Marrowen stood among smoke and ruin, crimson eyes burning as she watched her soldiers die. The fort's defenders fought like cornered beasts, cutting down levies and retainers alike. Every death of her kin pulled at her bloodline, each one a knife across her veins.

Then the howls came.

The wolf pack burst from the treeline, frost trailing in their wake. They tore into the reserve ranks, ripping through men who had not yet reached the wall. At their head bounded a massive snow-furred wolf, its presence commanding, its fangs flashing like ice-forged blades. Flanking him were two ash-grey wolves tinged red as embers, moving in perfect tandem, their strikes a blur of teeth and shadows. Anyone who reached for them died screaming.

Her jaw clenched. An Alpha. And bonded.

Then her fury spiked higher.

On the wall, two of her Barons fell—one of them an elder. Both were struck down by a single man, a mortal clad in looted armor that still carried her bloodline's scent. His broadsword gleamed with Sharpness Qi, his strikes clean, precise, merciless. Every cut defied her line's strength.

Her rage broke its leash.

She surged forward, pumping her legs until the ground itself blurred. In a single bound she cleared the killing ground, crossing the trench and the wall in one fluid rush. She slammed into the man like a storm, her crimson blade flashing down with enough force to split stone.

But he did not break.

The swordsman met her strike cleanly, his guard perfect, his strength honed. Her power rolled past him, redirected, bled off in a single shift of angle. Her guard swept in behind her, fanning out to carve through the defenders of that section, their blades cutting a swath through screaming men. One of them struck down a cat-eared demi-human with a single thrust, her small body collapsing among the dead.

Marrowen pressed harder, her blade singing through the air. The man answered her with precision, his dao and mastery woven so tightly that she felt the rhythm of his cuts like a second heartbeat. He knew how to deflect her strength, how to bleed her momentum, how to force her to overextend.

And more troubling—her Dao did not bite at him as it should. Her blood, her shadow, her honor… they slid across him as if he stood apart. Her instincts snarled, her fury building. What is this man?

Then the cry rang out.

It cut through the din, through the clash of their blades, through the screams and the horns.

"Matriarch Marrowen!"

Her head snapped up, crimson eyes narrowing.

From across the battlefield, atop the wall's watchtower, the Calamity himself stood tall, blood running from his arm but his voice steady.

"I challenge you to a duel! For this Calamity, and for honor!"

The world seemed to pause, the cry echoing over blood and fire.

Her blade locked against the armored swordsman, sparks hissing between them, when the shout carried across the battlefield.

"Matriarch Marrowen! I challenge you to a duel! For this Calamity, and for honor!"

Her crimson eyes snapped to the tower.

There he stood—the Calamity. A man. A mortal. The blood on his shoulder was fresh, his movements sluggish, yet his posture carried weight. His presence was shrouded by a Dao she could not pierce, something alien that distorted her instincts. By level alone, he was nothing more than a Tier Two squire. Yet her instincts screamed caution.

Beside him, she caught a flicker of motion—a woman in a green robe, leather armor beneath, rushing toward him with desperation written in every line of her body. A healer. Desperate. He bleeds still.

Her jaw tightened. Was it worth it? To take the duel? She could end him—of that there was no doubt. His blade would break under her weight, his strange Dao crumbling once she pressed long enough. But the cost…

Her eyes swept the battlefield.

Levies already in ruin, cut down by crossbow bolts and crude explosions. Retainers bled at the ladders. Two more of her Barons dead, others locked in struggles that promised nothing but attrition. Even victory here would not be clean. And the boon—the blood-bound reward owed to her line—would be measured against her performance. Already her strength was depleted. Already the losses were too great. To gamble more, to exhaust herself in single combat before the walls… to continue would wound the family for generations.

She turned her gaze back to the armored man before her, his broadsword raised, his stance rooted like a mountain. He was ready—waiting. He was not her equal, but he was not breaking.

Her decision crystallized.

A single pulse of power thundered outward from her chest. Crimson aura rippled through the ranks, binding to every Bloodnight heart.

"Halt!"

The cry tore through the battlefield, and her family obeyed. Weapons lowered, steps faltered, the tide of the assault slowed and stilled as the Bloodnights consolidated back into disciplined lines.

