The mingling scents of roasted meat, fresh bread, and rich wine filled the grand hall, creating an atmosphere of indulgence and extravagance.
Laughter and conversation drifted through the air, but not everyone at the table was equally refined.
Seated lazily on a plush sofa, "Battle Demon" Zero tore into a large, glistening drumstick with both hands. His muscular, wheat-colored arms flexed as he gnawed away, paying little mind to manners.
Compared to his brutish eating habits, the pair sitting at one end of the long table were far more composed—one man, one woman, both exuding an air of grace.
The man had short blond hair, but his face was a web of jagged scars. When he chewed, the scars writhed like living centipedes. The effect was unsettling, but the man himself paid it no mind.
Even now, in the relaxed setting of the banquet hall, he remained in full black armor, save for the helmet placed beside him to make eating easier.
This was none other than "Spatial Slash" Peshurian.
Across from him sat a striking woman with long silver-white hair, tanned skin, and an exotic outfit that clung to her athletic frame—"Dancing Scimitar" Edström.
On a separate sofa, reclining with a glass of red wine in hand, was "Thousand Kills" Malmvist. His deep red hair framed his sharp features, and his half-exposed chest hinted at an effortless arrogance. He swirled the wine lazily, but every so often, his gaze flickered toward Edström.
Until—
"Look at me like that again, and I'll gouge out your eyes."
Edström's voice was calm, but the threat was unmistakable.
Malmvist chuckled, lifting his wine to his lips.
"What a dangerous woman."
Still, he averted his gaze, sighing in boredom.
There were few sights worth admiring in this hall. Aside from Edström, no one else present was even remotely interesting. The lower-ranking guards? Not even allowed in the same room.
Normally, the Six Arms didn't gather like this—each had their own business to attend to. Tonight was an exception, and that alone made it noteworthy.
"I hear you've taken an interest in a half-elf woman."
The voice was thin, almost airy. It belonged to "Phantom Devil" Succulent, a pale man with sharp cheekbones and a calculating gaze.
Malmvist paused mid-sip, then looked over at Succulent, mildly intrigued.
"Oh?"
Succulent remained unfazed. "I'd like to take her off your hands. How about 1,200 gold coins?"
A smirk tugged at the corner of Malmvist's lips.
"Hah."
He let out a low chuckle, swirling his wine once more before leveling his gaze at Succulent.
"You don't have that kind of money, do you? Is Ampetif behind this?"
Though all Eight Fingers divisions were equal in name, the Security Division held greater influence, often brushing shoulders with the leaders of other branches.
Succulent, for instance, was close to Ampetif, head of the Slave Division.
As for Malmvist—his personal group of assassins had already taken over half the work of the official Assassination Division. The actual head of that division didn't even dare voice displeasure.
Because in this world, strength dictated authority.
Malmvist had long understood this truth, and it reflected in the quiet arrogance of his eyes.
"Tell Ampetif this—she's my prey."
Succulent shrugged, raising his hands in surrender.
"Understood."
It made no difference to him. He was merely the messenger. Whether the deal succeeded or failed, his commission was already secured.
The conversation shifted.
"What about that noblewoman? Have you completed her background check?"
Zero swallowed a mouthful of meat, his deep voice cutting through the chatter.
Peshurian smirked, setting down his knife. The scars on his face twisted grotesquely as he grinned.
"Not only is she clean—she's impressive."
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
"She single-handedly slaughtered her own fiancé's family and her entire family. The empire has put a bounty on her head, but the woman was smart—first thing she did was flee here, to our kingdom."
The moment the words left his mouth, the room fell silent.
Everyone exchanged glances, their amusement giving way to mild surprise.
"She's definitely worth recruiting."
Zero's eyes gleamed with interest.
Tonight's gathering wasn't just for idle chatter—it was a prelude to the impending battle between Gazef Stronoff and Leinas.
That was when it happened.
A voice, low and deathly cold, broke the air.
"Intruders."
The speaker had been sitting quietly in the shadows all this time, his presence easily overlooked—until now. Wrapped in an aura of decay and death, "Undead King" Davernoch was impossible to ignore. His lifeless eyes lifted as he added:
"And they've brought the undead."
Invaders?
The unfamiliar word rippled through the room, drawing momentary surprise from everyone present. Then—
"Hah!"
A laugh broke the silence.
"What kind of idiot dares to break in here?"
"Six Arms" is fully assembled tonight—bad luck for them."
"Undead manipulation? Oh, Davernoch, they couldn't have picked a worse place to invade."
The room erupted in amusement, as if they'd just heard the most ridiculous joke of the century.
Malmvist, lounging on the couch, raked his fingers through his deep red hair and smirked.
"Well, at least things won't be boring anymore."
Zero, on the other hand, remained silent. His expression was indifferent, but there was a ruthless gleam in his eyes.
Their stronghold had been infiltrated.
Intentional or not, to "Battle Demon" Zero, this was an unforgivable insult.
Anyone foolish enough to provoke Six Arms would not leave this place alive.
Then—
"Aaaah!"
Screams rang out beyond the hall.
But no one in the room reacted.
Not a single flicker of concern crossed their faces. They remained seated, unbothered.
Then—
BANG!
The heavy doors to the hall slammed shut.
Only to burst open a moment later.
A horde of undead poured in.
Pale, bloodied, and clad in the attire of their own manor's servants, the creatures staggered forward, the stench of death rolling off them in waves.
The aroma of wine and fine food was instantly overpowered by the smell of blood.
Malmvist let out a low sigh and tossed his wine glass onto the table.
"What a waste of good wine."
Across the room, Davernoch slowly lifted his head.
For the first time, his decayed, skeletal features were fully visible, his leathery flesh stretched tightly over bone. As the oppressive aura of death thickened around him, the truth became apparent—
He wasn't merely someone who controlled the undead.
He was one of them.
A true undying being, hidden within the world of the living.
Without hesitation, Davernoch raised his arm.
"Undead Control."
A wave of dark energy surged from his palm, rippling outward to seize control of the undead horde.
Yet—
In the next instant—
His body stiffened.
His skeletal fingers trembled.
His voice, usually cold and steady, wavered with disbelief.
"Impossible..."
Everyone turned toward him.
Davernoch's lifeless eyes widened as he hissed,
"The enemy's spellcasting ability surpasses mine. I... I can't control them!"
He lurched to his feet.
The entire room shifted.
Gone was the casual indifference—every member of Six Arms was now fully alert.
Succulent was the first to break the silence.
"You're joking, right, Davernoch?"
His voice carried an edge of doubt, but his body was already moving—rising to his feet.
He knew Davernoch wasn't the type to joke.
But Davernoch didn't respond with words.
Instead—
"Fireball."
A searing sphere of flame, as large as a washbasin, ignited in his palm.
With a flick of his wrist, the fireball shot forward, streaking toward the undead horde.
BOOM!
The explosion tore through the invaders. The walls shook, flames roared, and black smoke billowed through the entrance. The force of the blast left a charred crater in the floor, reducing the undead to ashes.
Furniture toppled, wine glasses shattered, and the once-immaculate hall now reeked of burnt flesh.
Davernoch turned his head, fixing Succulent with an unfeeling stare.
"Does it sound like I'm joking now?"
Silence.
Then—
Every single person in the room stood up.
Their earlier arrogance was gone.
The air was now charged with something else—
A silent, deadly focus.