Knights and Magic Wand
Chapter 544 - 544 260 Blood Baron

544: Chapter 260 Blood Baron 544: Chapter 260 Blood Baron In the domain of desecration, along the streets of the Holy City where rivers of blood converge, countless Corpse Ghosts wander amidst the ever-shifting paths.

Their hollow eye sockets flicker with ghostly green flames, brimming with a desperate longing for life and an unwillingness to accept death, accompanied by a chilling murmur—like voices lamenting tragic pasts or summoning souls to plunge into an endless abyss.

Between the ruins of what was once a thriving city, the wails of Dead Souls and blood-curdling screams reverberate beneath the turbulent curtains of chaos.

In the dark, streaked skies above, sinister violet lightning crackles amidst seas of blackened clouds.

Thousands of spirits coalesce into a storm of souls, their cries interweaving into a dirge of despair—a haunting requiem railing against the cruelty of fate and the uncompromising harshness of existence.

The once-sacred temples of the Holy Hall, revered sanctuaries for countless devoted worshipers, have been defiled into pools steeped in corpses and Wandering Souls.

Within these pools is a pulsating force caught between life and death—a mysterious energy seemingly birthed from the writhing and screaming vengeance of countless unjustly silenced spirits at the bottom.

A pallid male figure slowly rises from the Blood Lake, his form entangled by countless Corpse Ghost arms like sinuous vines, their tugging force spitting him out as though partaking in a macabre birthing ritual.

Finally, the figure is hoisted above the surface of the lake, a stark and eerie sight under the crimson glow.

Before the Blood Pool looms an unspeakable figure of terror, bending its form downwards.

Twelve blood-red eyes emblazing its head emit a malign radiance.

The “front-facing” set of six blinks incessantly, seemingly scrutinizing the intricacies of its meticulously crafted creation.

Below the naked crimson body, tentacle-like barbed appendages writhe incessantly, each motion conveying an indescribable sense of perverse satisfaction.

(Ancient Lorelette Language)

“…Awaken…yield to me, my servant, and unleash your hatred for me…”

A serpentine, magic-laced whisper echoes as if rising from the Nine Netherworld Hell, its nauseating scent of blood hanging in the air like icy tendrils brushing every corner, sending chills down spines.

Yet before the whisper dissipates entirely, strange disturbances arise between the darkened hall’s columns.

Shadows adorned by eerie luminescence flicker as if alive, and the inescapable darkness suddenly entwines as though heralding the coming of some horrific entity.

…thump!…thump!…THUMP!

Massive hooves emerge thunderously from the unseen abyss, stepping across the blood.

Where they tread, demon fire erupts, instantly evaporating the surrounding blood into scorched desolation.

…the pounding of these colossal hooves shatters the silence; each strike echoes like the beating of war drums, shaking hearts with raw terror from within.

A gargantuan, blackened figure strides forth from the impenetrable gloom, traversing the blood lake.

Demon fire rises fervently beneath its steps, reducing all nearby blood to charred blackness in moments.

“…My servants under Valary have begun their march.

Squash, you’ve squandered too much time…”

The towering monstrosity’s muscular blackened shoulders ripple with destructive power.

It crashes through the desecrated columns of the Holy Court, as if they were but fragile tofu, each crumbling to dust upon impact.

The reverberating voice of the intruder booms like roaring thunder, shaking the temple walls to their core.

The muscle-bound demon strides brazenly through the chamber’s halls, smashing the once-immovable stone pillars effortlessly into debris.

As it progresses, twin pairs of horns towering upwards emerge from the shadows, its chest carved with Hexagram Magic Patterns, semi-encased in armor.

Wings stripped of flesh extend on either side of its back, with bone frames surrounded by smog-like black shadows suffocatingly dense—these nightmarish shadows seeming to be its wings.

The Great Demon’s fiery eyes lock onto the Blood Demon by the Blood Pool.

Exposing lipless, savage fangs, its throat roars with a booming devilish tone that breaks through souls, “Within this Spiritual Field, a single day here equals two or three days in the outside realm…

you’re far too slow…”

“…You’re far too impatient, Quentin Zalar.”

