It was not that he resented mediocrity. If life settled into calm, his eldest brother Karl, leveraging his status as firstborn and the prestige he had amassed among the nobility, would smoothly ascend the throne and become Whiteman IV, which would have no practical impact on his life.
He might be assigned to some distant southern territory far from the center of power, become a leisurely noble, and spend a tranquil life with the woman he loved among vineyards and lavender fields, occasionally returning to the capital to attend celebrations and present blessings and tributes to his royal brother.
But they absolutely must not have tangled with those demonic minions who exuded brimstone stench from the Abyss, dragging the entire White Horse Kingdom—the land he loved—under the shadow of demon terror and the spiderweb of conspiracies.
Karl, the elder brother once entrusted with great hopes, under the seduction of demonic minions, actually launched a palace coup, murdered the king and usurped the throne; the second brother William declared himself the Wesman dynasty in the distant Northern Territory.
The once-unified northern kingdom fractured in mere months, tearing itself apart with wars breaking out everywhere.
He could not forget how, at eighteen, during the harvest festival’s court ball, Isabella Soren—second daughter of Count Soren of the southern territory—had slipped into his previously placid heart like a shy but radiant tulip.
She had the soft contours typical of southern women, chestnut hair that glowed warmly in candlelight, and eyes as blue and clear as the purest lake outside Ferando.
She was awkward at the court’s hypocritical politicking, but she knew poetry, painting, and the kingdom’s ancient architecture as if by heart.
That night, on the balcony, under moonlight and distant music, they quietly talked about the poet Whiteman’s sonnets and the scent of Soren territory’s summer grapes; her cheeks tinged faintly pink, her gaze bright and sincere.
Alec had not taken it seriously then, thinking the girl overly worried, but seeing the genuine concern in her eyes, he solemnly promised his beloved and stayed in Ferando, not returning to the royal capital to see the old king.
Despite the kingdom’s ensuing cataclysm—capital falling, his father killed, two brothers at each other’s throats—he survived because he was distant from the storm’s center and held little real power.
He had even made the worst-case plans: fully renounce his claim to the throne, hide in the old capital of Ferando, quietly gather resources by relying on his mother’s family influence and the Soren family’s potential southern support, and wait for the chaos to end so he could pledge loyalty to the victor and secure a place of safety for himself, Isabella, and his family.
But a few days ago, Isabella died.
She died in his residence, killed by an assassin sent by their political enemies; blood stained the study’s carpet, that glaring red a merciless mockery and warning.
Why, why kill her?!
He had lowered himself to the most humble posture, nearly abandoning all political ambition, wanting only to live quietly with the one he loved. Why would his lofty brothers, why would the enemies hidden in shadow, press relentlessly and refuse to spare him or innocent Isabella?!
Alec clenched his fists until his nails dug into the soft flesh of his palms, bringing sharp pain that was nothing compared to the torment in his heart.
He silently roared inside; memories sliced through his reason like the sharpest blades, igniting his fury and even swallowing his fear of demons.
Isabella was dead; the last sliver of luck in his heart had shattered. He no longer had time to distinguish right from wrong.
With boundless grief and guilt over Isabella’s death, with fear of the visible pressure from his two brothers, and with crushing concern over the kingdom’s turmoil… all thoughts condensed into blazing rage.
I will have revenge!!!
Whether for the sinking country or for Isabella, he needed power! He needed strength so that he would not be just a powerless pawn sitting in a corner listening to negotiations that determined the kingdom’s fate, to be carved up at others’ whims.
Even if he had to gamble his soul against demons, even if his power would burst like a fleeting firework in the night only to produce a brief blaze of destruction, he would sell his soul and stake everything, so they would see the fury rising from this man!
Through the small but utterly loyal secret channels left by his mother’s family, he learned that a weak demon who had escaped from Storm Fortress—a knight-demon Slime, the Iron Cavalry Slime—was active in the Storm Territory, apparently seeking a “partner.” Alec took the risk and used his most forward clandestine line to contact that Abyssal visitor.
He chose the secluded ground-floor room of the remote mansion that belonged to his mother’s estate to perform that bloody ritual that would decide him and perhaps decide the kingdom’s fate.
Just as Alec sank into inner torment, the one standing beside him appearing stern—Yex—felt even lighter and less anxious than him.
