Dark Parasyte
Chapter 60: The Price of Power

Chapter 60: The Price of Power

Blackspire Bastion stood like a jagged spear against the storm lit skies of Iron March. Its towers loomed with grim resolve, and today, it was preparing for a guest unlike any other. The Human Arbiter himself, Gareth of the Iron Mantle. The citadel’s usual cold welcome was even colder than usual, laced with a tension so thick the guards dared not meet his gaze.

Gareth was furious. His steps echoed like thunder through the war chiseled halls of the Grand War Chamber as he entered, each step laced with silent rage. The last meeting of the Circle of Arbiters still burned in his memory. It had been an insult, a staged mockery. None of the other Arbiters had taken the fall of Holy Verrenate seriously. Over twenty thousand trained soldiers, gone. Erased from Verthalis like a dropped torch into snow and the others had the gall to scoff or remain silent.

The Demon Arbiter had smirked. The Feralis Arbiter grinned with teeth exposed like a predator at rest. The Elf, Solen Vaen’Thal, had made his jabs with polished cruelty. And the Aetherborn? They hadn’t even commented. Worst of all, the High Arbiter hadn’t even graced the council with his presence. Seeing a human kingdom’s demise below his attention. A silent message that spoke louder than any condemnation.

Of course Gareth knew the unspoken truth, the policies of the Verrenate regime, especially its slavery of Feralis and Elves as "heretics" and "subhumans" had long drawn ire. But still, it was a human kingdom, and it had fallen. He did not expect solidarity or sympathy. But he was not expecting derision either. The smugness. The mocking stares. The clear pleasure on that dragonkin’s face. The quiet, knowing glances passed between the others as if he had somehow deserved the loss. As if humanity had it coming.

And he blamed one being for all of it.

Corvin Blackmoor. The Raven.

The so called Elf Duke of Raven’s Nest. He wasn’t even a High Elf. He was worse, Synod. A walking abomination of dark secrets and veiled allegiances. His entire existence was an affront, a shadow that moved beyond Gareth’s reach. Not even Solen, for all his elven pride and smug superiority, had been able to extract straight answers from the Synod about Corvin’s identity. That alone set Gareth’s teeth on edge.

This Raven was wielding power far beyond his station, shattering kingdoms like they were rotting branches. And worse yet, the world was watching and letting it happen.

Now, Gareth sat at the seat of he the Grand Marshal in Blackspire, flanked by the commanders of Iron March. Below the obsidian pillars and flickering war banners, he listened as each officer gave their report. Field movements. Regional instability. Refugee waves from the north. Rising tensions that no one dared name aloud.

Then came the voice of Marshal Ilren Vos.

The retired soldier stepped forward, posture still disciplined despite his age. "I met the Elven Duke, the so called Raven myself," Vos began. "He is... composed. Sharp. Calculated. Politically aware. His domain is well guarded, fortified by both strategic position and high walls. Number of his forces are quiet low but efficient. Especially considering the geographical advanteges his domain has. I believe he plays the long game. We are not dealing with a warlord. We are dealing with a planner."

Gareth said nothing for a moment, jaw locked as if frozen in steel. Finally, he leaned back, eyes narrowing.

"You think he’s dangerous?"

Vos didn’t blink. "Yes. Extremely. But not reckless. Both Aurelian and Synod emissaries were on their way the day i visit him. Clearly Thalasien is backing him up."

Gareth tapped the hilt of the ceremonial blade beside him. "Then we cannot simply march into his Nest and cut him down."

Vos remained silent.

"But," Gareth continued, "if he leaves his territory, if we bring him here, under guise of negotiation... trade, military assistance, anything plausible... then perhaps we do not need to march anywhere."

The room fell quiet.

"Make it happen," Gareth said, voice low. "I want an excuse. And I want it soon."

Vos bowed slightly. "Understood."

Gareth turned away from the gathered officers and stared at the massive war map etched into the far wall. His thoughts darkened further.

It wasn’t vengeance, nor was it the insult.

It was the opportunity that had been lost.

Pontiff Malcheron had been on the cusp of ascension, Verthalis’ second Human Planarch, poised to elevate through the next planar invasion. The foundation had been meticulously laid. The timing perfect.

And now? All gone.

Corvin had stolen that future from them. Destroyed the sanctified order. Dismantled a legacy generations in the making. Killed a man who was meant to become a pillar of Human power.

The next planar invasion loomed, another event where the very fabric of reality would thin, and where those strong enough, attuned enough, fed enough Aether... could rise.

