Chapter : 1145

He was so lost in his cold calculations, in the intricate dance of logistics and troop movements he was already mapping out in his mind, that he did not hear the study door open. He did not hear the soft, almost silent footsteps on the thick rug.

He only knew he was no longer alone when a new presence, a block of ice even colder and harder than his own, settled in the room.

Lloyd didn’t turn. He didn’t have to. He knew, with an instinct that went beyond the five senses, who it was.

"He was a good man," a voice said, low and devoid of any discernible emotion. It was the voice of Ben Ferrum.

Lloyd’s gaze remained fixed on the map. "He was the best of us," he replied, his own voice just as flat, just as controlled.

Ben moved to stand beside him at the desk, a silent, imposing figure whose presence was a paradox of brokenness and immense, contained power. His prosthetic arm and leg were no longer the crude iron he had forged in their duel; they were now masterpieces of polished, articulated steel, indistinguishable from the real thing unless you looked closely. His one good eye was fixed on the fortress on the map, and in its depths, a cold, blue fire was burning.

For a long moment, the two of them stood in a shared, profound silence. They were cousins, bound by the blood of the same ancient, warlike house. They were former enemies, two men who had been the architects of each other’s destruction in a world that no longer existed. Their history was a complex, knotted tapestry of rivalry, respect, and a shared, secret burden that no one else in this universe could ever comprehend.

But in this moment, all of that was irrelevant. It was ash, blown away by the cold, hard wind of a new and terrible reality.

Ben was the first to break the silence. He did not look at Lloyd. His gaze remained locked on the map, on the representation of the place where his father had been murdered.

"In our former life," Ben began, his voice a low, precise instrument, "our conflict was a matter of ideology. Of grand strategy. It was a game played by nations, and we were merely pieces, albeit significant ones. It was… impersonal."

He finally turned his head, and his one good eye, that burning blue flame, locked onto Lloyd’s. The usual cold, analytical detachment that had always defined him was gone. In its place was something raw, something ancient, something chillingly personal.

"This is not that," Ben stated, the words not a conversation, but a pronouncement. "This is not a game. This is not about ideology."

He raised a hand, his perfectly crafted prosthetic, and pointed a single, steel finger at the map. At the name ‘Ashworth.’

"In this world, Lord Kyle Ferrum was my father."

The declaration was a hammer blow of absolute, unshakeable finality. It was a statement of fact, a blood-debt declared.

"I will have vengeance," he said, the words a quiet, simple, and utterly terrifying vow.

Ben’s vow hung in the silent, map-lined study, a thing of terrible, crystalline weight. It was not a plea for aid or a cry of grief. It was a simple, brutal statement of intent, the kind of declaration that, once spoken, could not be unmade. It was the sound of a universe being reordered around a single, absolute purpose.

Lloyd met his cousin’s burning gaze, and in that shared look, a hundred years of rivalry and a universe of conflict dissolved into nothing. He saw not the ghost of his old nemesis, ‘B.’ He saw a son who had lost his father. He saw a Ferrum whose house had been betrayed. He saw a brother-in-arms whose flank had been turned. He saw himself.

The cold, strategic engine in Lloyd’s mind did not cease its calculations, but a new, warmer current flowed into it. This was no longer just his war. It was theirs.

He gave a single, sharp nod, an acknowledgment between two soldiers who understood the brutal, simple language of a blood-debt.

"Then we will make them pay," Lloyd replied, his voice a quiet echo of Ben’s own resolve. The words were a treaty, signed and sealed in that one, shared look of absolute, unified purpose.

The alliance was forged. Not in a council chamber with flowery words and wax seals, but in the grim silence of a war room, forged in the blood of a fallen father and tempered in the cold fire of a shared need for retribution.

Chapter : 1146

The shift was immediate and seamless. The tension that had always existed between them, the ghost of their past conflict, was gone. They were no longer two former enemies navigating a fragile truce. They were two commanders of a unified force, their minds already moving from the ‘why’ to the ‘how.’

"Rubel’s power is not his own," Ben stated, his voice returning to its familiar, analytical cadence as he turned his focus back to the map. "The report from the survivor spoke of a pact. A demonic ascension. The army he raised is not a conventional force. It is a spiritual plague."

"The Seventh Circle," Lloyd confirmed, tapping a finger on a secondary report Ken had provided, a slim volume detailing the esoteric and forbidden lore of the Devil Race. "A particularly nasty cult of devil worshipers who specialize in soul corruption and necromancy. They see themselves as liberators, freeing the world from the tyranny of the living. Their methods are asymmetrical. Terror. Plagues. Conceptual warfare." He paused, his expression hardening. "The Red Blight in Oakhaven. The Vanishing at Gazef. It’s all connected. Kyle’s death wasn’t an isolated act of treason. It was a move in a much larger, undeclared war."

Ben’s one good eye narrowed as he processed the new data. "So, the unholy army at Ashworth is not the primary threat. It is a symptom. A localized manifestation of the disease."

"Exactly," Lloyd agreed. "We can’t just march on Ashworth and lay siege. We’d be playing Rubel’s game. He wants a glorious, bloody battle. He wants to grind our living army down against his tireless dead. It’s a war of attrition we cannot win."

A grim smile touched Ben’s lips. "Then we will not fight his war. We will fight ours."

The two of them bent over the map, their heads close together. The air in the room crackled with a new, terrifying energy, the intellectual friction of two of the most brilliant military minds of their generation working in perfect, deadly synergy.

"A conventional assault is a fool’s errand," Lloyd began, tracing a line on the map. "But a surgical strike… a decapitation… is another matter entirely. Rubel is the heart of this corruption. If we cut out the heart, the body will die."

"He will be in the fortress," Ben countered. "The Unholy Palace, as he calls it. It will be the most heavily defended point. His three King-Level knights will be his personal guard."

"Good," Lloyd said, a predatory glint in his eye. "It’s always more efficient when the primary targets gather themselves in one place. It saves on travel time."

The flicker of dark, sarcastic humor was a jarring but welcome note in the grim atmosphere. Ben didn't smile, but a flicker of understanding passed through his eye. He was beginning to remember the infuriating, unorthodox brilliance of the man he had once fought against.

"The two of us," Ben stated, his voice a low, confident hum. "Against a fortress, an army of thousands, and at least three King-Level entities. The odds are not favorable."

"The odds are irrelevant," Lloyd shot back, his voice radiating a supreme, almost arrogant confidence. "The odds are for bookmakers and fools. We are the architects of the equation. We will not be governed by it."

He looked up from the map, his gaze locking with Ben's. "We are not going there to fight a siege, Ben. We are going there to perform an execution. It will be swift. It will be brutal. And it will be final."

Ben held his gaze for a long moment, the blue fire in his eye burning with a new, shared intensity. The rivalry that had defined their past lives was dead and buried. The shared blood that had been a source of conflict was now the foundation of their new, terrible purpose.

"When do we leave?" Ben asked, the question a simple, final acceptance of their shared path.

Lloyd’s smile was a cold, beautiful, and terrifying thing.

"At dawn," he replied. "The King of Ashworth has held his throne for long enough."

________________________________________

Dawn broke over a land that held its breath. The journey to Ashworth was a silent, high-speed pilgrimage. There was no grand army, no train of supply wagons. There was only a single, unmarked carriage, drawn by four of the Arch Duke’s finest black stallions, thundering down the deserted roads. Inside, two cousins sat in a shared, purposeful silence, the world outside a blur of grey fields and skeletal trees. They were a two-man apocalypse, a quiet, contained storm about to break over the corrupted heart of their own lands.