Hidden within Voga's army as they gradually advanced toward BlackGate, Exitus increasingly sensed the growing presence of nightmare energy. Richer was probably conducting some kind of ritual and it seemed he had succeeded. In the distance, a pillar of black smoke pierced the sky and engulfed the entirety of Golden's capital. Naturally, aside from Exitus, ordinary people wouldn’t be able to perceive the presence of nightmare energy. In his mind, the book Madenes quivered intensely. The rarely heard whisper of Jester echoed once more, warning him of a terrible danger creeping closer.

  “A Wishbearer is near you! Be careful!” Exitus remained indifferent; Wishbearers were supposed to be allies by nature. But the moment he chose to fulfill Nashor’s wish, he also chose to walk the solitary path of revenge. Richer must die to atone for what he had done to his family.

  Just as Voga attacked BlackGate, Ceasar also launched an assault on the RhinoHorn territory. Ceasar's army easily broke through the Golden’s weak defenses and took control of an entire region. There were hardly any casualties, as the Rhino Horn forces surrendered too easily. Perched on Ceasar’s shoulder, Mulock was busy preening his feathers. Having lost Mullack’s body, he was quite idle these days. Ceasar, being a seasoned general, could command Hesmor’s army with great ease perhaps even better than Mullack ever could. Ceasar now pondered over the decision to march on Golden’s capital. From the RhinoHorn territory, there was no advantageous terrain for an ambush against a force as large as Hesmor’s. Yet something felt off, the Golden forces surrendered too easily, and it was as if they wanted the army to march directly into the capital. Ceasar sensed a trap, but no matter how hard he thought, he couldn’t figure out a way to stop an army of 70,000 from flooding the capital.

  Suddenly, without a sound, a figure in a black cloak appeared from thin air before Ceasar's eyes. Even Mulock failed to notice her presence. Man and bird froze, mana flaring around their bodies, ready for battle.

  “I am Mys, chieftain of NightWing, and I’m here to negotiate.” Her warped and twisted voice still conveyed a tone of ceasefire. Both Mulock and Ceasar exchanged confused glances, yet they were still curious to hear her intent.

  “Negotiate what? We’ve conquered this land and will soon besiege the capital. Golden has fallen,” Ceasar said arrogantly.

  “Is that really so?” Mys replied calmly. Her question caused Ceasar to frown. He knew it wasn’t that simple. According to Mulock’s accounts, the battle would have turned out very differently if Drake had joined. Dragon Scale was a powerful faction, not something mere numbers could overcome. Their involvement could drastically change the tide. The atmosphere was deathly still, but Mys broke the silence as she presented a proposal that shocked both Ceasar and Mulock.

  “Attack the capital. The armies of DragonScale and NightWing will support you. Our goal is Richer. If he’s killed, the war will end.”

  “You expect me to trust an enemy? Is this a trap waiting for Hesmor’s forces to walk right in?” Ceasar sneered.

  Mys remained silent. She knew it wouldn’t be easy to convince them after all, they were enemies in name. A magical contract appeared in her hand and floated gently toward Ceasar. The content of the contract was a temporary alliance between NightWing, Dragon Scale, and the Hesmor army. During the period of temporary cooperation, neither side would engage in armed conflict until the primary target, King Richer, was eliminated.

  “How about it?” Mys’s hoarse voice echoed again.

  Ceasar scrutinized the contract carefully, as if searching for any loopholes, but it seemed he was overthinking. Everything written on the parchment was entirely in favor of Hesmor, with no reason to refuse.

  “Very well, we agree. Our forces will depart at dawn tomorrow.”

  In the dazzling golden palace, inside a massive hall, at the center of it was an enormous magic circle, radiating thick, dark, malevolent energy. Floating around the magic circle were three crystallized mana spheres, blackened and full of malice. In the Allblack dungeon, mana couldn’t seep inside simply because it had already been drawn out and mixed with nightmare energy to form these unique crystallized cores. With this method, Richer could freely gather nightmare energy without being detected by the “Thousand Face” of the Alliance. Now that the energy reserves were full, all that remained was for him to separate the mana from the nightmare energy and proceed with absorption.

