In the vast lands of Elias, humanity was fractured into a mosaic of hundreds of kingdoms. Some were mere hamlets of a few thousand souls; others were sprawling titans housing hundreds of millions.
Yet, amidst this chaotic sea of nations, three behemoths stood at the apex of the food chain, dictating the fate of the human race.
The Dragon Empire. The Lionheart Kingdom. The Veridian Light.
Each held hundreds of vassal states under their banners and possessed the ultimate deterrent: beings of the Eighth Order.
They were the symbols of human supremacy. However, absolute power did not guarantee absolute peace. To maintain their hegemony, dirty work was required, work that could not see the light of day.
In the Dragon Empire, that burden had fallen upon the Voss family for a millennium.
They were a lineage of Dark Mages. Masters of death, shadow, decay, illusion, and curses, arts that would be reviled as heretical by the outside world.
Yet, it was precisely this affinity for the abyss that made them the indispensable Shadow of the Empire.
And at this very moment, the current patriarch of that shadow was at war.
Theron Voss. The man closest to God. One of the few living Eighth Order beings. The physical embodiment of darkness.
He stood in the center of a desecrated cathedral. The walls were smeared with blood-drawn sigils of eldritch beasts, and the air reeked of iron and ozone.
Surrounding him were over one hundred hooded figures, their intent murderous.
Theron, a towering figure at six-foot-five, threw his head back and laughed.
His long gray hair danced in the turbulent air as he looked at his opponents with pure, unadulterated scorn.
"Hah! I must be getting old if the dogs of a cult think they can corner me!"
His laughter died abruptly, replaced by a scowl that dropped the temperature of the room by ten degrees.
"Do you think I've grown frail because I haven't slaughtered anyone in a decade? If not, how dare you demon-worshipping filth step foot in my Empire!"
Theron clenched his fist, the leather of his glove creaking. Beneath his arrogance, a volcano of rage was erupting.
He wasn't just angry at the invasion; he was furious at the timing.
He had missed it.
Just as his wife was due to give labor, the Emperor's urgent decree had arrived: Demon worshiper activity detected in the South. Investigate immediately.
Duty had called, and because of these bastards, he wasn't there to hold his newborn child.
"Obsidian Sea!" Theron roared, his voice shaking the stained-glass windows.
"Normally, I would capture a few of you for interrogation. But today? I'm not in the mood."
He took a step forward.
"I've decided to kill you all."
BOOM!
Space itself seemed to warp. A terrifying wave of mana exploded from his body, cracking the stone floor beneath his boots and pulverizing the wooden pews nearby.
The pressure was so immense that his own silver armor groaned, spiderweb fractures appearing on the pauldrons.
The twenty Voss family mages behind him instinctively stepped back. They knew the truth: when the Patriarch was angry, he was a natural disaster.
With physical strength rivaling an adult dragon and magic to match, intervention was suicide.
Theron raised his hand to wipe them out, but movement in the crowd stopped him.
From the sea of black robes, two figures dressed in pristine white stepped forward.
"Sir King of Darkness, please calm down," the figure on the left spoke, his voice eerie and detached.
"You might not know this, but this is the temple of our Lord. If you choose to remain aggressive, we will have no choice but to act."
"Indeed," the second white-robed figure added, completely ignoring the mana crushing down on them.
"We applaud you for finding this base, King of Darkness. But thanks to the power of our Lord, your struggle is meaningless."
The two figures turned to face each other, bowed, and chanted in unison.
"Praise be to the Demon God of Void!"
Like a chilling echo, the hundred cultists behind them fell to their knees.
"Praise be to the Demon God of Void!"
Theron's patience snapped.
"Voss Family! Seal the exits! Not a single rat leaves this church alive!" Theron barked.
"I'll end this quickly so I can go home and see my son!"
He didn't wait for a response. He slammed his palms together, channeling a torrential amount of mana.
"Eighth-Order Spell: Shadow of Ten Thousand Armies!"
The shadows cast by the pillars and the cultists suddenly liquified. Like a tidal wave of ink, darkness flooded the church floor.
From the abyss, hundreds of silhouettes rose, nightmarish soldiers with four arms, winged beasts, and dragon-shaped horrors.
in a split second, the numbers game flipped. Theron wasn't outnumbered; he was the legion.
"You dare surround me?" Theron's eyes glowed with blue mana.
"If you don't entertain me in battle, I promise you will beg for death long before I grant it!"
He was ready to tear them limb from limb. Mercy was a concept the Voss family had abandoned centuries ago.
But just as he was about to unleash the slaughter, Theron's pupils dilated. His heart skipped a beat.
'No… That shouldn't be possible.'
His gaze locked onto the two white-robed figures. Their aura had changed. It wasn't the aura of fodder.
"How are both of you Eighth Order?" Theron whispered, his voice laced with genuine shock.
"The Imperial Seers didn't sense any breakthroughs..."
The math didn't add up. Across the three Great Empires, with a combined population of over a billion citizens, there were only seven known Eighth Order beings. That was less than 0.001% of the human race.
And yet, two unknown Eighth Orders were standing in front of him in a dilapidated church?
A cold chill ran down his spine. This wasn't a skirmish. It was a trap. A meticulously planned assassination.
Theron realized with sinking dread that he wouldn't be going home today. Perhaps not even tomorrow.
"Sigh... I'm sorry, Elizabeth," he whispered, tightening his stance as mana flared around him like a raging inferno.
"I'm going to have to delay my return."
The two white-robed cultists pulled out strings of bone beads, their chanting rising in volume.
"For the Demon God... Die, King of Darkness!"
Spells collided. Light and Shadow crashed together, tearing the roof off the church and lighting up the southern sky.
To a distant observer, it looked less like a battle and more like the apocalypse.
…..............
Meanwhile, in the Voss Estate.
Far away from the blood and thunder, the atmosphere was serene.
Damien, a newborn wrapped in silk, had just finished being breastfed. His mother, exhausted, had placed him gently in his crib.
But while his body was that of an infant, his mind was racing with the anxiety of an adult.
He stared at the ceiling, his tiny hands trembling.
He had heard the maids whispering. His father was on a mission. A sudden mission to the South.
Damien's face, usually cute and chubby, turned ashen gray. The timeline... it was matching up perfectly.
'According to the book...' Damien thought, his internal voice frantic.
'The Patriarch of the Voss family was conspired against by the Second Prince and the Obsidian Sea. He was ambushed on a mission exactly before his first child's birth.'
Damien recalled the plot summary vividly. It was a pivotal moment in the webnovel history.
'In that battle, Theron Voss loses an arm. His entire team, including several Sixth and Seventh Order elders, are slaughtered. It decimates the Voss family's combat power and political standing overnight.'
The readers had called this event "The Beginning of the End." It was the first major move the Demon Worshipers had made in decades, and they nearly took down a pinnacle of humanity in a single strike.
Damien looked at his tiny, useless hands.
'My father is walking into a death trap.'
Suddenly, the lingering taste of his mother's milk didn't seem so sweet anymore.