Crossover: Monthly Character Templates in the Multiverse Chat Group — Chapter 64

The figure of the Blood Demon Lord rocketed out from the Military Committee like a cannonball, smashing violently through dozens of stone houses before finally skidding to a halt in the rubble.

Every bone in his body was shattered. He lay there, his form resembling a discarded, tattered rag, thick crimson blood gushing relentlessly from a dozen catastrophic wounds.

Then, the blood strangely began to flow backward.

His ruined flesh knit itself together at a speed visible to the naked eye. Sickening, wet cracking sounds echoed through the dust as his pulverized bones snapped back into alignment. Even with this miraculous regeneration, his normally pale complexion had turned a deathly, ashen white—looking as though he had been buried in the earth for three days.

His previous aristocratic elegance was entirely gone. His crimson eyes swam with a primal, desperate bloodlust, and his noble attire hung in ruined shreds. He was in an utterly wretched state.

How is this possible?

How can he be this strong?

He had lost. He, the great Blood Demon Lord, had actually lost?

Faced with just a single, casual palm strike, he hadn’t even mustered the strength to fight back. Blood Demons possessed terrifying, vigorous vitality, but in that split second, Duq’arael had truly stared death in the face. He had even hallucinated the fourth Demon King, Quilon, rowing a small boat through the underworld to ferry his soul away.

Footsteps crunched over the debris. The ruined masonry was effortlessly swept aside by an invisible force as Frez stepped forward.

“The collapsed houses will be charged to your account,” Frez said, his tone conversational. “Allocate the funds for reconstruction later, and send your people to treat the injured.”

He stopped a few paces away, gazing down at Duq’arael. “Do you have anything else you want to say? Or do you truly wish to die right now? I really don’t mind sending you down to see your brother.”

Duq’arael forced himself up onto one knee, coughing up a final mouthful of stagnant blood. “Who exactly are you?”

“Frez. Your King.”

“Your power… it is far above ours.”

Duq’arael was not a sore loser. He freely admitted that he could not beat this man. The opponent had rendered him completely unable to fight back with a single strike, and he clearly hadn’t even used a fraction of his full strength. Yet, strangely, this terrifying, overwhelming combat power gave Duq’arael a sudden, desperate glimmer of hope.

Yes, hope.

If the Sarkaz had been led by a King like this two hundred years ago, they might have pushed back the allied nations long ago.

He had to admit that the other races of Terra had taken a path that was incredibly difficult for the Sarkaz to follow. They relied on rapid technological advancement to gain power far greater than what they once possessed. Two hundred years ago, individual martial prowess could still rival an entire army. But now? Even someone as mighty as Duq’arael could only protect himself against the shifting tides of modern warfare.

If only this person had appeared two centuries earlier.

A foreign race?

It didn’t matter. If this man truly chose to consider himself the King of the Sarkaz, possessed this godlike level of strength, and intended to lead them back to the day of their ancient glory, Duq’arael would gladly kneel. In the Blood Demon Lord’s heart, the glory of the Sarkaz race superseded all else.

He detested the weak and despised the mixed-bloods, but he held absolute, unwavering respect for the strong. Having his arrogant illusions shattered by a single slap from Frez had forcefully realigned him with reality.

“You are right,” Duq’arael rasped, wiping his mouth. “Absolute power is indeed the only true qualification for a King. But answer my question: why did you choose us? Why choose the Sarkaz?!”

“Because of Wiš’adel.”

Frez shrugged. Since he already had an acquaintance here, things would be infinitely easier to manage. Building his own faction from scratch and developing a power base would take far too much time, and the clock was ticking. He needed to conquer a massive amount of territory within his allotted eleven hundred years.

The Blood Demon Lord stared at him, failing to comprehend the logic but feeling a deep sense of shock. Was it merely because of a woman?

Such a extraordinary, powerful being was willing to wage war against the people of the entire land just for one Sarkaz mercenary?

Yet, looking at the man standing before him, he had to admit that Frez indeed possessed the power to crush Terra itself. His combat strength felt even higher than that of the strongest Demon King in history, Quilon.

Duq’arael was a standout among the current Sarkaz Royal Court, boasting combat power that easily ranked in the top five. But even he wouldn’t fare well against the ancient God-kin Overlords. He wasn’t even certain he could defeat the former Whip of the Earth, the Nightmare Great Khan Kharanduu Khan, who only possessed God-kin blood and wasn’t even a true Overlord. And yet, such an existence was still no match for Banisa in her era, who in turn was no match for Quilon.