"Hold the line. Fall back to the banners."

Her son's voice cut through the sudden quiet, raw and furious. The young Baron shoved through the ranks, armor gleaming red with spattered blood. "Mother! This is wrong! Let us push and kill this Calamity! He's wounded! We will win!"

His eyes burned with the same hunger as the others, his hands tight on his blade, eager to throw himself at the wall.

Marrowen's gaze did not waver from Harold.

Harold grit his teeth as Lira's hands pressed against his shoulder, life mana seeping into his already closed flesh. The burn of poison still gnawed at his veins, but the wound itself was already knit from his skill before. He could feel the life mana in him battling the poisen, a thread of death mana as well destroying the poison before it could spread.

From the tower, his gaze locked on the field below. The Matriarch's crimson aura had washed over her people like a commandment carved into their blood. The assault, once a crashing tide, stilled at her word.

And then he saw it—her son. The younger Baron burst forward, fury twisting his features, shouting loud enough for even Harold to catch the edge of it. He wanted to press the attack, to claim the Calamity's life, his mother's authority be damned.

But the Matriarch turned to him, her lips shaping sharp words Harold couldn't hear—but the effect was clear. The boy's shoulders stiffened, his fury choked down like bitter wine, and the weight of her will pressed him back into the line.

Harold's chest rose and fell, slow, controlled, even as weakness licked at the edges of his body.

"She shut him down," he murmured, half to himself, half to Lira. "Not for mercy or me. She's calculating. She doesn't want to bleed out any more of her strength—not when a single duel can end all this."

His jaw tightened, and he forced himself to stand straighter, his eyes never leaving the crimson figure in the field. "Good. That means she fears the cost. Which means I think we have a chance."

Harold's chest rose and fell, slow, controlled, even as weakness licked at the edges of his body. "She shut him down," he murmured, half to himself, half to Lira. "Not for mercy or me. She's calculating. She doesn't want to bleed out any more of her strength—not when a single duel can end all this."

His jaw tightened, and he forced himself to stand straighter, his eyes never leaving the crimson figure in the field. "Good. That means she fears the cost. Which means I think we have a chance."

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

The roar of battle had faded to groans, shouted orders, and the weary shuffle of boots on stone. Fighters began to descend from the walls, their bodies streaked with blood and soot. They were alive—but for many, barely.

Rysa staggered down, her robe cut open across her torso. Auren had an arm under her shoulder, his face drawn tight as he guided her to the triage. "Hold still," he muttered, even as she hissed at him, waving him off with one hand. He pressed a strip of cloth against the wound anyway, jaw clenched.

Kelan was already seated against the base of the wall, pale but unbowed, the stump of his missing hand bound in rough bandages. Blood seeped through, but his gaze was steady, fixed on the Baron across the field who nursed a crater in his chest where Kelan's hammer had nearly ended him. The branded dwarf stood at his side, warhammer slung casually over his shoulder, eyes as cold and hard as the steel he forged.

The brothers moved among the wounded, Toren clapping Torik on the shoulder, both of them laughing in that jagged way men do when they're too tired to cry. They made for Holt's squad, where the shield-sergeant leaned on her battered tower shield, directing her soldiers as they cleaned and bound shallow cuts. Holt's voice was sharp, but her face betrayed exhaustion. Lira's hands brushed over her, green light flaring briefly as she purged poison from her veins before moving to the next soldier in line.

For Harold, her touch lingered. His smaller health pool, his body never built for punishment, made him fragile in ways the others weren't. Her life mana thrummed through him, holding the poison at bay for now, keeping him upright.

He forced his eyes away from her face, sweeping the walls instead. His stomach turned. Too many gaps. Too many dead. All his traps, his ploys, his layers of preparation—and still the wall had almost broken. Still the price had been paid in blood.

Harold's hand curled against the parapet, knuckles whitening. Too costly. And it isn't done yet.

The air shifted before Harold even saw her. A pressure, heavy and commanding, settled over the courtyard like a storm cloud pressing low. Soldiers stilled where they stood, and even the wounded held their breath as the crimson-armored Matriarch of the Bloodnights stepped into the fort.

