The Genesis Of A Necromancer - Chapter 167

Chapter 167: The doom of the Digmun’s
Naya sat up straight, her golden eyes narrowing. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she observed the battlefield with sharp focus. Unlike the others, she understood exactly what she was looking at.

“This isn’t normal… this isn’t just some random demon’s ability,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Her fingers curled slightly, ready to take action if necessary.

She had seen a blood army before. She had seen entire kingdoms fall before their relentless onslaught. And now, she was watching the beginning of something terrifying.

“Layla,” she called, her voice steady but laced with urgency. “Do you know what power your student is using?”

For the first time, there was a flicker of something in Layla’s expression. Was it apprehension? Amusement? It was hard to tell, but she didn’t look away from the fight below. Instead, she leaned back slightly, letting out a small hum of interest.

“My Queen, it’s all under control,” she finally said, a slow smile forming. “Let’s just enjoy the show.”

Naya wasn’t convinced. Her gaze flickered between Jack and the demon mage, her instincts screaming at her. Something was about to go very, very wrong.

Jack stood facing the blood warriors, his muscles coiled like a spring. Their forms twisted and shifted, the blood around their arms elongating and hardening into weapons. Each one was different—one bore a massive halberd, another a serrated greatsword, the third a wickedly curved dagger, and the fourth dual blades that shimmered with a dark, viscous sheen.

The demon mage, his eyes glazed with madness, lifted a trembling hand and pointed at Jack.

“Master, I will win,” he declared in the demonic tongue.

The blood warriors lunged.

Jack reacted instantly, twisting to the side as the halberd came crashing down where he had stood moments ago. A gust of wind followed the force of the strike, shaking the ground beneath him. He barely had time to recover before the greatsword swung horizontally, forcing him to duck and roll.

‘Fast.’

He barely completed the thought before the dagger-wielding blood warrior appeared behind him, thrusting forward with deadly precision. Jack twisted his body, narrowly avoiding the blade, but as he did, he felt something graze his sleeve.

His eyes widened, heart hammering.

He jerked away, instinctively inspecting his arm. The fabric of his sleeve had been sliced open, revealing unbroken skin underneath. No blood.

A cold sweat ran down his back.

That was too close.

The dual-blade warrior charged next, its movements eerily fluid, unpredictable. Jack had no choice but to backpedal, parrying one of the blades with his dagger. The second blade came from the side—he twisted his wrist at the last second, redirecting it just enough for it to miss his flesh by a hair’s breadth.

The four warriors moved like a single entity, no wasted movement, no hesitation. Their coordination was terrifyingly precise, as if they shared one mind. Jack was being pushed to his absolute limit, forced to rely on every ounce of skill he possessed to keep himself from being cut.

And still, he had no way to strike back.

He could kill them, yes. But doing so meant spilling their blood. And spilling their blood meant—

A shiver ran down his spine.

‘Damn it.’

There was no room for error.

Meanwhile, in another part of the plane, far from the roaring stadium, another battle raged.

Unlike the bustling city where Jack fought for survival, this place was drenched in chaos and ruin.

An entire city had been razed to the ground.

Flames devoured everything in sight, the once-thriving metropolis reduced to smoldering ash. The air was thick with the scent of burning flesh and iron. The ground was slick with blood, turning the hardened earth into something soft, almost sludge-like.

Screams echoed through the streets—some distant, others agonizingly close. Demons scurried in desperation, their shrieks piercing the smoky air as they were hunted down like vermin.

High above the destruction, three figures hovered in the darkened sky, their silhouettes illuminated by the glow of the inferno below.

In the center, a man with striking green hair stood, his sharp eyes reflecting the carnage with cold calculation. He did not speak immediately, only watched, his expression unreadable.

Then, his lips parted, and his voice cut through the roaring flames.

“The demons have tormented us for years,” he said, his tone devoid of emotion. “Now, it’s our turn to bring their houses to the ground.”

