CHAPTER 142: CRUSHED

Forty-Two’s surprise turned to panic in an instant.

Though she was hailed as one of the most talented undead princesses the Undead Plains had birthed in generations, she knew all too well—raw talent meant little when time hadn’t yet forged it into power.

Forty two was same. Demonically gifted, yes—but still far too young in her cultivation journey. No matter how sharp the blade, without a tempered edge and a sturdy hilt, it would shatter against the weight of a true enemy. Foundation—that cruel wall that talent alone couldn’t leap over—was what separated the prodigies from the monstrous legends.

And that very truth was the reason behind her name: Forty-Two. Among all the undead princesses, she was ranked forty-second. Not first. Not even within the top ten. Just enough to be noticed. Just enough to survive.

But now, survival wasn’t enough.

Her pupils sharpened as her thoughts reached a swift conclusion. With barely a whisper of wind, her body turned into a streak of cerulean light, vanishing from the palace halls. Her ice cream cone hit the floor, forgotten and melting.

There was no time to waste.

If her instincts were right, there was only one place that mysterious aura could be heading—the battlefield.

Where Ricky was.

Where Thirty-Five was waiting.

Her expression turned cold and resolute as her blue blur tore through the air. She had to get there before it was too late.

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Meanwhile, high above the castle rooftops, another figure stirred.

The mysterious princess slowly stepped out from the shadows where she’d been hiding all this time. Her gown flowed like liquid dusk around her, the rabbit mask on her face cracked at the edge, revealing the hint of a wicked smile.

"Finally..." she whispered, stretching her arms as if shedding an invisible skin. "All the preparations are complete. No more scurrying like a rat in the dark..."

Her voice was soft and dreamy, but the venom coiled beneath it was unmistakable.

Back when the Crimson Princess’s death had been confirmed, a new plan had been set in motion. One that revolved around a single, inconvenient variable: Ricky.

He was unpredictable. Dangerous. Even infested with something... ancient.

So they decided to treat him with extreme caution.

Twenty-Nine and the others had already gone ahead to keep the Venom Fang Sovereign occupied. Their battle would be loud, brutal, and distracting.

And while they clashed under the sky’s gaze, she would do what she did best—slip behind the curtain, and cut out the heart of the stage.

His underlings. His support. The insects buzzing around him.

She would crush them all.

Then, the prize—that strange, mysterious fruit—would belong to her alone.

A shiver of anticipation ran through her as she took a step forward, dissolving into a mist of shadow and intent.

Tonight, the battlefield would blossom.

And it would bloom in blood.

As soon as her thoughts reached this point, the air around her distorted like a mirage on a sun-scorched road. With a shrill, unnatural scream, the spiritual field of the undead princess surged outward—an overwhelming tidal wave of deathly pressure that crushed everything in its path.

The Wooden Castle, though fortified and proud in its construction, wasn’t built to withstand the wrath of a Stage Three being. It groaned like a dying beast as spiderweb cracks snaked across its walls. In less than a heartbeat—Boom!—a section of the castle wall exploded outward, the impact sending splinters and debris flying like shrapnel.

Panic stirred.

Guards on duty stumbled back in shock before their training kicked in. Shouts rang through the estate as horns blared a high-alert signal. Within seconds, a contingent of elite soldiers burst into action, their movements sharp and coordinated. Boar’s quick-response team had been drilled for this very moment.

Clad in moss-green armor carved with runes, they swiftly surrounded the intruder. Their weapons shimmered with spiritual energy, but despite their valor, the tension was thick enough to taste—like iron and smoke in the air.

The undead princess stood amidst the wreckage, unfazed by the destruction. Her gown rippled despite the still air, stained with traces of blackened Amma. Her lips curled into a cold smirk as her gaze swept across the soldiers.

To her, they were nothing more than walking bags of flesh, parading around in ceremonial armor. Her eyes—dim and soulless like graveyard fog—lingered on each soldier with clinical disdain.

