CHAPTER 60: BARON LAXIN

Then—shhk!

A pale, whitish-blue rapier manifested in Fenric’s hand, faster than most could blink. He lunged, aiming straight for the impostor’s throat.

But the impostor was just as quick. He jumped back, narrowly avoiding the thrust, and drew a crimson-red sword, meeting Fenric’s next strike head-on.

Shannng!

Steel screamed against steel, the clash echoing down the corridor. The earlier servant—eyes wide—turned and bolted to call for reinforcements.

"Well... looks like you figured it out," the man drawled, his voice no longer weak but cold and sharp.

Fenric’s eyes hardened. "An impostor, from the very start."

The false guard’s grin widened. "Smart boy. But not smart enough to walk out of here alive."

Suddenly, from his empty left sleeve, something began to form—an eerie black hand, twisted and clawed. The moment Fenric saw it, recognition hit him like a hammer.

The name rang like a funeral bell in Fenric’s mind.

The Death Hand Bandit.

Laxin—the son of a disgraced noble.

Years ago, during a vicious feud between noble houses, Laxin’s family had been annihilated. At the time, he was only twelve, the sole survivor—though not without scars. Nine years later, when he returned to his homeland, he found the ruins of his family estate... and learned the truth: his mother and younger sister had been reduced to servants in another noble’s household, eventually dying from relentless abuse. His father had been executed in public.

On that day, Laxin painted the earth red. He slaughtered every member of the noble house responsible. Not even servants were spared from his anger.

And the reason for his monstrous strength?

Nine years prior, when he suddenly vanished, when everyone—including his own family—believed him dead, he had stumbled upon an Ancient Legacy. There, in a hidden domain, he inherited the power of the Death Supreme—a legendary dragon of the Dragon Race, sovereign of the Death Element. The Death Supreme was feared across the annals of history, ranked second only to the Dragon Supreme himself—a position so revered that none dared dispute it.

The Death Supreme’s legacy was infamous. It could bind life... and snuff it out with a mere touch. Laxin had trained in that deadly art for over nine years, all while unaware that the family he sought to protect had already been tortured to death.

In the original book, he was notorious—not just for his mastery over death, but for being the sole necromancer in the entire story world. He alone could command multiple high-ranking undead, even the Abyssal Lords—physical monstrosities at the peak of undead might—and the Death Overlords, lich-like beings wielding catastrophic magic.

In one arc, even Empress Balina herself had been forced to expend enormous resources and her whole family just to drive him back. That was the level of power the Death Supreme’s legacy bestowed: complete dominion over death and its manipulation.

But now...

Why was he here? And why was he after Fenric?

Fenric’s gaze sharpened. "Can I ask who sent you?"

Laxin’s lips curled into a smirk. "Do you think just anyone can command me?"

He stepped forward—his very presence pressing down like a suffocating fog. The pressure was palpable, the kind that came only from a Grandmaster-rank powerhouse.

Fenric’s grip on his rapier tightened. This was no bluff—this man could kill him if he was careless. But Fenric was not about to step back.

"I don’t think I have any feud with you," Fenric said evenly, eyes locked on Laxin’s every movement.

The young man—barely nineteen, with dark green hair and stormy grey eyes—studied him in silence for a heartbeat before speaking.

"Hmm... you’re Fenric Vaelthorn Vareldis, aren’t you?"

Fenric inclined his head, his silver-white hair catching the faint light. "That is my name. Third Prince of the Vareldis Empire."

A dangerous glint lit Laxin’s eyes."Then my business here is very much with you."

There was no further warning.

One moment, Laxin stood still. The next, he blurred forward, a streak of killing intent wrapped in black and crimson. His sword—a wicked blade dyed the hue of fresh blood—cut through the air with a scream that seemed to echo from the underworld itself.

Clang!

Fenric’s arm moved on instinct, his own weapon flashing up to intercept. Steel met steel, sparks scattering like shattered moonlight. The impact rattled his bones, but the Mystic Moon Rapier—an ethereal Spirit Armament born from his pact with Lunaris—held firm. Its slender silver blade hummed faintly, threads of moonlight weaving along its edge, answering the call of its master.