Frez stood above them all. Duq’arael only regretted two things: that Frez was not a pure-blooded Sarkaz, and that he had been born at least two hundred years too late.

“O King,” Duq’arael lowered his head, his voice trembling with newfound reverence. “Where will you lead us?”

“To the heights once reached by The Far-Exiled One,” Frez replied smoothly. “Duq’arael, has the Teekaz blood flowing in your veins not shown you? That incomparably powerful era. The era when the name Kazdel referred to the entire land.”

Azure flames ignited behind Frez, burning with a dazzling, intense heat that illuminated the ruins without blinding the eyes. “Duq’arael. Bend your spine and bow your head to your Highness, to your King. I shall lead you toward a new life.”

Just as Frez desired, Duq’arael bent his famously straight spine. He bowed his proud, aristocratic head until it nearly touched the shattered earth, offering his absolute loyalty.

“O King. As long as you fight for the Sarkaz for a single day, I shall forever be your sharpest blade!”

Power was the reason for being King. Since Frez chose to stand with the Sarkaz and lead them to restore their former glory, Duq’arael was more than willing to bleed for him.

“Rise,” Frez said, the azure flames fading. “And remember, these property damages will be charged directly to the account of your Blood Demon Court.”

Duq’arael followed silently behind Frez as they walked back into the Military Committee.

As they took their seats around the grand table once more, Niezlei, the Nachzehrer King, observed the battered Blood Demon. “He is a very strong young man.”

“Yes. Too strong,” Duq’arael admitted frankly, not bothering to hide his torn clothes. “So strong that I am no different from a helpless child before him.”

He had truly realized how small he was.

Wiš’adel leaned back in her chair, chewing on a piece of hard candy. She pointed at the massive, gaping hole in the wall where Duq’arael had been ejected. “Don’t you think you should fix the wall?”

“We’ll deal with that later,” Frez waved a hand dismissively. “No one comes here anyway.”

He wasn’t wrong. The entire perimeter of the Military Committee was heavily guarded by the Sarkaz Royal Court Army; ordinary citizens couldn’t get within a mile of the place.

Frez leaned forward, taking absolute control of the meeting. “First order of business: the civil war is completely over. Do any of you have an objection?”

Neither Theresis nor Theresa spoke a word of dissent. They did not want to make meaningless sacrifices. Both siblings had been walking the bloody paths they believed in, but the immense weight of the public will they represented had constantly pushed them forward, leaving them with no choice but to clash.

In Frez’s view, Theresis was perhaps the most pitiable person in the room—a heroic Sarkaz sovereign who had always remained clear-headed, yet found himself strapped to the runaway chariot of his people’s hatred. Theresis knew his path of warmongering might not be right, but he had no other options. Deep down, he hoped for his sister’s success more than anyone else.

Both of their paths were destined to be agonizingly difficult, but they walked them without regrets, fully understanding each other’s determination.

“With the spirits of the multitude finally at rest, many of the citizens who desperately craved war have also quieted down,” Theresis noted, his deep voice echoing in the chamber. “The blind hatred toward foreign races has decreased slightly.”

He spoke of the intelligence reports he had gathered over the past two days. It was a rare, genuinely good omen. If the Sarkaz remained forever submerged in the suffocating swamp of their own historical hatred, they would have no future to speak of.

“It is for this very reason that I chose to let the spirits of the multitude rest,” Frez said. “The most important thing right now is to ensure the Sarkaz survive today, so that there can actually be a tomorrow. Theresa’s path of peace and understanding is clearly not suitable for our current reality, but it is the perfect blueprint for the future.”

Theresa’s ideals were beautiful, but they could only take root after the Sarkaz had a stable foundation. When people couldn’t even fill their stomachs, how many had the luxury to talk about a utopian future?

“Theresis,” Frez instructed, shifting his gaze to the Regent. “Have your people organize Kazdel’s various revenues from the past few years—military expenditures, agricultural output, and general economic data. I want to see exactly how bad the deficit is. Also, Shapeshifter, monitor the situation over in Victoria. Given Kazdel’s current state, it’s almost impossible for us to be self-reliant.”

