Volume 2 chapter 3

20,000 Years Ago. The Dark Era.

Under a sky of eternal night, a colossal black castle pierced the heavens like a jagged spear.

Countless arcane runes were etched into its obsidian surface, glowing with malevolent light. Solidified mana formed multi-colored halos that drifted lazily around the spires.

For thousands of kilometers around the castle, the land was shrouded in perpetual darkness—a barren, evil wasteland where no sun ever shone.

Surrounding the central keep were smaller citadels, bowing in submission to the seat of power.

This was the Paradise of Demons. The Hell of Humanity.

Inside the central keep lay the Dark Council Hall.

And upon the highest throne sat the Demon Lord.

She wore a form-fitting black dress that clung to her curves like a second skin. Her long, silky black hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall of night.

Her attire was provocative: the deep V-neck revealed a valley of snow-white skin, and her legs were crossed, showcasing a long, shapely calf and a slender foot encased in a black, open-toed high heel. Her toes, pale and perfect as jade pearls, tapped the air idly.

She rested her breathtakingly beautiful face on one hand. Black eyeshadow accentuated her crimson pupils, and her lips, painted the color of fresh blood, curved in a bored, indolent smile.

Below the throne sat nine Terrors.

They were the Grand Dukes of that era. Some had indigo faces and protruding fangs; others bore massive wings. One was a living construct of fire; another resembled a gargantuan, chittering insect.

In short, few of them looked remotely humanoid.

Clyris watched this scene with a strange detachment. After losing consciousness amidst the clash of three mysterious powers in the temple, she had awakened here—a disembodied observer, watching history unfold from a third-person perspective.

"Heh heh... Coleman Morris and Soros Balan are dead! No one stands in our way anymore!" A Flame Giant laughed, his voice like crackling timber.

"Do not forget Bain Thebes. He is still fleeing," a Rock Giant beside him rumbled.

"Him? Hmph! The descendant of a cook. He is of no concern!" The Flame Giant waved his hand dismissively.

"He followed Heath the Primordial once. We cannot be careless. That he escaped our encirclement proves he has some capability," warned a demon with a mane of bristles and razor-sharp fangs.

"The 'Primordial' Hero... Hmph. That was just luck. And luck only lasts so long! Look at the last ten thousand years—even with their so-called Heroes, have we not beaten them back step by step?" A demon with massive feathered wings scoffed arrogantly.

"We must still respect the existence of the Hero," a pale-faced demon with pointed ears and saber teeth whispered cautiously. "Although no monster like Heath has appeared since, three humans in the last ten millennia were absurdly strong. If Their Majesties hadn't been bolstered by the Power of the God, we might not have defeated them!"

"I heard the current Hero has already been summoned by Priscilla Pedro?" The giant ice-blue insect rotated its terrifying compound eyes.

"That little girl Pope? Hmph... bas she ascended to the Saint Realm too?" A seductive female demon—a Succubus ancestor—giggled, the heart-shaped tip of her tail twitching playfully. "What is the Hero's name?"

"Ian, I believe. I have already sent a Saint-level commander with a legion to test his mettle," answered a demon whose body was entirely shrouded in living shadow.

"Haha... A Hero fresh from the summoning circle facing a Saint-level Archdemon? I hope he doesn't wet himself. Otherwise, that little girl Pope will be crying her eyes out again! Hahaha..." The Succubus laughed, hugging her ample chest.

"Haha! I remember when I strangled the previous Pope, Boris Yolfords, right in front of her. The way she fled in panic, yet couldn't help looking back... those tears, that expression! Ah... it was truly exquisite! Hahaha..." The Flame Giant joined in the cruel laughter.

Clyris watched the scene in a daze.

Priscilla Pedro. The Pope of Holy Light from twenty thousand years ago. She ascended to the Papacy before fifty and reached the Saint Realm at merely one hundred years old. She was the one who summoned the "Golden Hero" Ian.

Legends described her as strong, brave, wise, and gentle. A woman who never yielded, never gave up, and never... retreated.

But listening to these demons, it seemed even the legendary Pope of history had moments of utter despair and humiliation.

Thinking of this, Clyris felt a strange sense of balance. Even the greats struggled.

Wait! Why am I thinking about this? I should be figuring out why I'm seeing memories from twenty thousand years ago!

Suddenly, the Demon Lord on the throne tapped her finger against the armrest.

Tap.

Instantly, the boisterous Council Hall fell deathly silent. Every demon shut their mouth, looking up at their Queen with absolute reverence and fear.

"The Hero is of no concern. The Alliance is but a gathering of ants. The priority remains the Repair of the Abyss," the Demon Lord said indifferently.

"The damage Heath inflicted upon the Abyss has not healed. The Higher Demons are still unable to enter this world. They... are losing patience."

"But... Your Majesty," the Flame Giant stammered, "Heath's Sword is still embedded in the channel on this side. Except for the Higher Beings, none of us—not even Saints—can pull it out. The weaker ones among us... cannot even approach it!"

"Therefore," the Demon Lord commanded, "ignore the affairs of the continent for now. Focus all energy on removing the Sword of Heath! I will join you personally."

"They have no patience left to wait. The channel must be restored immediately!"

"Yes, Your Majesty!"

The demons bowed in unison.

Wait, Clyris thought, stunned. Higher Demons? What does that mean?

Does that mean the Nine Great Demon Tribes on Rodinia are just the vanguard? That the true main force is stuck outside the world?

But history showed that even twenty thousand years later, they never arrived. So, the "Queen of Greed's" plan must have failed.

But why was she being shown this? Was she meant to witness the forgotten history?

Unfortunately, no one could answer Clyris's questions. She remained a silent ghost, drifting through the memories of the damned.

__________________________

Ironwood Keep. The Training Courtyard.

Charlo stood in the center of the courtyard, holding a sword.

His chest rose and fell in a rhythmic, powerful cadence. Wisps of visible mana drifted from his nose and mouth with every breath.

He moved through a series of exquisite sword forms. Gradually, the rigidity of practice faded, replaced by a fluid, natural grace.

Snap. Crack.

Soft sounds echoed from his body—his muscles, bones, and fascia vibrating in harmony with his breathing technique.

Inside his stomach, a potent potion was rapidly digesting, transforming into streams of heat that rushed through his limbs and meridians.

Finally, Charlo closed his eyes.

His immense spiritual power moved with his blade, reaching out to the ambient mana of the world.

He tugged.

The mana within a radius of dozens of meters surged toward him, answering his call. It coated his blade, humming with power.

"HAA!"

He swung the sword.

BOOM!

The strike unleashed a shockwave comparable to the explosion of a 125mm high-explosive shell. Dust billowed, and the air shrieked.

"Phew..."

Charlo lowered the sword, exhaling a long plume of white mist. He felt an endless supply of power surging within him.

"Sixth Rank... Achieved!"

He smiled. He was now a Grand Knight.