There were twelve ranks for Mages in Verthalis: Apprentice, Novice, Adept, Novice Arcanist, Arcanist, Spellwright, Magister, Magus, Archmagus, Planarch, Arbiter, and finally, High Arbiter. But power above Archmagus required more than talent. It required Aether, raw, unfiltered, and massive in scale. And Verthalis alone could not provide it.

This was the need behind the Planar Invasions, that was why planar invasions mattered. They were not wars. They were feedings.

Every Planarch, Arbiter, and the sole High Arbiter stole what they needed from other worlds, ripping open their skies, bleeding them of their aether to ascend. It was theft on a planetary scale. After settling in the new planets, Archmagus and above mages will prepare an planetry scale ritual to leech it of it’s magic.

Each Planarch was a testament, a guarantee, a pillar for their races and humanity had only one.

Varkos Thorne was the only Human Planarch.

Malcheron would have been the second.

Gareth’s rage twisted inside his chest like a blade. Other races had options. He was certain the High Elves had at least two Planarchs seated quietly within their Dominion. The Synod? No one even dared guess. In his youth, when Gareth served as a general, he had captured three of their kind. Three dark robed figures. Not even two years of relentless torture had broken them. They had refused to speak. In the end, Gareth had killed them himself, his fury boiling past control.

What followed was a massacre. Seven thousand Iron March soldiers dead in a single week. A quiet reprisal from the Synod. Silent. Absolute. And not a single soul knew how it had been done.

There was a reason the Umbral Synod was feared.

The Demons had the highest number of Planarchs, a fact that made Gareth sick. They ascended by devouring each other. Literally. Cannibalistic ascension. Madness made flesh. And they thrived.

The Feralis? Dragonkin like Vhyra Scaledclaw likely had one or two hidden away within her tribe. Dragonskin only needed time to increase their mage ranks.

Humans, in contrast, were weak. Fragmented. Dependent on Planar invasions alone.

And now that opportunity was ash.

The Raven had not just burned a kingdom.

He had crippled humanity’s place in the carnivorous order of ascension.

Gareth’s knuckles turned white around the blade’s pommel.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, forcefully.

"Bring him here," he repeated under his breath. "Let him walk into our hearth. And I will end this thief myself."

--

While Gareth fumed in Blackspire like a caged beast, a rabid dog denied his prey, Corvin Blackmoor was anything but idle. He was busy coordinating operations across multiple fronts. Military, agricultural, arcane, and unfortunately... social.

To start, he had summoned over three thousand of the fallen Verrenate soldiers, all of them Covenant bound undead and assigned them to farming. An odd task, perhaps, but efficient beyond mortal reckoning. Undead did not tire, did not need to eat. They did not sleep. They did not complain or unionize.

Even better, from the ranks of his elven dead, Corvin identified fifty plant mages and matched them with fifty life mages, once called "priestesses" in their now extinct kingdom. These hundred magic-wielding specialists served as living (well, dead) batteries, pouring their magic into the soil and accelerating crop production by at least a factor of five. The farms would supply the trade and create the illusion of normalcy. All while requiring zero food themselves.

Corvin had also begun experimenting with layered crop enchantments, binding minor atmospheric control wards on the perimeter fields. The result: seasonal crops could be harvested in a week or less. His undead Plant mages were accelereting the growth rates of the farms, producing grain, medicinal herbs, rare mushrooms, and even luxury fruits once thought impossible outside of Thalasien.

It was beautiful.

Meanwhile, in the grim depths of his laboratory, Corvin continued to wrestle with the new strain. He named it ASC1.0, his third official virutic strain. This one was tailored to increase magical potential and mage level in his undead. The strain required ritual fusion of aether threads and necrotic essence refined through voidroot catalysts. It was a volatile mixture.

ASC1.0, or "Ascender" as John had started calling it, wasn’t perfect. It could elevate mages by two tiers at most, but never past Magus. Worse, it burned out any further potential. Like setting fire to dry parchment for a bit of light. Bright but brief. Failed subjects lost magical clarity entirely, their minds turned brittle from overload.

Still, he had used it liberally.

All Arcanists and Spellwrights had been upgraded. As of now, he commanded a terrifying force: over 2,000 Magus ranked undead, and another 4,000 Magisters. Half of his army were high tier spellcasters. The other half? Also upgraded. Even the grunts now ranked no lower than Arcanist.

That meant, numerically he commanded the largest collective of organized spellcasters on Verthalis.

Bob was now an Arcanist. He had accidentally set a cloak on fire, which in turn was nearly burning Velyne’s hair two days ago but had since learned the properly control his magic... Mostly.

John had reached to level of a Magus. His control over battlefield wide rituals was exceptional.

And Corvin himself? He was starting to feel... limited. The hunger in him was evolving. His curiosity pointed him southeast, toward Nefrath. Toward demons. He believed he could now absorb demon lords. If he could find five or six suitable targets, he might eventually add Archdemons to his "diet."