They needed to find a wealthy nation to leech off of, siphoning their economy to restore Kazdel’s infrastructure.

A voice echoed from the shadows as the Shapeshifter Cluster agreed. Its countless clones were perfectly suited for high-level espionage work; it was almost impossible for enemies to find flaws in their disguises. It was only because this collective entity was such a lazy slacker that Kazdel hadn’t already won multiple shadow wars. If used properly, their espionage could guarantee the Sarkaz’s survival against all odds.

“Second point,” Frez turned to the pink-haired woman. “Theresa, you are going to Ursus. Head into the northern snowfields and find an organization called the Reunion Movement. It’s a militant group formed by the Infected.”

“The Infected…” Duq’arael frowned, his aristocratic features twisting in distaste. “Your Highness, do we truly need to rely on the power of the Infected?”

Almost all Sarkaz were Infected with Oripathy. While the Blood Demons possessed unique racial Arts that allowed them to avoid the disease, the rest of their kin were not so lucky. Many Sarkaz were born with Originium crystals already piercing their skin.

“No,” Frez corrected. “The last Pureblood Wendigo, Buldrokkas’tee, is there. Bring him back to Kazdel.”

At the mention of Buldrokkas’tee, Niezlei’s rotting features shifted. “That disciple of mine is a stubbornly rigid man. He fled from our wars only to eventually sink deep into the mire of another nation’s conflicts. He could not resist his nature. Before he left, he received a terrifying prophecy: ‘The son of Hethrokkas’tee, the betrayer of the Sarkaz and the dishonorable end of the bloodline, shall be executed by the hand of the Sarkaz Monarch.’ Your Highness… do you intend to execute him?”

The Nachzehrer King knew his disciple well. Buldrokkas’tee was a stubborn giant who only believed what he saw with his own two eyes. A long time ago, he had led the remaining Pureblood Wendigos out of Kazdel, formally withdrawing from the Sarkaz Royal Court to head north and serve the former Emperor of Ursus.

But what they received in return for their loyalty was merely another tragic, meat-grinder war. The Wendigo bloodline was polluted and wiped out, until only the strongest among them, Buldrokkas’tee, remained.

“No, he must be brought back alive. It’s best to persuade him peacefully, which is exactly why I need you to go, Theresa. Your presence will calm him.”

Theresa nodded softly, accepting the heavy task.

Frez tapped his fingers against the table. “Can any of you contact the Gargoyle Court?”

Duq’arael shook his head. “Ever since Godu died, the Gargoyles stopped building above-ground structures for the other Sarkaz. Instead, they hid themselves deep underground to construct their own isolated fortresses. Our contact with them is practically non-existent. Seeing a Gargoyle walking the streets of Kazdel is exceedingly rare.”

“Then let’s set that aside for now.”

Regarding the Gargoyles, Frez only knew of the Sarkaz girl Mudrock, and in a certain alternate timeline, the cousins Arturia and Executor.

He rubbed his chin, feeling the slight, rough prickle of stubble. “Theresa. It’s time to have Kal’tsit take action.”

Theresa blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. “What do you need us to do?”

“Have Kal’tsit use her ancient, sprawling connections to borrow money from the various ruling nations of Terra.”

Connections were entirely useless if left to gather dust. With Kal’tsit’s millennia-spanning network, she could easily visit every major nation and secure a massive, astronomical sum of funding. What was the point of having a walking fossil if they didn’t exploit her?

“Borrow money? Using that wretched monster called Kal’tsit?!” Duq’arael looked highly displeased at the mere mention of the old feline.

Theresa, however, looked deeply worried. “But… Frez, how are we supposed to pay all of that back?”

Frez looked at her, his expression completely deadpan. “We borrowed the money based on our own sheer ability. Why on earth should we pay it back? Besides, Kal’tsit was the one whose name is on the debt.”

Theresa’s mouth hung open in pure, unadulterated shock.

Wiš’adel slammed her hands on the table, bursting into chaotic laughter. “Well said! Do we even need to pay it back? Hell no! Just getting the cash in our hands is enough. Besides, the old woman is the one who borrowed it, why should we be the ones to pay for it?!”

In the corner of the room, Ermengarde shrank back into her seat, her eyes wide. These two new Demon Kings looked exactly like street bandits—no, they were even worse than bandits.