At the cliffside by the border river of the Honning Empire.
The night was cloaked in mist, faint lights flickering in the distance. Even the moon’s glow was often swallowed by drifting clouds. Against such a backdrop, Lichtenstein Castle appeared all the more eerie and unfathomable.
Close to midnight.
A shadow streaked across the night sky, bringing with it a violent gust of wind that rattled the forest and scattered leaves like blades of ice.
The figure moved at breathtaking speed—so fast that the stars above seemed to stretch into flowing lines in his eyes.
He lowered his gaze slightly, and in his vision cliffs, broken bridges, and the castle loomed ever closer.
Gradually, he slowed down, as though arriving at his destination.
Bathed in moonlight, his silhouette grew clearer: a strikingly handsome man, sculpted like a statue, his body the perfect harmony of elegance and power. Even among the blood clans, he would be counted as one born for battle.
His ruby-like eyes glowed coldly, sharp as chains of ice that bound all before them.
“So… my brilliant vassal met his end here?”The voice of Count Palocas was like a whisper seeping up from the abyss, heavy with inescapable authority.
He swooped down, and as he crossed the ravine, the veil of clouds parted—Lichtenstein Castle revealed itself in full.
There was no trace of the killers having fled. The forest was unnaturally still. And the castle’s lights still burned bright. Clearly, those vermin were hiding inside.
But this castle was well-fortified, its protective wards powerful enough to impress even Palocas. A ranged magical strike might not only fail to breach its defenses, but also alert the prey inside.
In the next instant, Palocas descended like a falling star, landing on the soil before the castle.
Moonlight draped over his black attire like a silver cloak, heightening his noble, mysterious aura.
“….”
The Count gazed upon the castle, his features carved in ice.
Lights glowed from the ground-floor windows. Through the faintly golden curtains, he could even make out moving silhouettes.
As though they were holding a merry feast, blissfully unaware of the wrath they had incurred—or simply dismissing the fury of a blood clan count as something beneath concern.
Soon, clarity flickered in his eyes.
“So, nothing but cheap tricks.”
A mocking laugh escaped his lips, carrying cold disdain into the silence of the night.
The truth was simple: those self-styled clever humans had set a trap, feigning ease to lure him inside. Once he entered, they would throw themselves at him in a desperate charge.
Pathetic. Humans—weak, pitiful creatures—always had a few fools who thought to defy the blood clans.
Their fates never changed: dreams shattered, lives extinguished.
And Palocas loved such humans most of all.
The more they resisted, the sweeter the pleasure of crushing them.
That was the difference between a higher race and mere worms.
He advanced through the night, his shadow stretching long.
His power, Blood Rage, could double his attributes for a short span while granting near-total resistance to control.
It was his unshakable source of pride, the foundation of his fearlessness.
Demons and werewolves by the dozens had perished at his hands. Human corpses? They were too many to count.
Unless an enemy utterly eclipsed his strength, they would always end up the same—ground beneath his heel like insects.
No wit, no cunning stratagem, no strange spell could change that.
Before long, he stood before the great doors of the castle. Without hesitation, he raised a hand and pushed them open.
He was more than willing to indulge these worms who thought to struggle. The harder the shell, the more satisfying the crunch.
The doors thundered open. Light and warmth spilled out. Count Palocas strode inside, his oppressive aura making the very castle tremble.
“So then, where are you hiding, pitiful little things?”
The heavy doors shut slowly behind him, sealing out the cold night.
He stood in the grand cathedral-like hall, his piercing eyes sweeping across the chamber, ready to watch weak, foolish humans throw themselves at him in terror.
But—
What he saw instead made him pause.
The confidence, the mockery in his eyes gave way to something like confusion.
Nothing was as he had imagined.
His gaze was caught by dazzling brilliance above: crystal chandeliers traced with golden filigree glimmered like a sky of stars, casting warm light across every corner of the hall. Stone reliefs on the walls gleamed faintly; the polished white floor reflected streaks of brightness.
At the heart of the hall stood a grand, spacious banquet table. Silver candelabras blazed, their firelight casting dancing shadows, while tall-backed chairs of carved oak lined both sides in perfect order.
And around this table sat men and women, drinking and dining, laughter and conversation echoing as if this were a lavish gala of nobles.
For a fleeting moment, Palocas was reminded of golden nights of revelry, filled with light and song.
But here, the harmony felt… wrong. A grotesque imitation—like the eternal feast of villains in history’s darkest pages.
With his intrusion, the laughter died down. All eyes turned to the Count.
Palocas: “?”
Could it be…
They really were holding a banquet?
Meanwhile, at Ikerite Academy.
The Gerra Memorial Square glowed faintly under the night sky. The clock tower’s hands neared midnight.
And yet the square grew restless once again.
Unlike the daytime’s eager anticipation, now the crowd of returning students before the giant outdoor screen was heavy with dread.
Ever since Frey’s victory over the Saint of Destruction at sunset, Lan Qi had only briefly spoken with the clergy and merchants about “welcoming the Count tonight.” Then, he shut off the Shadow World Recording Program.
It wasn’t until 11 o’clock that Lan Qi reopened the live broadcast.
The students, knowing the final moment was near, returned to watch—even if they knew it was a doomed battle.
And what they saw… was nine people actually holding a banquet.
A banquet. Literally.
“What the hell is Lan Qi thinking?”
“He’s really not going to try anything?”
Shock and disbelief spread among the students.
Up until Palocas truly arrived, some still believed Lan Qi had a hidden plan, that he was preparing for the critical moment.
If—just if—the challengers could endure five days of the Shadow World’s rampage and return alive, it would be nothing short of a miracle.
But to get there, they first had to survive tonight. Then, before the second nightfall, cut timber and rebuild the bridge together. After that, scatter in another deadly game of cat and mouse with the Count for three more days and nights.
That was the single thread of survival left to them, after rooting out the traitor and keeping all members alive.
If another traitor remained, even rebuilding the bridge—let alone fleeing together—would be impossible.
But the absolute prerequisite: surviving tonight.
Four more nights of nightmare awaited beyond.
Maybe falling tonight to the Count would almost be a mercy.
Yet what they saw was Lan Qi, seemingly resigned, hosting one final banquet as though calmly awaiting death.
At the edge of the square, Modan Gasigus stood watching the screen, face calm, until finally a laugh slipped out.
As the marquis’s son, he had once had every chance to possess Huperion, until Lan Qi ruined it—threatening him even with the law.
He still remembered the humiliation of Lan Qi saying, “You admitted it yourself,” turning him into a fool.
Unlike most students, Modan felt only delight now.
“Pathetic fool… finally at the end of your rope, aren’t you?”
He sneered. Let Lan Qi die, and better yet, let that wretched Huperion die with him.
Arrogance always meets ruin.
Against a blood clan Count—a natural disaster incarnate, far beyond humanity—any little tricks were laughable.
Someone would soon be weeping, broken and disgraced, torn apart in agony.
Modan could already picture it.
All he wanted to see now—was how long Lan Qi could last before Count Palocas.
But then—
On the broadcast screen.
At the head of the banquet table, Lan Qi sat, lazily swirling a glass of pale rose-red liquid. A fragrant aroma, wine mixed of fruit and bloom, seemed almost to drift from the screen.
He never raised it to his lips.
Even as Palocas arrived, Lan Qi’s face did not change in the slightest.
He leaned back, weary, detached, as though he had already seen through all the world’s splendor and ruin.
Turning his head slightly, he glanced at the Count out of the corner of his eye.
“Little Pa, you’re here.”