The battle in the kingdom’s borderlands raged all night.

At dawn, the blizzard finally ceased, and a cold wind swept across the wasteland, freezing the remnants of snow on the ground.

Crimson bloomed across the earth; shattered corpses lay piled upon one another, their original forms unrecognizable. Broken weapons and armor lay scattered haphazardly; the battlefield was a scene of devastation, filled with bloodshed and desolation.

Several knights moved through the battlefield, clad in silver chainmail, their chests and backs bearing tear marks from the dark orcs who had attacked the previous night.

They wore no helmets, and their cloaks and vambraces were nowhere to be seen.

Weaving through the bodies, their bloodstained boots crushed the frozen snow, making a crunching sound. Time flew by; it was nearly noon, yet the sky remained a gloomy yellow.

Thick gray clouds lingered, obscuring any trace of the sun. Only the wind whistled past his ears, whipping up broken branches and flagpoles, its wailing sound unceasing.

A dark shadow flashed across the ridge ahead, followed immediately by a piercing howl.

“It’s a pack of wolves.” 

“And vultures.”

The knights halted. One of them picked up a bundle of long swords, swung it forcefully, and hoisted it onto his shoulder.

He was exceptionally tall, with broad shoulders and a particularly thick chest. His arms were thick and powerful, his upper arms bulging with rock-hard muscles; even in the depths of winter, he wore only a short-sleeved shirt, as if he felt no cold.

Behind him followed three or four young men, who were fortunate enough to have survived the attack by the enemy forces.

Two of them were of noble birth; when they first arrived in the borderlands, they were full of themselves, always holding their chins high like proud fighting cocks.

After enduring several bloody battles, their arrogance vanished without a trace; they finally learned the cruelty of reality, and their pride was utterly crushed. With their guards all but wiped out, they were forced to take up arms to protect themselves.

It was kill or be killed.

They were transformed by the flames of war; slaughter was the best teacher. Blood and fire stripped them of their naivety, gradually turning them into competent warriors. The knights halted in their tracks and began to listen intently.

The howls of wolves rose and fell, spreading through the wind, rapidly drawing closer to the fort where the battle had taken place.

“Dozens—no, at least a hundred wolves.” Fanna picked up a short sword; the blade was thin, with a chip along the edge. Fortunately, there were no major cracks, so it was worth repairing.

“Over a hundred? Take a closer look.” Migelin appeared at his right side, pressing a hand on his shoulder while holding a longbow in the other. The bowstring was snapped, and the bow itself had become brittle. After a quick glance, he tossed it aside, a flash of regret crossing his face. “The nearby wolf packs have all come.”

Before he could finish speaking, more dark figures flashed from the ridge.

They moved through the lingering snow, maintaining a certain distance from one another. Though wary of each other, they moved in perfect coordination. Multiple packs had joined forces to encircle him, determined to claim this battlefield for themselves.

“Food is scarce in winter, and everyone is going hungry. We can’t expect the beasts to stay calm and give us enough time to clear the battlefield.” Captain Origin strode over, his deep voice echoing in everyone’s ears.

He carried a heavy sword over his shoulder, and his arms were fully occupied, clutching a large bundle of short spears and sharp branches. The branches had been taken from Fallen Treants; with a little rough shaping, they made decent weapons.

He looked up at the sky and, as expected, spotted a large mass of shadows circling overhead. A dark, swirling mass.

They were flocks of birds living in the vast borderlands, numbering in the hundreds, subsisting on carrion during the winter.

“Gather everyone and return to the stronghold immediately, or we’ll be in trouble!” Origin, a seasoned veteran, judged the situation to be dire.

After enduring the long night, the surviving knights were exhausted, nearly every one of them wounded. Wolf packs were already difficult to deal with; if they were also beset by carrion birds, their lives would likely be in grave danger.

“They’re searching for corpses, and they wouldn’t mind some fresh ones either.” Another knight captain approached from the west; she was tall, her figure slender and graceful beneath her leather armor. She pushed back her brown-speckled helmet with her fingers, revealing a delicate face marked by two scars—one an old wound, the other still fresh, like a red centipede crawling across her right cheek.

“Buyete.” Origin turned to look at the approaching female captain, his gaze falling on the group following behind her. Each person carried large bundles of weapons, along with armor, cloaks, gloves, and boots stripped from the corpses.

The grueling battle seemed endless. Supplies were difficult to deliver on time, and even when they arrived, they were insufficient. They had to seize every opportunity to replenish their provisions.

At the most desperate moments, the knights were nearly out of food and had no choice but to drink the blood of scavenging beasts and cut meat from their bodies. The meat reeked of a foul stench and was truly hard to swallow.

