“How many did you say?”
“Three hundred and thirty-three ‘heads,’ Your Majesty.”
“Excellent.”
At his vassal’s words, the King of Bers displayed a satisfied expression, a rare sight in recent years.
No new beastmen could be found within his kingdom’s borders anymore. The supply had run dry.
Raiding the Demon King’s Army’s territory to abduct them was barely enough to meet the demand for sacrifices.
Beastmen had vanished, and infiltrating the Demon King’s lands was no easy feat. What then? They needed a new hunting ground.
The fall of the Mosul “Border Count” was orchestrated for this very reason.
“What about Redron? What’s the prince up to? Has he already broken his new ‘toy’?”
“So far, I’ve confirmed he’s using it ‘cleanly’ compared to before, sire.”
“Good.”
Recently, the King of Bers recalled his son’s newfound “wholesome hobby.”
The special “gift” sent by the King of Mosul, using even a dimensional stone, had completely captivated Prince Redron’s attention.
But nothing had ever held the first prince’s interest for long.
Like reeds in the wind, he’d obsess over something one day, only to “dispose” of it the next, leaving the king deeply troubled.
Loving and playing with a “toy” was fine, but Redron’s cycle of replacing them was too quick.
These “toys” were no longer trivial; their cost and value had grown beyond comparison.
Raising beastmen with care, showering them with affection without impregnating them with human children, had become a “wholesome hobby” across the kingdom, a measure of power and prestige.
Finding healthy, mature “females” capable of bearing children was already difficult, and the king pondered how to address the nobles’ sordid tastes.
But how could he ban a deeply entrenched custom?
The bigger issue was the lack of a viable way to overturn this situation.
If this deal could ease things… Using Mosul as a shield to strike the Tar Kingdom isn’t impossible. If we restore the old families’ prestige through this…
Returning to his study, King Red Stone gazed at the glass case holding the red ore passed down through his family.
The ore wasn’t naturally red.
It had been stained by the blood of those who willingly sacrificed themselves for the family’s glory and prosperity.
Red recalled the history before his family’s domain was called a kingdom, before the strange martial entity known as the Human Empire emerged on the Armenial continent.
Back then, the “multi-species confederation” called the Demon King’s Army was a fairy tale, a dreamlike fiction.
Clicking his tongue, Red thought of Hader, revered by the seven species.
What did he lack? Hader, undeniably a descendant of the Black Lands’ seven great families like himself, held incomparable power.
Damn that Hader… How did he gain such a potent blessing from Hokhma?
In the past, Red’s family and Hader’s were equals, vying for dominance in a delicate balance.
Not anymore.
Hader, notorious as the lord of the “Demon King’s Army,” wielded Hokhma’s blessing, surpassing any divine favor in the world.
Compared to my blessing, his… Damn it, even the Emperor couldn’t match that.
When exactly Hokhma’s favor and blessings began to wane for the seven families, Red didn’t know.
The god’s attention had faded from the fallen families for reasons unknown.
After countless guesses and trials, the only reliable method was offering living sacrifices—an inefficient, unstable solution.
The great ruler of the Black Lands, heir to the seven families, was fed up with Hokhma’s diminishing blessings.
If the lofty silver owl of the night sky ignored them, they’d force its gaze and extract its power. But for now, pressing matters required attention.
Red sat in his stifling desk chair.
He pondered how to properly “dispose” of the three hundred and thirty-three new beastmen.
The top priority was sacrifices for Hokhma.
No compromise was possible, so their numbers were calculated precisely.
With the supply of sacrifices dwindling last year, the power of the blessings had significantly weakened.
His foolish son claimed they didn’t need to waste beastmen on a “stupid god,” that there was no need to reduce their numbers for blessings. Nonsense.
Utterly unworthy of consideration.
That idiotic first prince… Lacking a suitable heir, Red had delayed, but things had changed.
Dispose of the foolish prince and conceive a new “first prince.”
Medeya’s return was near. Thinking of the dark witch lifted Red’s spirits.
“Three hundred and thirty-three… A chance to make a grand gesture.”