My soul is still firmly in the grasp of that dreadful Casaric; that damned Book of Souls hangs above my head like the sword of Damocles, ready to fall at any moment.
Yex agreed to cooperate with this seemingly frail yet conflicted prince partly because he did not want to lose his soul’s vessel to the scrutiny of other higher demons, and partly because the situation forced him to quickly reestablish a foothold in the White Horse Kingdom to gain resources and intelligence to face Lord Casaric’s possible retribution.
He could not return to the Abyss as he was, and he could not go to the Burning Capital to see Lord Casaric directly.
Thus, by contacting him indirectly through a sacrificial ritual, perhaps he could hide his secret.
But he was not certain he could truly deceive a master who toyed with souls—Yex was full of doubts and unease.
Alec, however, was ready; he could no longer delay. The resolute flame burning in this human prince’s eyes told Yex the ritual had to proceed.
Yex pushed aside his scattered thoughts. His eyes, burning with sulfurous flames, swept over Alec’s face filled with vengeance, and he spoke in a low voice.
“The ritual begins.”
“Offer your sincerity—one drop of fingertip blood, and call the name of my lord.”
Alec trembled as he drew the ceremonial short sword at his waist, pressed the tip to his finger, and gently pierced the skin.
A single drop of fingertip blood—symbolic of “connection” and “contact” in demonic rites—slowly oozed out and fell into the center of the sinister sacrificial formation at his feet.
The moment the blood touched the formation, like a drop splashing into hot oil, the entire formation flared with a blinding, dark red light; the stench of blood and sulfur intensified severalfold.
Alec felt his heart pound and the world spin, but he forced himself to keep his eyes open and, with all his strength, recited the demon tongue Yex had taught him in a hoarse voice: “With my blood as bait, I call the Abyssal gaze…”
“Great Lord of Burning and Conquest… Casaric…”
“Accept this humble soul offering, grant your favor…”
As the last syllable fell, a scalding sulfurous breath rushed his face, fluttering his clothing.
Amid bloodlight and flames, a blurred silhouette appeared.
Alec felt his soul seized by an invisible hand, dragged toward the Abyss’s ruinous aura. Just as he thought he would be wholly consumed, that pulling force suddenly stopped.
The terrifying figure spoke in a hoarse voice.
“The Whiteman souls are numerous enough already, but child, your soul is special enough to draw Morgul’s chaotic gaze.”
“I am pleased.”
As the final sense of being plucked away vanished and his soul fully detached, Alec collapsed, gasping, drenched in cold sweat, his face white as paper.
He felt a cold sting at his heart, as if something had been branded there.
The ritual continued, but the following conversation belonged solely to Yex and the projection of that Greater Demon.
After Alec and the ministers and knights who had participated in the ritual left the room, Yex faced the blurred silhouette made of flames and bloodlight, dropped to one knee, and bowed his proud head.
“O great Lord of the Infernal Forge, will of burning and conquest, Yex begs your pardon.”
He spoke with difficulty, “Storm Fortress has fallen, and the swamp’s magical creatures have already taken root in the kingdom. I…”
“Enough.” Casaric’s projection cut him off; the voice was flat but carried the dignity of one in power.
“Yex, I understand your power and know the enemy you face.”
“That Slime is a sage that emerged from the forest; it stands behind those elves and even older beings.”
A sage?
Yex was stunned, for he had clearly seen a purple malignant Slime—a Slime King.
He felt puzzled, but when he met Casaric’s blazing gaze, he swallowed what he had wanted to say and bowed his head even lower.
“You have something to say?” Casaric asked lightly.
“Just some reluctance. The demon legion was nearly annihilated; I alone escaped…”
As he spoke, Yex felt his heart thump wildly, uneasy within, silently praying his lies would fool this Greater Demon, hoping the demon would not press for details.
Casaric’s flame-filled eyes watched him for a long moment before speaking, emotion unreadable: “Sacrifice the soul and open an Abyssal fissure. I will send a demon legion to reconquer the White Horse Kingdom. This cannot fail again.”
“Yes! Lord Casaric!” Yex cried with all his strength, secretly sighing in relief.
“Hmm…”
Casaric’s voice faded. The room’s flames and bloodlight gradually dispersed; after he departed, the chamber was again shrouded by dim candlelight and shadow.
Yex stood alone in the empty ritual room for a long while before slowly straightening.