  Richer sat at the center of the circle as the dark energy from the three stones gradually merged into his body, making him moan in ecstasy. The nightmare energy was reshaping his body, and soon he would truly reach the rank of Sorcerer Emperor. In the end, there was no one else by his side. For Richer, greatness came with solitude.

  At dawn the next day, Hesmor’s army indeed flooded into Golden’s capital. Gazing upon the massive, regal palace of pure gold in the distance, both Ceasar and Mulock felt a terrifying dread crawl across their skin. They knew something unimaginably horrifying lurked within. The scene was grotesque. Everything had been transformed into pure gold. From lifeless objects to living beings, all had become shimmering golden statues. Most horrifying of all even the very ground had turned into solid gold. A Hesmor soldier, eyes shining wide, lightly touched a golden statue nearby. It was a beautiful countryside girl selling fruit at her stall. Her expression was calm, as though nothing had ever happened.

  The soldier knocked against the statue, producing a metallic “clang, clang.” He then touched the now golden fruits. “It’s real gold,” he whispered in amazement, then quietly slipped a few oranges and tangerines into his military pouch.

  “What happened here? Everything’s been turned into gold,” Ceasar frowned. A bad feeling gnawed at him. Even Mulock was horrified by the sight, turning a whole city, no, an entire bustling capital into gold was essentially a mass extermination. Mulock clicked his tongue; he might be cruel, but compared to the madman responsible for this, he could almost pass as a decent person.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “The scene is truly beautiful, isn’t it, gentlemen?” The sound echoed from the top of a tall building. Sitting there was a strange old man with messy hair, thick glasses, and a smile full of wisdom. His back was slightly hunched, and he leaned on a pitch-black staff adorned with terrifying patterns of fangs and eyes.

  “If I’m not mistaken, you are a member of The Writter,” Ceasar speculated based on the old man’s attire and aura. Indeed, his guess was correct, as the old man nodded approvingly.

  “General Ceasar is truly perceptive, but your deduction is correct yet incomplete.” The old man glanced at the densely packed army of Hesmor below, but he showed not a trace of fear.

  “Allow me to introduce myself! My name is King, and I am the Chairman of The Writter.” The moment his voice fell, a suffocating black vortex appeared behind him. This summoning vortex was far more terrifying than ordinary ones. The soldiers could hear screams and sobbing from the other side like hell itself. Fear spread like a plague through the army, seeping into every corner.

  “How delightful! I can feel fear overflowing, a grand feast indeed.” A shrill, screeching voice came from within the vortex as a deformed clown began to form. Its milky white eyes were crowded with countless tiny pupils that darted around madly. Its massive mouth stretched into a wide grin full of sharp fangs. It twisted and contorted as its body took shape, bones cracking audibly, before finally becoming a figure dressed like a festive jester. Like a true clown, it bowed in greeting and introduced itself.

  “Hello, little friends! I am Ti, and I will chew all your heads off! Ahahahahah!”

  Even Ceasar couldn’t help but shudder. Ti seemed the embodiment of fear itself, anyone who faced it would be terrified. Turning slightly, Ceasar whispered to the parrot on his shoulder, as if to ease his own dread:

  “Can ‘Shadow’ speak?”

  Mulock, in the form of the parrot, frowned; his feathers stiffened, betraying his unease. He’d never seen Volder speak, so he believed that "Shadow" was never a true living being, merely a manifested tool created by the Writters. Mulock’s silence was all Ceasar needed. He now understood. The being called Ti was certainly no ordinary “Shadow.” It was far stronger than Volder.

  “Much stronger than a Socerer King,” Ceasar silently realized. This level of power was beyond what mortals could confront. Yet, a flicker of madness sparked in the general’s eyes. Ceasar glanced back at the seventy thousand troops behind him and suddenly felt a burning ambition, a desire that could immortalize his name in history.

  “Hmph! There is only one enemy! So what if it’s an Emperor! Today, I, Ceasar, will be the one to kill an Emperor!” Taking a deep breath, Ceasar roared, rallying the troops. His voice boomed everywhere like thunder, sweeping away the soldiers’ fear.