But before he could set off to raid hellscapes and pluck his meals from the fires of Nefrath...

...he needed to rid himself of a persistent headache.

Valyne.

The most beautiful elf he had seen so far, the hot headed, sharp tongued Synod instructor was clinging to him like an enchanted leech with a crush. And unlike a leech, she talked. Endlessly. She started to demand absurd luxuries just to be able to stay close to Corvin. Her mind was an open book to him. As much as she was a headache, she was an eye candy and fun to have around.

He wasn’t cruel about it. He understood. For Valyne, the Triarch of the Synod was sacred, absolute. If they ordered her to follow Corvin to the edge of the continent, she would march while screaming and cursing the whole way.

Kaelyn, on the other hand, was proving useful in unexpected ways.

She had become something of a shield, often and unintentionally absorbing Valyne’s wrath or attention. She had also begun organizing and refilling the outer rune batteries, which made her too useful to ignore.

Like now.

"Corvin," Valyne snapped, arms crossed, foot tapping. "I need to talk to you. Immediately. This can’t wait."

Corvin, who was calmly adjusting glyph parameters on a floating projection, didn’t look up. "If this is about the heated bath stones again, the answer is still no."

"I asked for geothermal enchantment, not a glorified tea kettle at the foot of the tub!"

"You’re a guest, not a princess. And last I checked, your legs weren’t melting from frostbite."

Kaelyn poked her head in. "She tried to requisition a gold leaf soap rack yesterday."

"I need my essentials," Valyne replied sharply.

Corvin exhaled slowly and turned, expression calm but voice edged with steel. "Enough."

Valyne blinked.

"You’re in Raven’s Nest. And I’m not just some field agent, an apprentice or one of your students you can bark orders at. I’m a Duke. This domain is mine. These halls, this title, the soldiers, the power, they bend to me. Not to the Synod. Me."

Valyne opened her mouth but hesitated.

"You don’t have to kneel," Corvin continued, "but you will show respect. Call me by my title while within these walls. And if you cannot manage that, I will personally send you back to the Obsidian Gate with a note pinned to your back that reads ’Not Allowed in Raven’s Nest.’"

Valyne’s jaw tightened. She gave a stiff nod. "Yes, Duke Blackmoor."

"Better."

Kaelyn coughed lightly. "I think you broke her spine a little with that one."

"Don’t tempt me to reinforce it with iron bolts," Corvin said dryly.

Valyne glared at her. "Why are you even here?"

"I brought Bob his learning crystal. He wanted to hear new vocabulary words while patrolling."

"Lear ning!" Bob chimed from the corner.

Corvin muttered, "Let’s just hope he doesn’t accidentally trigger a spell again."

Valyne crossed her arms. "Why are you wasting your time tutoring a glorified bearkin?"

"Because he listens," Corvin replied, then turned to Bob. "What’s a good strategy, Bob?"

Bob raised one finger. "No boom near books."

"See? Improvement."

Valyne groaned. "You’ve built an empire on sarcasm and madness."

Kaelyn added cheerfully, "Don’t forget the flowers. The new farms and gardens zone smells lovely."

"Duke Blackmoor," Valyne snapped, the sarcasm now poisoned with effort. "Permission to strangle the Space Mage?"

Corvin grinned. "Denied. She’s the Arcane Advisor to the Queen of Gilded Dominion."

Kaelyn bowed. "Thank you my lord."

"Mate?" Bob said sensing the tension and pointing his clawed finger to Valyne.

"How come a bearking can call you ’Mate’ as if he is your friend from childhood and I can not even say your name?" Valyne hissed.

Corvin went to Bob’s side and patted the huge bearkin’s shoulder. "She is still on the green list mate," he said, "At the bottom of that list, yes. But still on the green list."

"And she might be pissed because you nearly burned her face."

"One incident!" Kaelyn tried to defend. "And the eyebrows grew back!"

Corvin raised a hand. "Enough, both of you. I’m busy. And if either of you so much as hang a new drape without written approval, I will make sure the castle’s plumbing runs backwards. For a month."

Kaelyn pouted. "Even if it’s silk? With stars?"

"Especially then."

Both ladies left him after that.

Peace, for now.

Corvin pinched the bridge of his nose. "I command an army of thousands, wield the strength to topple kingdoms... and somehow, I live in a madhouse."

Still, the absurdity was oddly calming.

He watched as Bob leaned over a map table and accidentally singed it with a stray arcane spark. Then turned, looked at Corvin, and grinned.

"Good," Bob muttered again proudly.

Corvin smiled despite himself. "Yeah, Bob. good indeed."

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