The Blood Demon Squash neither turns nor falters, but allows his six blood-like eyes at the back of his head to coldly observe the encroaching Horror Demon.

With a detached and even tone, he responds: “You command a King; Valary possesses a powerful Spellcaster.

Your Deputies’ souls are of unparalleled fortitude.

I, however, have only one ordinary mortal—and if I am not adequately prepared, how would I enable him to command such an army of Undead?

However…

the preparations are complete.”

While speaking, Squash stretches his emaciated arm, fingers gripping the hilt jutting from the mouth of a kneeling Blood Servant.

With blood dripping off, the Demon Sword is extracted from this grotesque offering.

The blade appears forged from moving shadows, polished to mirror perfection yet reflecting no image, shrouded in blood-hued luminescence that glides across its surface like misty streams—flowing like living blood.

Its ominous presence exudes an unmatched aura of dread.

Although the Blood Demon Sword may seem petite compared to Squash’s colossal Demon Body, its size would still be considered optimal for an ordinary human wielding a long sword.

With a deft flick from the Demon’s sharp claw, the Blood Demon Sword streaks like lightning, piercing the pale figure emerging from the Blood Pool.

—Buzz!

The Demon Blade lifts the chestnut-haired male form into the air with a resounding thud, impaling him against the desecrated Holy Sun Totem stained with abominable runes.

The man’s lifeless eyes snap open, pupils instantly drowned in blood red.

Rivulets of red-patterned Demon Runes branch from the Blood Demon Sword embedded in the male figure’s pale chest.

He dazedly raises a hand, gripping the hilt of the sword imbedded in him.

Then, slowly, he pulls the blade free from the wound in his torso.

Almost flush to where the sharp edge cuts away, the pierced pallid flesh heals at an unearthly speed—as if the injury transcends mortality, making him something neither dead nor alive.

The weightless pale body floats gently down from the massive Holy Sun Totem.

The man’s delayed gaze fixes upon the Demon Sword clasped in his hands, his expression unresponsive, vacant.

The original form of the Blood Demon begins shifting, its barbed appendages dragging its mass back into the Blood Pool, the giant Demon Body advancing toward the pale man wielding the Demon Sword.

“…Your name.” The Blood Demon bows down and asks.

The pale man lifts his face, steadying his gaze to meet that of his…

“master.”

Through the disheveled locks draping his face, his lips tremble faintly, crimson pupils contracting sharply.

At length, he breathes out the fragmented remnants of a buried name.

The man parts his lips, revealing sharp, inhuman fangs.

“…My name is…

Charlemagne…”

Charlemagne Flarell Orroxia….”

The Blood Demon nods and straightens his form.

From his skeletal fingers rises a faint gesture.

In an instant, the blood within the pool surges upward, swirling around Charlemagne like flying robes of red, draping onto his body.

A suit of woven black and crimson blood armor encases his pallid figure.

“…I shall grant you rebirth, grant you the strength for vengeance.

Now go…”

“Lead the wrathful Undead for me, harvest the blood of the living, and return their anguish and hatred one hundredfold upon them…”

Clutching the Blood Demon Sword, a tempest of memories flooded Charlemagne’s soul—countless injustices inflicted by Kantadar and Urian cascading down through lands stained with cruelty.

An ocean of wrath, terror, lament, and agony—boundless torment beyond mortal conception—violently consumed Charlemagne’s consciousness.

!!——AAAAHHHHHHH——!!

Nonhuman shrieks and roars erupted from Charlemagne’s throat.

The sonic blast shook the earth, shattering panes of glass across temple halls into a fine powdered ruin.

Until eventually, the endless wrath-filled chaos within his mind was overtaken by the recurring words of the Blood Demon.

“…Slaughter, Slaughter for me.

Only through slaughter will you find peace…”

…Charlemagne sank to his knees, gripping the Blood Demon Sword tightly.

Rage seeped in crimson lines from between his clenched fangs, his vow echoing across Kantadar and Urian—promising a nightmare of unparalleled devastation upon the lands.