Harold straightened, pulling himself together despite the poison still gnawing faintly in his veins. His hand brushed down the front of his tunic, smoothing what blood and ash he could. When she reached him, he bowed his head slightly, his tone steady, almost formal.

"Matriarch." He let the word hang with weight and respect. "You honor me with your presence."

Then, more astonishing still, Harold's voice carried enough to be heard by those closest—calm, measured, yet heavy with something that cut deeper than courtesy.

"First, I would like to congratulate you," he said. "On the good you have done, and the deeds you have completed, to earn a Calamity upon you."

Her eyes sharpened, but Harold pressed on, his own gaze steady as iron.

"I can tell you this—I was sent here directly upon the orders of Verordeal, the God of Calamity. He has noticed your deeds. And so, I was directed to either force you to rise higher…" His voice dipped, grim. "…or to let you be forgotten among the annals of history."

He drew a slow breath, inclining his head ever so slightly. "You have been a worthy opponent."

The Matriarch's crimson eyes narrowed, the faintest curve of disbelief tugging at her lips. For a heartbeat she said nothing, only letting the silence press down as her gaze roved Harold—this strange, gaunt figure who dared speak to her like an equal.

"A Calamity," she said at last, her voice low, edged with both disdain and wonder. "So it is true then. You know I was but a young girl when the Calamities all but disappeared from Ascension. That he would mark me for trial…" Her gauntleted fingers flexed at her side, the metal groaning faintly.

She drew in a long breath, crimson helm tilting toward the bloodied field outside the walls. "Do you know what it has cost me to reach this point? Every step carved in blood, every kin I bury I feel in my marrow. My family… my line itself bleeds with them. You speak of rising higher as if it is reward. But I am not blind."

She sighed slowly to herself…"To rise is to pay again and again until nothing remains of me but a story told around another's fire."

Harold regarded her as Holt stepped near him protectively "Or you rise so high and ascend."

Her eyes returned to Harold, steady, unflinching. Yet beneath the steel there was pride—a flame banked but not gone. "And still… you call me worthy. Your god must have seen something to set me upon this path." She let the faintest smile curve her lips, though it held no warmth. "If that is true, then I will see it through. Not for your god, or you—but for the weight of what I have already spent. To stop now would be to make their deaths meaningless. And that, Calamity, I will not do."

Harold studied her in silence, his eyes tracing the weight she carried in her stance—the exhaustion hidden beneath her armor, the fury banked but not extinguished, the pride of a commander who had spent blood she could not replace. For a long moment he said nothing, only letting the tension in the courtyard breathe.

When he finally spoke, his voice was steady but worn, the tone of a man who had seen too many fields like this. "It seems to me," he began slowly, "we both have objectives that must be seen through. You fight for your family, for the legacy your blood has built. I fight because I was sent to, and because I refuse to let those under me die for nothing."

He shifted his grip on the cup still in his hand, the steam curling faintly in the morning air, then inclined his head to her. "Would you like to retire a short while and discuss a mutually beneficial arrangement? Somewhere without blades at our throats or walls shaking under the weight of war." His gaze held hers, steady, unflinching but not hostile.

"On my honor," Harold added, his words roughened by fatigue yet formal in their delivery, "I plan no duplicitous deed. You have earned more than that. You deserve better than that."

Boots scraped hard against the scorched earth as another figure strode up behind the Matriarch. Her son, helm under his arm, his crimson cloak torn from the fighting but his eyes burning with feverish light.

"Mother," he hissed, voice pitched sharp enough to carry across the hushed fort. His gaze flicked to Harold, hatred naked in it, before snapping back to her. "Just strike him down and end this. Cast aside this honor you cling to—it weakens you. End him, and we'll take our place at the head of Lionheart City and this whole region."

At once Holt's stance shifted, her shield rising with a metallic rasp. Her soldiers tightened around Harold, the brothers sliding in at her flanks, one muttering a curse under his breath. The air thickened with the promise of a fight breaking out where both armies still smoldered.

The Matriarch's jaw set, but her eyes didn't leave Harold. Pride warred with fury in her face, and for a heartbeat Harold could see the weight of the decision pressing down on her—her son's ambition clawing at her back, her family's losses gnawing at her blood, and her honor, the last pillar still holding her upright.

