NOVPUBHarold couldn’t accept it. This power—this forbidden strength—was meant to be the ultimate weapon. A force that, once used, would strip its wielder of both sanity and life.
He had lost everything, and so he had sacrificed even his own life to destroy Ghislain, resorting to this vile and monstrous power.
Yet even that power had failed.
Despite unleashing what should have been an unstoppable force, he was being overpowered.
“Aaaargh!”
Harold screamed in fury, flailing his fists wildly like a desperate beast. But his attacks were no more effective than the clumsy swings of an untrained peasant.
Slash!
Ghislain’s blade sliced through Harold’s wrist effortlessly.
“Gaaaah!”
Blood sprayed as Harold recoiled, clutching his severed arm in agony. He stumbled backward, his face contorted with pain and disbelief.
Ghislain narrowed his eyes as he observed Harold.
‘So, it’s not quite the same.’
This version of the mana refinement technique was clearly inferior to the ones he had encountered in his past life.
A fully unleashed berserk warrior wouldn’t even feel pain until their head was severed, and their mind wouldn’t regain any clarity during the rampage. Even Vanessa, when her core shattered, had only regained her senses moments before her death.
But Harold was incomplete, a half-formed monster.
Harold, bloodied and enraged, shouted with disbelief.
“How? How can you withstand this power? The Duke’s transcendental gift!”
“The Duke...?”
At that, Ghislain understood. This wasn’t Harold’s personal mana refinement technique—it was something distributed by the Duke’s household to his subordinates.
But to think they would teach even a high-ranking noble like Harold such a thing, and in such a crude form.
‘Is this some kind of lower-tier version of the technique? Or is the Duke’s household still refining it?’
In his previous life, he had only encountered users of this technique years later, suggesting that it had either evolved over time or that different versions existed for different recipients.
Back then, Ghislain hadn’t thought much about it, dismissing it as a curiosity. But now, seeing a method so similar to his own, he found it unsettling.
He wanted to interrogate Harold further, but he doubted Harold would cooperate.
‘And transcendental power? Is that what they called this pathetic excuse for strength?’
In his past life, the fully developed version of the technique had turned even ordinary knights into near-Masters. This version was far from that.
Ghislain nodded as if in realization.
“So, the Duke’s household is still experimenting with this refinement technique.”
A look of shock crossed Harold’s face.
“How... how do you know that?”
The refinement technique was a closely guarded secret, known to only a few within the Duke’s household. Yet Ghislain spoke of it with such certainty.
“Just who... what are you?” Harold’s voice trembled with a mix of fear and rage.
Ghislain, lowering his Core’s activation to the second stage, smirked. Maintaining the third stage was no longer necessary—Harold’s body was rapidly deteriorating, his life force burning out faster than he could control.
Harold’s figure was shrinking, his body withering as the rapid aging from his broken refinement consumed him.
Ghislain spoke coldly.
“Someone who came back from the dead.”
“What?”
“To destroy you and the Duke’s household.”
“Someone like you... destroy me? The likes of you?”
Harold could no longer lift his weapon. All he could do was scream through bloodied lips, his eyes brimming with tears of frustration.
Step. Step.
Ghislain walked slowly toward him.
Harold would wither away and die on his own soon enough, but Ghislain had no intention of letting him go so easily.
“Such a death would be a luxury for you.”
The Duke’s household had orchestrated the downfall of Ferdium, but it was Harold who had carried out their plans. He had killed Elena, ignited the territorial wars, and ultimately crushed Ferdium.
Even in this life, Harold had orchestrated countless schemes to destroy Ferdium. Ghislain couldn’t let him die peacefully.
Picking up Harold’s sword, Ghislain infused it with mana.
Crack!
The blade shattered into countless fragments, scattering across the ground.
Ghislain lifted the shards with mana threads and smiled.
“It’s time for you to pay for what you’ve done, Harold Desmond.”
Whizz!
“Gaaaargh!”
The fragments shot into Harold’s body, piercing him all over.
The shards lodged deep into his nerves, delivering waves of agonizing pain that kept Harold conscious and alert despite the torment.
“Aaaaargh!”
Harold writhed on the ground, his screams echoing across the battlefield. Blood pooled around him as his body convulsed violently.
The agony lasted until Harold’s hair fell out, his teeth dropped, and he was reduced to a frail, decrepit old man.
In his final moments, Harold mustered his remaining strength and whispered,
“The Duke’s household... will... never...”
His words trailed off as his mouth hung open. His eyes, wide with terror, stared lifelessly at the sky.
Ghislain looked down at the corpse, his expression emotionless.
“A pathetic death befitting you.”
News of Harold’s death spread quickly through the Desmond forces.
Already surrounded by Ferdium and Kingdom forces, the Desmond soldiers threw down their weapons in surrender or scattered in retreat upon hearing the news.
Gordon, one of Fenris’s senior knights, was the first to rush to Ghislain. Despite blood dripping from his lips, his voice was filled with elation.
“We’ve won! My lord, we’ve done it! It’s a great victory! We defeated the so-called strongest army in the North—Desmond’s forces!”
“Waaaaah!”
The soldiers’ cheers erupted from all sides. Against an army of 30,000, they had achieved a victory that would go down in history.
As the celebrations swelled, Ghislain remained stern. Turning to Gordon, he issued an urgent command.
“Gather everyone who can still move. Mount up and follow me immediately.”
“What? But why so suddenly? Shouldn’t we stay to organize the battlefield, claim the spoils, and rest?”
