each one a projectile of pure, unmaking energy that shattered the ice constructs and peppered the three Archdemons, forcing them back.

She was a whirlwind of destruction, her movements a beautiful, terrifying dance of death. She was not just fighting them; she was dominating them. Her rage, her humiliation, all of it was now focused into a single, terrifying purpose: annihilation. “Chains of the Umbral Void!” she screamed, and tendrils of pure, solidified darkness erupted from the ground, wrapping around the limbs of the three Archdemons, binding them, holding them, their immense strength struggling against her overwhelming, rage-fueled power. She had restrained three Arch-level beings. Alone.

Priscilla watched Zylle’s devastating assault with a sullen, resentful gaze. ‘She revels in it,’ Priscilla thought, a bitter taste in her mouth. ‘She has accepted her new role. His whore. His weapon.’ But Priscilla was a pragmatist. Her own will might still be her own, but her body was Alaric’s. And her duty, as the last true protector of Eloriath’s legacy, was to protect those who fought for its survival.

She saw Saintess Ceanna’s contingent struggling against the overwhelming numbers of lesser demons that were trying to bypass the main conflict. Without a word, Priscilla moved. Her Archmage aura, a clean, powerful shimmer of pure arcane force, flared to life. “Sanctuary of the Arcane Weave,” she intoned, her voice calm and clear. A dome of shimmering, multifaceted light erupted around Ceanna and her clerics, deflecting a barrage of demonic fireballs.

“Thank you, Archmage Priscilla!” Ceanna called out, relief evident in her voice.

Priscilla simply nodded, her expression grim. She began to systematically dismantle the demonic ranks, her spells precise, efficient, and utterly devastating. “Mana Disruption Pulse!” A wave of invisible energy washed over a group of demonic sorcerers, causing their spells to fizzle and backfire. “Arcane Disjunction Field!” A shimmering field of energy appeared, negating all demonic magic within its radius. She was not a whirlwind of fury like Zylle; she was a scalpel, dissecting the demonic army with cold, clinical precision, her power a testament to her centuries of disciplined study. She was protecting Alaric’s assets, as was her new, unspoken duty.

And Alaric… Alaric simply walked forward, his steps calm and unhurried, his gaze fixed on the two remaining, and most powerful, threats on the battlefield.

The corrupted Archdemon Principal Bartolmew. And the Lord of Ruin himself, Ingranad.

Ingranad watched Alaric’s approach, his multiple eyes burning with a mixture of fury and genuine surprise. “So,” the Archdemon Lord rumbled, his voice a psychic wave that washed over Alaric. “The little gnat has grown wings. Your power… it is far greater than my scouts reported. You are no mere Grandmaster, boy. You are a true Archmage. And a powerful one at that.”

Bartolmew stood beside Ingranad, his expression solemn, almost sorrowful, as he looked at Alaric. “I told you, Lord Ingranad,” the corrupted principal rasped. “He is a prodigy unlike any other. His potential is… limitless.”

Alaric stopped a short distance from them, his own Archmage aura, a calm, crushing pressure of azure light, radiating from him. He then took a deep breath, and the ethereal avatar of the Azure Spirit Lion materialized behind him, its sapphire eyes blazing with ancient, untamed power. The combined pressure of his Archmage mana and his spiritual essence was a palpable force, a physical weight that made even Ingranad’s Archdemon lieutenants, still struggling in Zylle’s shadow chains, flinch.

Ingranad’s multiple eyes widened slightly. “A spiritual fusion… and with a mythical beast of that caliber. You are… full of surprises, Alaric Steele.” His voice, for the first time, held a note of genuine, grudging respect.

Bartolmew’s solemn expression deepened. “Lord Ingranad,” he said, his voice a low, urgent whisper. “We must fight with our full power. Together. He is not a foe to be underestimated. His power… it is equal to our own.”

Ingranad let out a low, rumbling chuckle. “Equal? Perhaps. But he is one. And we are two.” He turned his full, terrifying attention to Alaric. “So, little mortal. You have gathered many powerful subordinates. You have armed your little puppet kingdom. And you have come to challenge me. Very well. Let us see if your power is as great as your arrogance.”

Alaric simply smiled, a slow, confident curve of his lips that was utterly at odds with the apocalyptic power being arrayed against him. “Well,” he said, his voice calm, almost conversational, “it should be fun, fighting against you both.” The battle for the fate of a kingdom, and perhaps more, was about to reach its true, cataclysmic climax.