A gust of wind stirred the smoke around him, revealing the faintest trace of a smirk on his lips.

The hunt had only just begun.

He didn’t feel even the slightest pity for the demons below him.

Aldermond looked to his left, a flash of lightning catching his eyes.

It wasn’t a powerful bolt, but strong enough to wipe out the small army of demons that surrounded the young-looking boy in the center.

His black hair fluttered intensely as the wind from the explosion of his attack whooshed past him.

His striking green eyes looked at the scene with no sympathy.

This was his chance to prove how much better he was than his useless big brother.

Arin stood, his cloak soaked in his own sweat.

He had put the most effort into clearing out the city.

And of course, he had gathered the most attention.

“The second prince, his powers are amazing. His control of his element is frightening as well.”

“See how many demons he cleared out on his own… shocking thing is he is only fifteen years of age.”

“Yeah… his growth was shocking, he is only a C-rank. I can imagine how much more powerful he’ll be at SS-rank.”

The praises came from all directions. Everyone seemed to be talking about the young prince.

This was exactly the effect Aldermond was hoping to create, and it was working.

‘If Arin stands out more, in Asriel’s absence, the people will slowly accept him as their leader, and they won’t raise much question about the former.’ Aldermond’s thoughtful gaze rested on Arin’s figure.

The air was thick with tension, a palpable weight that settled over the battlefield like an oppressive storm. The embers of destruction still flickered in the distance, casting eerie shadows on the bloodstained ground. Yet, amidst the chaos, voices continued to rise, carrying discussions that had little to do with the carnage around them.

“If the second prince is this strong, one can only imagine the power the first prince himself holds.”

One of the mages, a man adorned in royal insignia, spoke with a smirk, his words cutting through the murmurs of the gathered soldiers. It was a simple statement, but it carried an undeniable weight. A single spark that could ignite a wildfire.

Aldermond clenched his jaw. He could feel a vein throb on his temple, a telltale sign of the frustration bubbling beneath his composed facade. His gaze flickered toward the mage—one of the Duke’s men, no doubt. The trained dogs of the noble houses never missed an opportunity to stir unrest.

‘I should’ve known they wouldn’t let things proceed smoothly,’ he thought, his fingers pressing against his forehead in exasperation. ‘With those greedy Dukes around, making the people forget about him will be much harder than I anticipated.’

The crowd’s whispers grew louder. What had started as admiration for Arin’s display of power had quickly turned into a debate about the first prince. About him. The one who had vanished. The ghost of a prince who lingered in their thoughts, despite the years of absence.

Arin gritted his teeth. His fingers curled into tight fists, his nails biting into his palms as rage simmered beneath the surface. His once-proud moment was now tarnished by the mere mention of his brother’s name.

‘Why?’

He wanted to scream. To demand an answer from these fools who refused to acknowledge the truth. He was stronger. He was better. He had always been better. Since childhood, he had outshined his brother in every way possible.

And yet, they still whispered about him. Still clung to the past as though it held any meaning.

‘If only father would let me tell them… tell them the truth.’

A bitter thought, one he had held onto for years. His father, the king, had forbidden it. Had forced him to swallow his pride and remain silent. Had shackled him with the burden of pretending that his brother had been anything more than a failure.

A powerless disgrace to the Digmun name.

Henry, standing just behind Arin, watched with a smile curling at the corners of his lips. His dark eyes gleamed with amusement, but beneath that, there was something deeper. Something more sinister.

‘The soldiers are doing well… stirring the prince’s hatred just as we need them to.’

He had always despised the royal family. Not just Arin. Not just Asriel. But all of them.

For years, his family had been the strongest in the kingdom. A lineage that had once commanded respect, authority, and power. But then the angels had come. And with them, a decree that had shattered everything they had built.

The Digmun family had been chosen, their lineage tied too closely to the church to be denied the throne. And in an instant, Henry’s family had lost everything. Their status. Their influence. Their right to rule.

Forced into the shadows, they had watched. Powerless.

Until the day he was born.