Then her gaze met the front of the formation.

A beastkin warrior stood tall. Towering above the others, the leader of the elite unit was a bear with silver-gray fur and a single, jagged horn growing from the center of his head. His armor bore countless scars from past battles, but his expression remained calm, steely, resolute.

Even the newest recruits—barely weeks old—stood their ground. Despite the suffocating pressure of her spiritual field, they did not break. The aura of death that coiled around the undead princess like a storm was terrifying, yet none of them showed fear.

They had faced loss. They had buried parents, siblings, lovers. They had watched their homes burn to ash under the claws of undead war beasts.

Now, here she stood—the very embodiment of all their nightmares.

The bear-horned leader stepped forward, his voice ringing out like a war drum.

"Men! The time has come to prove yourselves!"

He paused as a breeze swept across the battlefield, rustling the torn flags and cracked walls. His eyes glinted with rage buried beneath honor.

"We are not cowards who ran while our villages were burning!"

He raised his spear and pointed it directly at the undead princess, its edge glowing faintly with sacred fire.

"This is what we’ve prepared for all this time!"

With a shout that reverberated through the clearing like thunder, he roared, "Kill this undead princess with me and have your revenge!"

A beat of silence passed.

Then—a battle cry erupted from the soldiers. It wasn’t just loud. It was raw. Pain and fury layered into a single sound that tore through the air like lightning.

Their eyes burned with purpose now. For most of them, the war had never truly ended. The undead princess was not just an enemy. She was the face of every lost family, every friend devoured, every home turned into a mausoleum.

No matter how strong she was.

They would fight.

And they would make her bleed.

Suddenly, the rage they had been bottling up in their hearts finally erupted, no longer restrained by duty or fear. The grips on their weapons tightened until knuckles turned white, and breathing grew heavy with desperation. Among them, a young man stepped forward—his frame lean, his face gaunt from sleepless nights, but his eyes... his eyes burned with unrestrained hatred.

"Die, you monster!" he roared.

The shout tore through the stale air like a battle cry of the forgotten. He surged ahead like a man possessed, feet pounding against the trembling earth, weapon raised high. Fury had pushed him past the edge—past fear, past logic, past reason. In that moment, he wasn’t a soldier; he was a son, a brother, a husband. A man with nothing left to lose.

The leader didn’t stop him.

He clenched his jaw, watching with grim silence. He understood far too well—this was a battle already lost. But if even one man could die with a heart emptied of vengeance, wasn’t that worth something?

The undead princess looked up.

A cold, detached snort escaped her lips. She didn’t move. She didn’t need to.

Her spiritual field pulsed—soundless yet devastating—as if the very air had curdled around her presence. The invisible tide surged out, sweeping across the battlefield like a formless executioner.

And in an instant, the charging youth, along with the rest of the elite team, was crushed into nothingness. Bones cracked like twigs beneath a boot. Armor crumpled like paper. Blood sprayed in elegant, grotesque arcs before painting the ground in violent red. Shards of limbs, scraps of clothing, and fragments of weapons scattered through the air before silence fell once more.

All that remained... was a single patch of blood, quietly soaking into the earth, as if trying to vanish from the world.

The battlefield was still, but the cruelty of what had just occurred echoed like a thunderclap in the soul.

If anyone had lived to witness the aftermath, perhaps they would have asked:

What was the point of all this?

If they were destined to die, why not fall beside the families they had lost? Why survive the massacre of their homes, only to meet this end—broken and nameless beneath the feet of an seemingly immortal undead princess?

Was this a divine punishment? A joke played by fate to crush even the illusion of hope?

The air hung heavy. The wooden estate continued to groan under the weight of the undead princess’s presence, as if the land itself recoiled at her existence.

And yet—above that blood-stained patch, a silence deeper than death lingered. Not mourning. Not peace.

Only the void left behind when resistance is utterly extinguished without even being able to resist.