CHAPTER 147: MAD

From Sun to Moon—Time Flowed On

From the rise of the sun to the glow of the moon, time flowed unceasingly like a quiet river, and the seasons turned with their own silent rhythm. Before anyone realized it, a full month had passed in the blink of an eye.

To the common folk of the newly christened Emerald Green Kingdom, the once-terrifying undead invasion had become a distant memory. A dark Chapter closed.

Just thirty days ago, the once-unbeatable undead princesses—harbingers of terror, destruction, and despair—had been decisively defeated. And the one who had accomplished this feat was none other than the Venom Fang Overlord himself. A force of nature. An enigma. A sovereign cloaked in mystery and bloodshed.

Once their leaders fell, the vast hordes of undead that once blackened the horizon crumbled like a collapsing sandcastle, their threat vanishing with eerie swiftness. What had once seemed an endless tide of death had become little more than a fading nightmare.

The news of the overlord’s triumph spread with the fervor of wildfire in a summer-dried forest—quick, merciless, and all-consuming. Within days, the entire Eldros Continent had heard the tale. Some doubted it. Others whispered it with reverence. But none ignored it.

And with the fall of that dreadful undead army, something else began.

From mountain valleys, ruined towns, and deep woodland shelters, survivors and refugees began to emerge like cautious deer after a storm. One by one, in tens and hundreds, they turned their hopeful eyes toward the Emerald Green Forest, searching for safety, for hope, for a new beginning.

Yet not all came. Many hesitated—haunted not by the past war, but by the man who had ended it.

The Venom Fang Overlord.

To many, he was a savior. But to others, he was a terrifying unknown. Could someone with such brutal power ever truly be benevolent? Would his dominion be one of protection—or silent tyranny?

They feared what he might become.

And yet, those brave enough to approach were met not with cold steel or rejection, but with open gates and surprising warmth.

They were welcomed.

Not questioned. Not judged.

Just... welcomed.

Whispers grew. Puzzlement spread.

Was this a trick?

But before doubts could turn to rumors, a proclamation was made—directly from the overlord himself.

He stood before the gathered crowds, his presence sharp as a blade and heavy as a mountain, and declared:

"From this day forth, the Emerald Green Kingdom shall rise—not as a kingdom of conquest, but as a haven. All are welcome, regardless of race, class, or origin. This land shall be your home if you choose it."

His voice was calm. Unshaken. Final.

But instead of cheers, silence greeted him.

A muted reaction. Reserved glances. Whispered conversations behind cupped hands.

And amidst that silence... a trace of hostility. Nothing overt. Just a chill in the air, like the quiet tension before a storm.

Ricky noticed it all.

He didn’t understand.

To him, he was just a regular office worker—a man who once sat in cubicles, worried about deadlines and lunch breaks. He wasn’t born to rule. He hadn’t sought it.

He had simply... survived. And now stood atop a throne carved from battles he never asked for.

Troubled and curious, he turned to the one man who had stood beside him from the beginning of this new era: Crown Prince Darius.

In a quiet moment, with the moonlight gently streaming through the stone balcony of the Overlord’s newly established council hall, Ricky finally voiced his doubt.

"Darius," he said, his tone laced with confusion, "why do they look at me like that? I gave them a home. Safety. Freedom. I offered everything I could... and yet, they act like I’m the enemy."

And indeed, the prince didn’t disappoint him.

Dressed in a simple white robe embroidered with faded golden thread, Darius stood silently by the open stone balcony. His silver-blond hair fluttered gently in the breeze, catching glimmers of the afternoon sun as it filtered through drifting clouds. Below him, the endless expanse of the Emerald Green Forest stretched out like a living sea—verdant, wild, and unbroken.

But his gaze was not one of admiration. It was heavy. Reflective.

He didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he inhaled deeply, as though drawing in not just air, but the weight of history itself. A long sigh slipped from his lips.

"Announcing the creation of a new kingdom..." he finally said, voice calm but laced with quiet gravity, "...is the same as directly rebelling against the Eldros Kingdom."

His words lingered in the air like the scent of rain before a storm.

"The citizens," he continued, turning his eyes toward the horizon, "have lived under Eldros rule for generations. Their roots run deep. Even if their trust in the crown has withered, change brings fear. The creation of a new kingdom is bound to stir unrest... and bloodshed."

Hearing those words, Ricky slowly nodded.

Now that he thought about it, it made sense.

Yet understanding did little to quell the unrest in his own heart. After all, he was not a seasoned ruler born into a throne—he had once been nothing more than a weary office worker, pushed around by deadlines, forgotten by ambition, and bound to routine.

The rules of this world were still foreign. And the weight of titles meant nothing to him.