Examining the crests of the kingdom’s families and their detailed portraits, Red meticulously calculated the quality and quantity of gifts to bestow upon loyal vassals.
Lately, the only distraction was the wine sent by the King of Mosul as a “gift.”
He felt suffocated. Ruling and managing the kingdom, a lifelong task, never felt familiar, even until death.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Red drew the curtains, blocking the sunlight, donned solemn attire, and placed his hand on the crystal orb.
The grating beep, beep, beep—Medeya’s taste in connection tones—stopped only when the link was established.
Annoying as it was, the tone’s effectiveness was undeniable.
“What is it?”
Releasing his hand, Medeya’s face appeared in the crystal orb, leaning close in an empty room.
“There’s something to report, Your Majesty. I don’t know where he heard it, but the prince took a slave for the colosseum. Something’s suspicious.”
“Just some worthless beastman, probably. A bit big, maybe. Let him win a few rounds with weak opponents, then lose. He’ll quiet down. You’re reporting this?”
“No! This one’s terrifying! I swear, if that beastman Garland’s bringing competes, he might win!”
“…Are you serious?”
“Brother, you never believe me. Look at this—my ring of submission. See it? I’m yours, forever.”
Red fell silent, staring.
On Medeya’s finger, visible through the orb, was the cursed ring he’d given her.
A rare pair of rings imbued with dark magic.
The counterpart was in his possession.
Mages said the wearer of the subordinate ring could never defy the master ring’s wearer, even if removed.
“Show me your back,” Red commanded.
“Oh, you distrust your little sister so much? Your own blood? Fine.”
Medeya obeyed instantly.
Seeing her bare back, still marked with his burning “brand,” Red ordered her to dress.
Though disguised as a “gift” to the King of Mosul—what an ironic title—Medeya’s true master was none other than Red Stone.
He’d never relinquish what was his, not even a grain of wheat.
If forced to give something up, Red Stone, the great heir of the old families, would burn and shatter it so no one could have it.
“So, what’s the problem? If he wins, I’ll grant him something.”
“Think about it! Tolland’s son isn’t a obedient child. My gut tells me he hasn’t fully forsaken Elon. I’m sure of it.”
“…Is that so?”
A woman’s intuition wasn’t to be ignored.
Red had killed his elder siblings, who built their own factions and strengths to claim the throne, in the shadows of the succession struggle.
Among those who aided his rise, the Mosul Border Count played a part, but Medeya’s dark magic was decisive.
A discarded princess steeped in dark magic and the king who claimed her—too far gone to debate who was madder or to turn back.
“His knowledge of the colosseum is suspicious. We should prepare, just in case.”
“Understood. Focus on your mission.”
“…You’ll keep your promise when I return, right?”
Medeya tugged at her clothes, her unwavering desire to replace the queen who bore the first prince and become the true queen growing stronger.
Red nodded, seeing her slightly distorted face in the orb, unlike her true self.
“I promise.”
***
A swordmaster’s aura can cut the intangible, things invisible to ordinary eyes.
Entering the “Surabar-exclusive transport wagon,” covered with black cloth and slightly open, I had a task for Garland.
Drawing a short dagger I always carried, I severed the invisible threads of dark magic lingering around Garland’s shoulders and cloak.
Snap.
The remnants of dark magic drifted out of the wagon on a faint breeze, vanishing.
“You can speak now, Sir Garland. The surveillance magic is gone.”
“Thank you.”
Now, Garland turned to face what he’d been delaying.
The night air was cold, the wagon colder, yet sweat beaded on Garland’s forehead and neck.
Surabar.
Garland’s original sin. Even if he retrieved Jasmine, he might never escape the weight of his guilt.
But, gritting his teeth and summoning courage, Garland met Surabar’s gaze.
The chains binding him were loose enough not to hinder movement. Grrr… The beast’s growl echoed like a reverberation in the wagon.
Clank. Such chains couldn’t restrain a rage-filled Surabar. Never.
“Surabar—cough!”
“Give me one reason I shouldn’t kill you right now,” Surabar growled, seizing Garland’s throat.