  “All of you listen up! Today is the glorious day of Hesmor. Just a little more! Our army will occupy the capital of Golden! The only thing standing between us and it is that freak before us. But we have seventy thousand elite soldiers. We defeated the Blood Claw and took down the Rhinoceros Horn. Tens of thousands have died by our hands. Will we fear a monster in the form of a clown? No! We will destroy them and seize Golden’s capital. We! Are not afraid!”

  “Not afraid!” The thunderous shout of countless soldiers echoed as one, sweeping away the eerie atmosphere. Ti felt extremely irritated. His delicacies were becoming bland, a crucial seasoning was quickly fading away. “Hmph,” Ti glared at Ceasar full of killing intent. That damned man was ruining his feast. King once again found Ceasar impressive. Just a few words to rally his army’s morale. This was no ordinary person, but a truly talented general.

  “General Ceasar speaks well! But who told you we are alone?”

  As soon as King finished speaking, the greedy soldier who had secretly pocketed gold was pierced through the chest by a golden arm. Screams of terror erupted everywhere as the soldiers were slaughtered by golden statues coming to life.

  “The statues! They’re moving!” The surviving soldiers shouted in horror at the sudden ambush. They tried to fight back, but steel blades could not pierce the solid gold statues. Chaos and fear once again engulfed the Hesmor army as they found themselves surrounded by countless statues in the golden capital.

  King sneered coldly. Richer still needed time to absorb all three stones. The RhinoHorn surrendered too soon, disrupting their plans. But it didn’t matter, the Writter were here. The Hesmor army was large but not frightening. What worried him were the two mysterious tribes, DragonScale and Night Wing.

  On the BlackGate front, the battle was even fiercer than Voga and Melor expected. Net and Terax, with a total of twenty thousand troops, struggled to withstand the assault from forty thousand Hesmor soldiers.

  Voga watched the situation with confusion. They were certain to lose, yet they stubbornly defended BlackGate as though they were buying time for something. With such a numbers disadvantage, the city would soon fall. Voga swung his sword, knocking Net back, then glanced afar and nodded when he saw Melor gaining the upper hand against Terax. After all, they were old rivals, and Melor was not a weak Battle King.

  “You’re resisting in vain. Surrender,” Voga said while striking at Net.

  Net nimbly dodged Voga’s sharp strikes. As the chieftain of GoldenFang, he was incredibly agile. It was difficult for Voga to injure him, and if he wanted, Net could retreat at any time.

  “Surrender? Don’t flatter yourself,” Net growled.

  Would he truly fight to the death? The answer was no! Net was a traitor who betrayed his clan for power, greedy for life and authority. If not for the promise of support from The Writter, he would’ve already retreated to the capital. Now, however, he was growing increasingly uneasy as his troops dwindled and yet The Writter remained silent.

  “Damn it! Those filthy writter. Where are they?! Was the intel fake?”

  In contrast to the tense atmosphere of the nearby battlefield, in a forest not far away, Gaiman and Exitus strolled side by side like two friends. They chatted happily, harmoniously. Their conversation revolved around someone they both knew very well.

  “Horta is truly an erudite scholar! I had a very hard time opposing him through writing,” Gaiman remarked with emotion, conceding his defeat.

  “And so you people framed and destroyed his reputation by accusing him of rape? How despicable and filthy,” Exitus replied calmly, his voice void of even a flicker of emotion. It sounded like a simple statement of fact.

  Gaiman remained silent. He hadn't approved of using such dirty tactics, but orders from above could not be disobeyed. He always viewed it as a disgrace, best left to fade into the past.

  “This place is far enough,” Exitus stopped.

  “What a beautiful scene, the sunlight shimmering through the branches, the wind rustling lightly through the fragrant flowers. Truly a fine place to become a grave, isn’t it, dear Writter?” Exitus smiled gently, standing opposite Gaiman, calmly observing him.

  Gaiman stood still, as if taking in the beauty of the surroundings. After a long moment, he nodded in agreement. A black vortex churned behind him as a six-winged angel gradually took form. The angel’s appearance made the scene even more beautiful, mysterious, and ethereal.

  “Indeed! This truly is a poetic place to die.”