But one truth stood firm in his heart: when the Emerald Green Forest had cried out for help, no aid had come. Not from the nobles. Not from the high lords. Not even from the hallowed Eldros Kingdom.

So why should he care about their approval now?

He turned away from the balcony.

The past was ash. What mattered now was the future he could build.

Every warrior and civilian who chose to walk into his fledgling kingdom had been welcomed with dignity. No titles. No heritage. Just choice.

To avoid straining the heart of the forest, Ricky had designated a sprawling stretch along the outer fringes of Emerald Green territory as a new settlement zone. Tents became wooden homes. Bonfires became kitchens. Slowly, the murmur of a growing city took shape.

And to manage this blooming region, he appointed a single figure—trusted and unshakable.

Rosary.

...

Clad in a long black overcoat that whispered as it moved with the wind, Rosary stood atop a grassy ridge, her sharp gaze fixed on the half-formed city taking shape in the distance. Wooden frameworks dotted the landscape. Wagons creaked along worn trails. Smoke curled lazily from cookfires. It was a settlement not born of conquest, but of survival.

Her silver hair danced behind her like a banner of twilight. Silent, she stood with arms crossed, letting the scent of fresh-cut wood and damp earth fill her lungs.

The old federation was gone.

The truth of its collapse hadn’t shocked her—it was always on borrowed time—but the swiftness of its end had caught her off guard.

Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed faintly across the grass.

From the distant edge of the path, a small formation of stage warriors approached—disciplined and silent. At the center of the group strode a man radiating a sharp, unyielding presence.

A peak Stage 3 warrior.

His aura pressed lightly on the surroundings, like a sheathed blade brushing against skin—subtle, but undeniable.

The group halted a few hundred meters from Rosary, forming a semicircle behind their leader, waiting.

Unfazed, she turned slightly, her expression unreadable beneath the shadows cast by her coat’s tall collar.

The wind shifted, carrying tension like a warning in the air.

Something was coming.

And Rosary, as always, was ready.

Without even turning her head, Rosary asked coldly, "What is it?"

Her voice was calm, but a subtle sharpness lingered beneath, like the hiss of a blade half-drawn from its scabbard. A breeze rustled the leaves around her, but she remained still—eyes fixed on the half-finished city slowly rising from the forest’s edge.

She didn’t know why, but the moment she noticed the middle-aged man, an unsettling sensation stirred in her gut. It was a whisper of instinct honed on battlefields—an itch beneath the skin, telling her something wasn’t right.

The man hesitated. His expression shifted awkwardly as he exchanged glances with the others behind him. Then, forcing a smile, he let out a dry, stifled laugh—its cadence unnatural and stiff. Slowly, he began rubbing his palms together, a sheen of nervous sweat already forming along his brow.

From the corner of his eye, he flicked a subtle signal to one of the men behind him.

It was all choreographed.

As if waiting for that very cue, two men stepped forward and set a wooden box down a few paces ahead of Rosary. The chest creaked faintly as it touched the ground, its brass edges glinting dully in the fading sunlight. No words were exchanged. No explanations given.

But she didn’t need them.

The moment she laid eyes on the box, the corners of Rosary’s lips curled up into a knowing smirk. Her gaze slowly turned to meet the middle-aged man’s eyes—dark irises locking with his in a still, suffocating silence.

"Are you bribing me?" she asked.

Her tone was almost amused, but there was something dangerous just beneath the surface—like ice over deep, black water.

The man forced another awkward chuckle. "I wouldn’t dare to," he said. "This is simply... a show of goodwill. We only hope that Lady Rosary might speak kindly of us to the Overlord."

The smile remained on her lips, but it no longer reached her eyes.

Without responding, Rosary turned away. Her long overcoat fluttered behind her as she walked, the dust swirling gently beneath her boots. She didn’t glance back.

"How foolish," she muttered under her breath. "Do they really think the Overlord isn’t already aware of their actions?"

Indeed, this wasn’t the first time power-hungry groups had tried to test the waters—seeking influence through veiled gifts and silver-tongued diplomacy. But Ricky had noticed. He always noticed.

Yet, he hadn’t acted.

Not yet.

He had his reasons.

To Ricky, this was more than a simple act of bribery. Something about the timing... the behavior... felt off. Like a rotten scent carried on a still wind. He believed there was more lurking beneath the surface—something that required observation before judgment.

But before he could follow that thread any further, a chilling report swept across the capital, as if carried by the wind itself.

A single piece of news.

One that halted conversations mid-sentence and turned the bravest faces pale.

The King of Eldros... had gone mad.

Worse still, whispers claimed he had forged an unholy alliance with the Undead King himself.

And just like that,

the fragile calm that had settled over the Emerald Green Kingdom cracked—splintering like glass struck by a hammer.