“Leave the battlefield to my father and the Kingdom troops. Send them our thanks, but tell them we’ll handle gratitude later. Right now, we must secure Desmond’s castle and its key fortresses.”
“Desmond?”
Gordon looked puzzled. The Desmond forces were annihilated, and the territory was defenseless. Surely, they could claim it at their leisure.
“It’s already ours. Who could challenge us now? There’s no one left to oppose us,” Gordon said, stating the obvious.
But Ghislain shook his head.
“There is one.”
Gordon frowned, confused. To him, no one in the North would dare act against them, especially after their victory. Even if someone tried, it would take time to mobilize troops.
Yet Ghislain knew better.
He spoke gravely, “Someone who’s already prepared, someone who moves faster than anyone else and isn’t afraid of the Kingdom’s army.”
Ghislain knew the Duke’s household would have eyes on this battlefield, watching for the outcome. The moment the battle ended, they would act.
This was no longer about strength but about speed. Whoever reached Desmond first would claim it.
“No more questions. Move now,” Ghislain commanded as he mounted the Black King.
Though exhausted from battle, Ghislain and his Fenris forces wasted no time. They galloped toward Desmond, leaving behind the celebration of their victory.
“Spare us!”
“We made a mistake!”
“We’ll pay any price you ask!”
Several bloodied lords knelt in chains, pleading for their lives. Their voices trembled as they begged Amelia, the woman they had foolishly attacked.
These Northern lords had formed an alliance and marched against her with confidence, only to be utterly crushed and taken as prisoners.
Amelia listened to their pleas with a lazy tone.
“You all banded together to strike at me, and now you beg for mercy?”
Pale and desperate, the lords cried out,
“We surrendered! According to custom, our lives must be spared!”
“We’ll never oppose you again!”
“I’ll give you half of my estate’s wealth as ransom!”
Their desperation was pitiful, but Amelia’s expression remained cold.
“I don’t let those who attack me live. Deal with them.”
“Meow.”
As Bastet’s cry echoed softly, Amelia’s knights began dragging the lords away.
“Wait! Please, spare us!”
“We surrendered under the rules of war!”
“You wretched witch! I’ll haunt you even in death!”
Their curses and cries faded as they were hauled off. Amelia watched them with an indifferent gaze, her attention soon shifting to a distant castle.
“Baron Valois... still holed up in his castle.”
Despite the lures and traps she had set for him, Baron Valois hadn’t emerged to fight.
What Amelia didn’t know was that Valois had indeed considered joining the allied lords. However, Ghislain’s advice—or warning—had kept him in check.
[No matter what happens, do not leave your castle. Even if an opportunity presents itself, it’s not what it seems.]
Though Valois saw a chance, Ghislain’s words lingered in his mind like a prophecy.
Adding to his hesitation was Daven, a worthless fourth prince of Layfold, who urged him to attack.
“Let’s go! With the Northern lords here, we can crush her completely!”
Daven’s reckless enthusiasm only made Valois doubt the wisdom of joining the fight. The man’s reputation for incompetence and debauchery did little to inspire trust.
As Valois hesitated, the chance slipped by. Soon after, he witnessed a horrifying sight: the complete annihilation of the 5,000-strong Northern alliance.
The ease with which Amelia’s forces decimated them left Valois shaken to his core. Even if he had joined the fight, the outcome would have been no different.
‘They were waiting for this. They deliberately held back during the siege, knowing this would happen.’
Valois’s respect for Amelia grew.
‘She’s terrifying. Her rise wasn’t just luck. If she were a man, she’d have made an unrivaled heir.’
As he considered Amelia’s potential, Valois couldn’t help but glance disdainfully at Daven, who had locked himself in his room, too afraid to face Amelia.
Valois, though disgusted by Daven’s cowardice, was bound by his oath of loyalty to the previous Count of Layfold. Despite his frustration, he had no choice but to protect the spineless fourth prince and oppose Amelia, the usurper.
For days, Valois and his household hid like cornered rats, waiting for what seemed like the inevitable siege on his castle. Yet something unexpected occurred.
Amelia’s forces, which had been laying siege, suddenly began dismantling their camp and preparing to withdraw.
“What... what’s going on?” Valois muttered in disbelief.
He couldn’t have known at the time, but the cause of Amelia’s withdrawal lay far away—on the battlefield where Ghislain and Harold’s armies clashed.
The messenger Amelia had sent to monitor the situation returned with urgent news.
“While I couldn’t confirm the Count of Desmond’s fate, the Fenris forces have secured a decisive victory. Desmond’s main forces are annihilated, and the remnants are surrounded by Ferdium’s army and the Third Legion. There’s no conceivable way for Desmond to turn the tide.”
Hearing the report, Amelia’s lips curled into a twisted smile.
“So, Ghislain... he actually did it. Even with the Kingdom army’s help, to defeat Harold’s 30,000-strong army... that’s no ordinary feat.”
Though she had harbored some doubts, Ghislain had proven himself once again. He was no longer someone to be underestimated. In fact, she had no choice but to acknowledge him as a truly extraordinary force.
Defeating Harold would earn Ghislain the title of the North’s strongest. And if he succeeded in claiming Desmond’s territory, his power would become even more formidable.
But Amelia had no intention of letting that happen so easily. Her expression turned cold as she gave her next order to her subordinate, Bernaph.
“Begin preparations for withdrawal. We’re heading to Desmond. We’ll claim it before Ghislain can.”
As Ghislain watched Harold’s lifeless body collapse to the ground, Amelia’s forces began their march toward Desmond with alarming speed.
