Chapter 383: Summit of Betrayal

The Frostbite Pass was a frozen graveyard of a valley, its jagged cliffs and snow-buried crags serving as a natural border between the Kingdom of Dawn and the Kingdom of Britannia. The wind howled like a dying beast, carrying flurries of ice and snow that obscured the vision of any who dared to cross.

In the center of the pass, a massive, fur-lined pavilion had been erected—a neutral ground for the proposed peace summit. The banners of the Kingdom of Dawn fluttered violently in the wind, their frost-wolf sigils barely visible against the whiteout.

Inside the pavilion, King Bjorn "The Frost-Blooded" sat on a heavy wooden throne, his massive ten-foot frame wrapped in thick furs. The slave rune pulsed faintly beneath the skin of his forehead, invisible to the naked eye.

Hidden within Bjorn’s own shadow, Kael waited. The Shadow Veil wrapped around him like a second skin, erasing his presence entirely.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

The heavy crunch of boots on snow announced the arrival of the Britannian delegation. The tent flap was thrown open, and King Alaric Jones stepped inside.

Alaric was a striking figure—tall, broad-shouldered, with golden hair that fell to his shoulders and piercing blue eyes filled with confidence and ambition. He wore gleaming silver armor, etched with the golden griffin of Britannia, and a heavy fur cloak draped over his shoulders. Behind him stood three of his generals, each radiating the dense aura of Peak Spirit Soul cultivators, and his Right Hand—a slender, masked man.

Alaric’s aura was a suffocating wave of Early Origin Realm pressure. He was two rank above Bjorn in terms of mana cultivation, and he knew it.

"King Bjorn," Alaric greeted, his voice smooth and dripping with false courtesy. He didn’t bow. "I must admit, I was surprised to receive your peace treaty request. After all, your armies are crumbling, your generals are dead, and your kingdom is on the verge of collapse."

Bjorn’s hollow eyes stared back at him. "The war has been... costly for both sides, Alaric. I seek to end the bloodshed."

Alaric chuckled, taking a seat across from Bjorn without being invited. CREAK. "End the bloodshed? Bjorn, we both know why you called this summit. You have no armies left. You have no generals. You are a wounded wolf, and I am the hunter holding the spear."

One of the Britannian generals, a scarred man with a massive warhammer, sneered. "Why are we even negotiating? We should just crush them now."

Alaric raised a hand, silencing his general. His smile remained, but his eyes were cold. "Bjorn, let me be frank with you. The Kingdom of Dawn and the Kingdom of Britannia have always been the weakest among the five kingdoms. The Elves of Elenoir sit in their ancient forests, hoarding their magic. The Vampires of Crimsonia play their shadow games. The Wolves of Fangmoor breed like vermin, their numbers endless. And the Kingdom of Dawn? You have strength, but no unity. We have discipline, but no resources."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But if we were to become one... if Britannia and Dawn were to merge into a single, unified force... we could stand on equal footing with the others. We could even surpass them."

Bjorn’s hollow eyes flickered. "Are you proposing an alliance, Alaric?"

Alaric smiled. "An alliance? No, Bjorn. I am proposing submission. Bend the knee, swear fealty to Britannia, and I will allow you to rule the northern territories as my vassal. Your people will be spared. Your kingdom will survive, under my banner."

The pavilion fell silent.

Bjorn let out a low, rumbling chuckle. "Alaric, you didn’t come here for a peace agreement. You came here to convince me to surrender my kingdom."

"That is the nature of peace, Bjorn," Alaric replied smoothly. "The strong rule, and the weak submit."

Bjorn leaned back on his throne, his massive frame casting a long shadow. "The Kingdom of Dawn will always be independent. We will never bow to a foreign king."

Alaric’s smile vanished. He stood up, his chair scraping against the frozen ground. "Then we have nothing else to talk about."

SHLICK!

A shadow erupted from behind Alaric. Varkos, the hidden assassin, materialized from the darkness, his poisoned daggers aimed directly at the King’s back.

But Alaric’s Right Hand was faster.

CLANG!

The masked man spun, his own blade—a slender, silver rapier—parrying Varkos’s daggers in a shower of sparks. The two assassins locked eyes, their auras clashing.

Alaric didn’t even flinch. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. "So is this how you want to play it, Bjorn?"

Bjorn just chuckled.

BOOM!

A massive blast of dark energy tore through the ceiling of the pavilion, obliterating the canvas and sending debris flying. The shockwave sent the Britannian generals stumbling backward. Alaric raised a hand, a shimmering barrier of golden light absorbing the blast.

When the dust settled, everyone looked up.

Hovering in the sky above the shattered pavilion was the Void Behemoth, its massive, interlocking black plates absorbing the ambient light, its crimson eyes burning with malice. Its purple horn crackled with spatial rule power, distorting the air around it.

And standing on the Behemoth’s back was Kael.

His bloodlines were unsuppressed. His dark hair had turned pure white, and two curved horns jutted from his temples. The Demonic Asura Lotus Flame flickered around him, a halo of purple-black fire.

He looked like a demon god descending upon the mortal world.

Alaric’s eyes widened. He sensed the Behemoth’s aura—Origin Rank 1—and the mysterious figure’s aura, which radiated a terrifying, high-ranking demonic presence. He had only ever seen a demon once in his lifetime, during his time outside Vaelor. That demon had been a low-ranked foot soldier. This one... this one was something else entirely.

He turned back to Bjorn, his expression twisting with disgust. "You would ally with a demon, Bjorn? Have you lost your mind? The other kingdoms will unite against you! The Elves, the Vampires, the Wolves—they will all see you as a traitor to humanity!"

Bjorn just smiled, a cold, knowing expression. "You have no idea, Alaric."

Alaric’s Right Hand leaped to his side, his rapier drawn. But Alaric didn’t panic. He reached into his spatial ring and pulled out a glowing, golden scroll.

A Rank 6 Escape Scroll. A treasure that could teleport him a hundred miles away in an instant. He had spent over ten million credits on it at a black-market auction ten years ago. It was one of his ultimate trump card.

"We will kill them all later," Alaric ordered coldly. "For now, we’re leaving."

He crushed the scroll in his palm.

FWOOSH!

A massive spatial portal, swirling with silver and blue energy, tore open behind him.

Kael’s eyes narrowed. He weaved a series of rapid hand seals. Snap. Snap. Snap.

"I don’t think so."

BZZZZT!

A massive, intricate formation erupted from the ground, expanding outward in a blinding flash of violet light. It covered a four-hundred-meter radius around them—a Rank 6 Spatial Lock Formation.

The core of the formation? The Void Behemoth itself.

The Behemoth’s horn blazed with spatial rule power, its energy surging into the formation. The spatial lock clashed violently with the Escape Scroll’s portal, destabilizing it. The swirling silver and blue energy began to flicker, sparking violently.

"WHAT?!" Alaric roared.

One of his generals, a young man with a spear, panicked and tried to dive through the portal. SHLICK! The destabilized spatial tear sheared through his leg like a blade of pure energy.

"AHHHHHHH!" The general screamed, collapsing to the ground, his leg severed at the knee, blood spraying across the snow.

Alaric stared in absolute horror at the flickering, unstable portal.

Kael smiled, his demonic aura flaring. "Now, Alaric. Let’s talk about that submission you mentioned."