The two locked weapons for half a heartbeat. Laxin’s gaze burned with cold murder; Fenric’s narrowed with steely resolve.

Then came the force—raw, crushing, unnatural. It wasn’t simply physical strength; the weight of death itself pressed down, seeking to crush his will as much as his body.

Fenric slid back three paces, boots gouging shallow trenches in the dirt.Laxin followed without pause, his crimson blade carving arcs of lethal precision.

Fenric’s rapier danced to meet each strike, moonlight clashing against the bloody haze. He could feel it now—each swing from Laxin didn’t just threaten to wound his body, but to tear away his life-force entirely.

"Death... essence," Fenric muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. "He’s not holding back."

Laxin’s lips curved into a faint smirk, the kind one gives before executing a sentence already passed."Good. You recognize it. Then you understand... you can’t win."

And with that, his next swing wasn’t aimed to test—it was meant to kill.

Fenric’s rapier blurred, tracing lines of silver through the air, but even so—he couldn’t keep up completely. Laxin’s strikes were faster, heavier, and each carried the crushing weight of a man four whole realms above him.

No matter how much his body had been tempered... no matter the strength he had gained from Lunaris’s blessing... such a gap couldn’t be bridged through willpower alone.

Steel rang out in rapid succession. Clang—clang—claaang!A shallow cut bloomed along his left shoulder. Another grazed his ribs. His breath came short—not from fear, but from the sheer oppressive tempo of the fight.

Laxin didn’t miss it."You can’t keep this up," he said coldly, his crimson blade knocking Fenric’s guard wide for a heartbeat. "Why cling to this farce? Why risk yourself for a cause you cannot win?"

Fenric slid back, his rapier’s tip lowering only slightly. "And why," he countered, voice steady despite the blood at the corner of his mouth, "does a man who wields the might of a Grandmaster lower himself to slaughtering the weak?"

For the briefest instant, Laxin’s expression tightened—then the cold smirk returned."You wouldn’t understand."

Fenric’s mind raced. He needed Lunaris to return now. Magic alone could only hold Laxin’s aura at bay for so long. The death essence gnawed at the edges of his defenses, seeping into his body like frostbite.

If this dragged on, it wouldn’t just be a matter of losing the duel—he’d lose the ability to stand.

Still... he refused to lower his blade.

Laxin’s next step forward felt like a guillotine falling."I will find out," Fenric murmured under his breath, eyes locking with his foe’s. "And when I do, I’ll make sure you regret every swing of that sword."

Fenric’s grip tightened on his rapier. Silver light began to ripple along the blade, not just from human-crafted mana but from something deeper—older. His human magic wove itself seamlessly with the guttural resonance of Dragon Tongue spells, each syllable vibrating in the air like a heartbeat from the age of legends.

"Luxa Seln. Raen Drath!"A blazing arc of fire and light shot from his rapier’s tip, cleaving through the lingering haze of death essence. The blast tore a trench in the floor between them, forcing Laxin to halt his advance.

Laxin’s eyes narrowed. "So... you also carry a dragon’s blessing."The air around him warped—thickening, darkening—as his own power surged forth. It wasn’t the pure elemental resonance of Fenric’s blessing. This was twisted, heavy, drenched in something older than rot.

Black and crimson magic roiled around his frame, etched with runes that seemed to burn and decay at the same time."But what I have," Laxin said, his voice a guttural growl that seemed to echo from two throats at once, "is stronger than anything you possess."

He thrust his hand forward. Death magic erupted like a storm, a tide of spectral claws and screaming shadows racing toward Fenric.

Fenric didn’t retreat. He stabbed his rapier into the ground, channeling both human incantations and the guttural command words of the dragons. Mana surged through the floor, erupting in silver-gold pillars that burned through the wave of shadows.

The air itself began to tremble. Steel and magic were now secondary—the duel had shifted into a clash of raw, supernatural dominance.

Laxin swept his sword aside, dissolving it into a blade of condensed death energy. Fenric’s rapier flared, dragon runes crawling along its surface like molten light.

The fight was no longer steel against steel. It was light and flame against decay and shadow.

The duel suddenly shifted to might of Magic now lost to world yet now being displayed by humans who are only 18 or 19 years old.