To survive, they had no choice but to force it down.

“Origin, Buyete!”

Several other knight captains approached, all jogging along, unconsciously picking up speed as they stepped over the corpses of both comrades and enemies.

After enduring a long war, they should have grown accustomed to death. Yet, seeing their fallen comrades still stirred feelings of resentment and sorrow.

If the Royal Capital had sent more reinforcements and delivered sufficient supplies in time, they wouldn’t have had to use their comrades as bait to set traps with the fortifications, and the casualties wouldn’t have been so devastating!

“We need to leave as soon as possible and retreat to a fortified stronghold.” 

“We’ll have to abandon this place for now.”

With the wolf pack closing in and the threat of carrion birds looming, the captains made a swift decision. After reaching an agreement, they each blew their horns, summoning the knights as quickly as possible.

Carrying the spoils they had gathered, the group raced toward the fort, stirring up a gust of wind that swept away the remaining snow and stones along the way.

The young noble ran among the ranks.

In recent days, they had become indistinguishable from the borderlands knights.

Fanna had written many letters home, and Migelin had sent messages on several occasions, but their hopes had been completely dashed; the letters had vanished without a trace, and to this day, they had received no reply.

Perhaps the messengers had met with misfortune along the way, or perhaps they had been abandoned by their families.

In any case, they had come to fully realize one fact: exiled to the chaotic northern borderlands, they must rely on themselves—and on no one else.

“The kingdom is weakening, having lost its wise leader; the vampire clan finds no way forward,” said an elder knight.

Unfortunately, Fanna and Migelin were too young to grasp the full weight of those words. The knights had no mounts and could only rely on their own two feet.

They ran through the snow; their boots had long since frozen solid, their toes cold and numb, followed by a burning, stinging pain. No one dared to stop.

A pack of wolves had already closed in, their panting right behind them.

The vultures gathered in ever-greater numbers, circling in vast flocks overhead. Their eyes, veiled in a white film, portended doom. Sensing the danger, the knights ran with even greater urgency.

Awoo—

The wolves howled, abandoning their pursuit of the knights to focus on tearing apart the corpses on the ground. Orcs, Featherfolk, Longhairs, and the vampire clan.

And treants.

When a Fallen Treant dies, its corpse rots rapidly, emitting a foul stench of decaying wood. The wolves couldn’t find a place to sink their teeth into it, so they abandoned the largest creature and turned their attention to the other targets.

Scavenger birds have voracious appetites.

Their stomach acid can corrode metal and stone; mere rotten wood is no problem at all. They can swallow it whole, leaving it to their gastric juices to digest.

The battlefield was vast enough that the wolves and vultures each occupied their own section, leaving one another undisturbed as they hurried to feed.

The knights were fortunate to charge back to the stronghold. Satisfied that the beasts had not pursued them, they took roll call, hurried to unload their spoils, and worked together to hoist the bolt and close the gate.

“Turn the winch! Raise the drawbridge!”

Amidst the shouts, the heavy gates swung inward. The drawbridge was raised, forming a second line of defense. The outer walls of the stronghold had been damaged, with gaps of varying sizes in the parapet.

Fortunately, the main structure remained intact, preventing the beasts from breaking in—more than enough to fend off the wolf pack. As for the scavenger birds, they disliked approaching any buildings, especially a fortress with arrow towers.

The number of slaves inside the fortress was limited, and they shivered in the biting cold.

The knights had no intention of cracking their whips; doing so would be a waste of energy. Instead, they chose to roll up their sleeves and work together to turn the winch, closing the gate in the hope of holding out until the beasts outside had departed.

The drawbridge was halfway raised when suddenly the sound of a horn rang out.

The sound tore through the cold wind, instantly spreading across the wilderness and echoing across the blood-soaked battlefield. “Reinforcements?”

The knights quickly climbed onto the rampart walls, gazing toward the direction of the sound.

Upon seeing the banners fluttering in the wind, their expressions shifted from anticipation to disappointment. A few hundred men.

Though fully armed, they could hardly be called a significant reinforcement. “This is bad!”

Origin and Buyete exchanged a glance, their faces turning pale at the same moment.

The sound of the horns had startled the wolf pack and the scavenger birds—this group had brought a major problem upon themselves!

“Make them stop!”

The knight captain, furious, waved frantically from his vantage point, demanding that the approaching group halt their advance—or at least silence that damned horn. Unfortunately, they were disappointed.

Far from stopping, the approaching group charged straight toward the fort.

The sound of flapping wings echoed overhead, and the knights looked up, their faces turning pale at once. “Scavenger birds!”

“They’re as good as dead!”