"Cast aside honor?" Her voice cracked like a whip, carrying across the courtyard. The Matriarch's crimson eyes burned as she wheeled on her son. "We are not the beasts others think us! Honor binds—it makes us more than the carrion nobles who drape themselves in silk and dare to call themselves noble."

Her sneer cut like a blade, lips curling with contempt. "And you… you would throw it away for scraps of power at their table?"

The air thickened as her Dao surged outward, unseen but undeniable. The weight of it slammed into her son, forcing him to his knees, armor groaning under the pressure. He snarled, his own Blood and Fire Dao flaring to life, tongues of heat and crimson haze rising to resist her. But it faltered, cracked, and withered in the shadow of hers.

"Honor is ephemeral," she pressed, voice sharp as steel. "It binds itself to who you are, in ways you do not see until it is tested. You cannot burn it away with fire. You cannot drown it in blood."

Her son gritted his teeth, sweat beading across his temple, but her power ground him down all the same.

"This family," the Matriarch declared, her voice ringing like an oath, "will act honorably. And not like the beasts we are accused of being."

Harold snorted, shifting his gaze from the kneeling vampire prince to the Matriarch herself. "I've got a daughter that hates me as well," he said dryly. "At least yours talks to you."

There was a beat of silence. Lira's head snapped toward him, her eyes widening as though he'd sprouted horns. Harold caught the look, blinked once, and felt a spike of panic tighten his chest.

Before he could backpedal, Lira marched over, her staff tapping against the ground with deliberate force. She jabbed him hard in the chest with one finger, her death mana prickling across his skin like icy thorns. "We will be talking after this, Harold Greyson."

Harold stiffened, managing the faintest nod while trying not to visibly flinch.

The Matriarch, who had been bristling moments ago with the weight of her Dao, let out a sharp exhale that curved into the ghost of a laugh. For a moment, it cut through the tension like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

"Yes, Calamity," she said, voice cooler now, almost amused. "If you have some shelter here, we can retire under it. My elders will keep my side in order."

Harold's gaze lingered on the Matriarch, narrowing as though a thought had struck him square between the eyes. Slowly, he straightened, the fatigue in his frame not hiding the iron in his voice.

"I do have somewhere we can go…" He paused, drawing in a breath, then exhaled like a man settling on a gamble. "But I'm sorry, Matriarch. I must demand an oath of peace from you first. I have a duty to these people, and I cannot take chances with their lives—not even for this."

His tone softened, though his eyes stayed sharp. "It will be worth it. I promise."

The air thickened at his words, the fort still echoing faintly with the aftermath of battle. Holt's soldiers shifted uneasily, eyes darting between Harold and the crimson-armored woman. The brothers froze halfway through their usual muttering. Even Lira's glare eased into something steadier, her staff lowering a fraction as she watched.

The Matriarch stood silent for a long moment, crimson eyes fixed on Harold. Around them, the fort was hushed, soldiers tending wounds, whispers carrying in low tones.

When Harold spoke, his words landed with the weight of someone too tired to dress them up. "I do have somewhere we can go. But I must demand an oath of peace from you. I have to protect these people however I can, and I can take no chances—not even with you. It will be worth it. I promise."

Her expression shifted, not anger but thought. Protecting family was a language she knew. Slowly, she inclined her head, the faintest ripple of respect in the motion. "Very well. On my honor, I swear this—while under your shelter, Calamity, I will raise no hand in violence, nor allow mine to do so. Until our words are finished."

The vow settled like iron in the air.

Harold dipped his chin once, accepting it. He turned slightly, his voice carrying to those behind him. "Daran. Lira. Regain order here—you know what to do."

Then he lifted his hand. A cool gust swept in as Hal appeared at his side, the Greater Frost Wolf materializing with silent grace. The wolf pressed his massive head against Harold's chest, a solid thud of belonging.

Mana poured off Harold in waves, shimmering heat and cold rippling together. He set his jaw, raised both arms, and tore at the space before him. Light and shadow split like fabric, edges fraying and curling back until a portal yawned open.

Through it, the faint outline of his settlement waited.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.