He… probably did not discover it, right?
Yex still felt uncertain, but at least they had passed for now.
He gathered himself and walked out to meet Alec waiting in the parlor.
Alec’s face remained pale, but his gaze was deeper than before, as if a veil of shadow lay over him. He asked in a low voice, “Lord Yex, what do we do next?”
To Yex, the human prince who had just sold his soul was nothing more than a tool for his disguise.
Yex replied succinctly, “Conquer the east, but keep a close watch on Storm Fortress.”
There was one more unspoken thing on his mind: find a way, before being discovered, to wrest his soul back from that Slime.
Alec nodded. He knew he had set foot on a path of no return; ahead might be the Abyss, might be Hell, but he no longer cared.
Isabella, wait for me…
He looked out the window. Ferando was still wrapped in cold autumn rain, damp and chilly, but a bloodier storm was quietly brewing in the old capital.
This would be a war to end war, and a war of revenge.
Golden Radiance Valley, Burning Capital.
To adventurers who spent seasons roaming volcanic regions, this city—perched atop an active volcano, forever shrouded in sulfur smoke and magma glow—had long been a symbol of flame, ruin, and demons.
Black spires pierced roiling clouds; colossal furnaces spewed ceaseless flame and molten rock. Yet, unexpectedly, in the heart of the Furnace Palace at the Burning Capital’s core, there existed an unusually quiet and tidy study.
Casaric, the fearsome Greater Demon, stood before bookshelves and pointed a knuckled finger into empty air.
A heavy tome rose as if lifted by an invisible hand, floated smoothly off the shelf, and landed in his open palm.
Despite the dense spiral ridges on his horns and the warped corpse-like body that fully revealed his demonic form, he focused like a refined scholar.
His gaze lowered to the writhed demonic runes dancing on the pages as he murmured obscure ancient demon words, utterly absorbed in the realm of knowledge.
At that moment, a once-still shadow in the corner undulated like a ripple across water.
“Did you truly believe his words?”
The rippling shadow condensed into a humanoid outline and moved slowly behind Casaric.
Casaric did not turn, fingers still gently flipping a page.
“Remember to knock next time, or I won’t mind tearing your soul apart.”
The shadow trembled, producing a dry rustle like a soft laugh. “You won’t do that, Casaric, and you still haven’t answered my question.”
“Morrigan, I know Yex well. He only excels at combat—stomping and smashing enemies. He is not skilled in deceit and lying, at least not in front of me.”
He turned with meaning in his words, “He did not… escape.”
“Interesting.” The shadow wavered and continued, “That Slime tore my brother apart. That poor creature intended to deceive weak mages and down-and-out vampires to gain power amid chaos, yet it still died.”
“It was consumed by a force I have never seen, vanished without a trace, not even a remnant of its soul left behind.”
“Casaric, that so-called Slime Kingdom is not as simple as it appears.”
Casaric’s slender fingers rose slightly and the book floated back to its shelf.
“Morrigan, you come from the Shadow Mountains. You should know better than anyone that when the Shadow Dragon Eryn fell from the mountains six thousand three hundred and twenty-seven years ago, countless strange beings were born that day.”
“You and your siblings have footprints in the shadowed corners of the continent, and among that monster kingdom there is a crow from the Shadow Mountains; this is no coincidence.”
“As for that Slime…”
Casaric fell into thought. His flame-filled eyes gazed out the crystal window toward the Eternal Forge rising high at the Burning Capital’s center; its never-extinguishing magma poured like a dark cloth from the furnace mouth into a network of channels below, supplying heat and power to the entire city.
After a long pause he spoke again, “We need to probe its true nature and reclaim the crown.”
“Yebarton has already set out, heading for the fissure nearest the swamp, crossing the snowfield to infiltrate the Slime Kingdom’s interior.”
“The power of shadow will conceal his movements, making him as silent as the darkest night.”
Morrigan’s shadow quivered: “Yebarton, that Shadow Demon? It seems you value this Slime far more than I expected.”
“Necessary caution,” Casaric said calmly. “When facing the unknown, no amount of force used in reconnaissance is excessive. Yebarton is skilled in stealth and scouting; he will bring us the intelligence we need without causing much disturbance.”
“Or just eliminate the trouble directly?” Morrigan’s shadow gave a hoarse laugh.
Casaric did not deny it.