No one wanted to rush out to help.

No matter who the intruders were—nobles, knights, or perhaps something else entirely—the trouble was entirely of their own making, and they deserved to face the consequences.

But events unfolded differently than expected.

The flock of birds dove toward them, but the column of several hundred riders remained unflustered. None of them slowed down; instead, they all controlled their horses with their legs while drawing their bows from the saddle, firing collectively upward into the sky.

Arrows tore through the air, piercing their targets and sending plumes of blood mist billowing out.

The mist expanded rapidly, and a hideous skull materialized out of thin air, opening its gaping maw to devour more carrion birds. The mist corroded the birds’ feathers, followed by their flesh and bones. They melted in the sky, decomposing into a foul-

smelling liquid that dripped and splattered onto the ground.

Witnessing this scene, the knights inside the fortress gasped in horror.

“Skeleton Knights!”

Why had the king’s guard appeared here? Startled, the carrion birds flapped their wings and flew away.

Possessing a degree of intelligence, they knew how to weigh the pros and cons. Unless it was a matter of life and death, there was no need to tangle with the creatures on the ground. After the flock flew away, the wolf pack also ceased its advance.

The Skeleton Knights continued onward. As they galloped, their hoods fell back, revealing blood-red helmets and iron masks covering their faces.

“By His Majesty the King’s command, open the passage through the Forbidden Forest to allow the embassy to pass.”

Upon reaching the fortress gates, the Skeleton Knights did not stop, nor did they intend to enter. They informed the garrison knights of their purpose and then continued on their way.

Their numbers were limited; they could not clear the borderlands on their own. Moreover, the rebel forces were elusive and unpredictable; unless they had several times the number of troops, it would be difficult to track them all down.

The Skeleton Knights’ mission was to break through the Forbidden Forest and temporarily clear the dangers along the way, ensuring the diplomatic mission could pass safely. They would remain at the borderlands for some time, and the garrisoned borderlands knights would benefit from this.

The long-awaited supplies are about to arrive, in full and sufficient quantities.

The fortress will also receive reinforcements. For the foreseeable future, they will be able to repair structures and strengthen defenses—a welcome development. The Skeleton Knights are stationed in the borderlands and have sent a Messenger Eagle to the Royal Capital to report the news.

King Gorod once again summoned his ministers to finalize the delegation’s roster. As the advocate of the marriage alliance, the foreign minister naturally assumed the role of Chief Envoy.

Gorod issued the appointment; Zax took the document bearing the skull seal and personally nominated several Deputy Envoys. “Agreed,” Gorod replied without hesitation, nodding his approval to all of them. Throughout the proceedings, the faction led by Chancellor Bashir remained silent.

They had not vied for positions on the delegation, yet Gorod unexpectedly took notice of them and singled out several to join the mission. Zax felt resentful but lacked the courage to object.

He dared not speak a word.

This was the king’s consistent style: balancing power, sowing discord, and preventing any single faction from gaining absolute dominance. Only those who knew their place could survive.

Anyone who dared to challenge the king’s authority had long since been reduced to ashes, with no place to bury their remains. After the meeting concluded, the nobles filed out of the palace one by one.

They boarded their carriages in front of the castle; as the wheels rolled forward, they passed by several maids with thorn vines. The maids had emerged from the dungeon, concluding their three-day rest period. Following Cen Qing’s orders, they were heading to see Zuona to retrieve the jewels of Queen Yin. A squad of goblins trailed behind them, tasked specifically with carrying the chests.

Don’t let their small stature fool you—they possessed tremendous strength, effortlessly carrying hundreds of pounds with ease.

Inside the Black Tower, behind a door carved with golden roses, Cen Qing sat in a high-backed chair. His black hair was combed back, revealing his delicate features. A Dragon Blood Stone adorned his ear, and he wore a long coat whose color perfectly complemented his hair.

Several court painters surrounded him, their eyes fixed intently on him as they sought to capture more of his essence and render it precisely on the canvas. Perhaps growing a bit weary from sitting, Cen Qing shifted his posture and leaned lazily back against the chair’s backrest.

As he moved, his earring swayed gently, its glow intertwining with that of the luminous pearl. It rested lightly against his neck, utterly captivating to the eye. The painters watched him, unable to help but lose themselves in the moment.

“Queen Yin…” a gaunt-faced painter blurted out. Only when he met Cen Qing’s gaze did he snap back to his senses.

Realizing what he had just been thinking, his face turned pale, and he quickly lowered his head. The brush in his hand accidentally struck the canvas, leaving a red mark in the portrait’s eye—an unexpected yet perfect match, imprinting a streak of blood-red.