CHAPTER 429: CHAPTER 429: THE COUNT WHO NEVER CAME HOM

Nicalo felt it too, a wrongness that went deeper than physical discomfort. His instincts, honed by decades of dungeon exploration, screamed warnings that his rational mind struggled to process. But they’d come so far, invested so much hope in this expedition.

His nieces were counting on him. Lysora County needed this success.

"We press on," he decided, though he moved his hand to his sword hilt. "Stay close. Watch each other’s backs."

They descended through corridors that seemed to grow more alien with each step. The architecture itself began to feel wrong, angles that hurt to look at directly, shadows that moved independently of their light sources, whispers in languages that predated human speech.

Brother Thane’s prayers grew more frequent and fervent. Sister Miraleth’s holy symbol began to dim despite her growing desperation to kindle its light. Even Korven’s usually unshakeable confidence showed cracks as his defensive instincts screamed at threats he couldn’t identify.

The final chamber opened before them like the maw of some sleeping god.

Where ancient treasure should have gleamed, only ash and bone remained. Wealth accumulated over centuries reduced to gray powder that swirled in patterns too deliberate to be natural. The air itself felt thick with malice, and every breath tasted of copper and sulfur.

"This is wrong," Dame Elena whispered, her sword already in her hand. "We need to leave. Now."

But it was already too late.

From the chamber’s deepest shadows, it began to emerge.

Reality seemed to recoil as Azaroth Pyron’s

true form materialised, a towering entity of shadow and flame that violated every natural law. Jagged black feather-like shards formed wing-like appendages that scraped against the chamber’s impossible ceiling. A single piercing red eye burned with malice older than human civilization, and when it spoke, the very stones wept.

"Welcome, fragile little mortals," the demon rasped, voice grinding like worlds dying in collision. "I’ve waited so long... starving for the taste of your fear."

The slaughter began in the heartbeat between recognition and terror.

Captain Marcus, brave, faithful Marcus, who only wanted to buy his daughter a pony, raised his shield with veteran instincts. Azaroth’s clawed wing tore through reinforced steel and flesh like morning mist, the man’s scream cut short as shadow-fire consumed what remained. His final thought was of Sarah’s disappointed face.

Sir Garrett’s young courage meant nothing as corrupted flames melted his armor to his skin, his dreams of proving himself to his family dying with him in agony. Dame Elena, loyal, protective Elena, threw herself between the demon and Nicalo with a warrior’s final defiance, buying him perhaps three precious seconds with her life.

The survivors tried to mount a defense with the desperate courage of those who know they face their end.

Valdris unleashed every fire spell in his considerable arsenal, pouring decades of magical study into attacks that should have leveled mountains. The demon absorbed them like a man drinking wine, growing stronger with each spell consumed, its laughter echoing like the grinding of tombstones.

Sister Miraleth’s holy magic, pure and bright and fed by unshakeable faith, dimmed and failed against the abyssal presence. Her prayers turned to screams as darkness swallowed light, her god’s voice falling silent in the face of something that predated divine mercy.

Brother Thane’s faith shattered like crystal against stone as claws raked across his chest. Korven’s defensive techniques, perfected over a lifetime of protecting others, proved useless against an enemy that existed outside the rules of combat.

One by one, they fell.

But death was not the end of their torment.

Azaroth didn’t simply kill, it devoured

. With each friend that died, Nicalo watched in growing horror as the demon absorbed not just their life, but their memories, their skills, their very essence. Every technique Marcus had learned, every prayer Sister Miraleth had memorized, every joke Lyra had shared, all of it consumed, corrupted, turned into weapons for the darkness.

The demon grew stronger with each death, more cunning, more terrible. It learned from their tactics as it slaughtered them, adapting and evolving with every soul it claimed.

When only Nicalo remained, wounded, broken, surrounded by the corpses of those who had trusted him, he made his final, desperate choice.

Not to fight, for he could see the futility written in ash and blood around him. Not to bargain, for this creature was beyond mortal comprehension. But to escape. To warn Elara and Mariana. To give them the chance he had stolen through his arrogance and ambition.

"Elara... Mariana..." he whispered, stumbling toward the chamber’s exit on legs that barely held him. "Forgive me. Please, forgive me."

Behind him, Azaroth’s laughter followed like the promise of winter.

The demon was faster.

Claws pierced his chest with casual, almost gentle precision, lifting him like a parent might lift a child. As his life bled out onto the ash that had once been ancient treasure, Nicalo’s final thoughts were not of his own pain, but of the two young women who had trusted him to come home.

They’re smart, he thought as darkness closed around him. Smarter than their old uncle. They’ll figure it out. They have to.

His body fell among the ashes of his friends and dreams.

But his hope for them, that spark of desperate love, somehow endured.

Azaroth consumed Nicalo’s form with deliberate, almost reverent care. This one was special, valuable beyond mere sustenance. The demon savored each memory, each mannerism, each fragment of the man’s identity like a connoisseur appreciating fine wine.

When the creature rose wearing Nicalo’s face, the mimicry was flawless in every detail. Height, voice, even the way he favored his left leg from an old riding injury, all perfectly replicated.

Almost perfectly.

Something crucial was missing from those familiar grey eyes. The warmth that had defined Count Nicalo Vaelmont, the genuine love for his people and family, the spark of humanity that had made him who he was, all of it was gone, replaced by ancient malice wearing a beloved mask.

For four long years, that mask had fooled everyone.

Until now.