Chapter Fifty-Three: Possession by Darkness

Over a dozen days later, upon an expansive plain, Artis gathered his focus and looked ahead.

On the plain, faint flickers of demonic light gradually appeared, scattering across the land, catching his eye. This demonic aura was powerful, carrying tendrils of corruption that swept over all, a vague sense of immense force lurking within, enough to tempt one into decay and ruin. Yet compared to the earlier sight when the demonic energy surged to the heavens, it was now, though still formidable, already waning—clinging on in a desperate struggle.

Outwardly, this was evident in the dwindling numbers of demonic beasts roaming the land. Compared to the terrifying tide that greeted them at first, their numbers now were almost pitiful. The surrounding knights and lords, witnessing this, were greatly heartened. Whether they wished it or not, they could only drag their weary bodies onward at the king's command, pressing the attack.

Yet beneath this wave of encouragement, Chen Ming clearly saw that, under the shroud of demonic energy, deep within the unseen, a far deeper and more terrifying demonic will was slowly awakening, nourished by the lingering bloodshed on the land, gradually reviving.

"It grows ever more solid," he murmured, gazing at the earth.

Through his eyes, the land was wreathed in a crimson mist, suffused with an evil will, endlessly absorbing the blood-charged energy left after each brutal conflict, then feeding it to a distant consciousness. At the same time, at the center of it all, the king's aura grew ever stronger. Though outwardly he still appeared aged and frail, he had long since regained his prime. Indeed, in the unseen world, some unknown change was quietly unfolding.

Artis thought of those rumors—the screams from the king’s tent, the stories about the king consuming human flesh—and a cold smile crept across his lips.

"Has he struck a bargain with some entity, or has his own will been eroded and corrupted?"

So he pondered, his thoughts drifting to decades past, to that piece of flesh he had once purified.

That flesh had come from an unknown demon god, an intent born after long gestation, and the very root of this world’s fall into corruption. Consciousnesses born from the essence of a demon god carried a trace of immortal demonic nature, innately aligned with the world's laws, and possessed unfathomable strength. Even decades ago, when Artis had suppressed it with a branch of himself, it had not been fully extinguished, even now.

"Still, perhaps there are other external causes..." He glanced above, at a star faintly pulsing overhead, his heart stirring.

Upon that star, wisps of purple energy swirled, trembling as they released obscure waves, subtly influencing all around. In Artis’s vision, threads of purple fortune slowly eroded and entwined the king’s own fate, drawing him into a vortex, swept along by the current.

"Those blessed by destiny are always shielded and empowered by the world itself, their presence a force unto itself. Unless they encounter an even greater force, they will continuously draw others into their wake."

Watching this, he could not help but sigh.

The king, clearly swayed by this fortune, was thus ensnared, compelled to act as he had under the accumulation of many temptations.

In his previous life, this was called the vanguard of kings: under the sway of destiny, every inducement is magnified and every event set in motion. Without such a figure to shatter the old order, how would the likes of Artis, chosen by fate, find their place?

He gazed toward the distant king, silent.

So time passed. Over a dozen days later, amid cheers and jubilation, the corpses of demonic beasts littered the plain, their remains a grisly sight.

After nearly a month, the tide of monsters was at last stemmed, gradually receding under the suppression of the city-state lords. Yet the losses had been dire. After this battle, many lords’ forces were devastated: the conscripted farmers, if they died, so be it, but the loss of trained, battle-qi wielding knights left them truly heartbroken.

In this world, only the noble knights who practiced battle-qi were regarded by the lords as true warriors; the common laborers were used for transport and menial tasks, not real combat. In this calamity, the knights under each lord suffered heavy casualties, leaving the lords with complicated feelings.

Yet since the king’s own army was likewise decimated, none spoke out; instead, an urgent longing to return to their own lands began to stir.

Amidst this mood, the king held a banquet in the center of the camp, intending to return to the city-states when it was over.

On hearing this, the great lords all breathed a sigh of relief and gladly attended. Banquets held after war, honoring the knights and nobles who fought, were tradition—no one thought much of it. Only a few, upon noticing how much younger the king’s face had grown, felt a vague unease.

But even those with keen wits and sharp senses, who noticed hints of something wrong, could not prevent what was to come.

And so, Artis attended the feast.

The venue was well prepared; though arranged in haste, the care put into it was evident. Within, nobles of imposing stature or graceful bearing moved to and fro, yet a careful observer would note the faint ripples of battle-qi and the lingering scent of blood about them—a result of prolonged slaughter, impossible to dispel.

In Artis’s eyes, the fate entwined around these people was much diminished compared to when he first arrived. This was due to the heavy losses among their troops, and even wounds to themselves—their inner strength diminished, their fortunes naturally withered.

After he entered, several lords nodded and smiled at him, showing goodwill born of the camaraderie forged in a month's shared battle. Many had come to regard Artis with warmth.

He returned their smiles, one by one, until a hand clapped his shoulder.

"Artis!" A familiar voice called from behind.

Artis turned. It was Bagel and Ariel, now standing there.

"Father, Grandfather."

Ariel nodded, then looked past Artis, slightly puzzled. "Who are these people?"

Behind him stood several attendants in gray robes, heads bowed respectfully, faces obscured.

Seeing this, Artis merely smiled and said nothing.

Across from him, father and son exchanged thoughtful glances at the sight of these figures.

The banquet progressed slowly. Artis gazed ahead, his dish untouched, quietly waiting.

After a while, under the gaze of all, the king emerged, smiling.

The atmosphere tensed. All eyes turned to the king, sensing something amiss. He bore traces of blood, the stench of it thick about him, causing many to frown. Beside him, several guards followed, exuding dense demonic energy, moving with blank expressions.

Some among the lords, those ever cautious or already hostile to the king, subtly placed their hands upon their weapons, their battle-qi quietly gathering.

Others glanced toward Bagel and Artis, hints of inquiry in their eyes—these were the families allied with the Nalba family.

The king, observing these covert movements, kept his expression unchanged, though a cruel smile slowly curled at his lips, faintly twisted.

In Artis’s sight, above the king’s head, a terrifying, scaled apparition with three faces and six arms hovered, pouring streams of energy upon him, its influence subtle yet profound.

And upon the fate of the assembled lords, wisps of black death-energy began to rise.