Chapter 20: Red Angel

The grand dining hall had cleared out only minutes prior, and Craig was the first to excuse himself, heading straight toward his private quarters in the western wing of the Crimson Castle.

The heavy double doors swung open with a soft, smooth friction.

It was his first time stepping foot inside this main bedchamber since he had been dispatched to govern the frontier five years ago as a ten-year-old boy.

A quiet, unexpected wave of emotion washed over him as he stepped across the threshold.

Everything inside was luxurious, completely dusted and maintained down to the exact position of the dark mahogany furnishings, just as he had left it.

Craig walked slowly into the center of the spacious room until his golden eyes caught a familiar frame hanging upon the stone wall.

It was a grand oil painting of a gentle, radiant woman with dark, flowing locks—his mother.

Craig had been only five years old when she passed away.

His memories of her voice and touch had faded into faint, hazy fragments, but her warm smile remained burnt into his mind.

Among all seven direct successor candidates of the Duke, Craig had always been treated with the greatest neglect and underlying disdain by the elders and his half-siblings.

His mother had not been a high noblewoman or the daughter of a powerful vassal house like the wives married to the Duke.

She had been a mere commoner—a shopkeeper from the lower avenues of the capital whom Oscar had taken as a concubine.

Because of her humble origins, Craig had grown up without a powerful maternal faction backing his claim, forced to navigate the lethal political waters of the Ducal House entirely on his own.

Craig reached out his gloved hand, gently pressing his fingertips against the edge of the canvas, caressing the painted portrait with quiet tenderness.

"Mother..." he whispered softly into the empty room.

A faint, bitter smile touched his lips as warm, forgotten childhood memories flickered through his mind.

He remembered the quiet promise he had made to her grave before leaving for Lucerion—that he would protect this family, bring honor to her name, and ascend the Duchy’s throne.

But now things were different.

He must protect the Western Continent as well.

Yet, as he stared into her painted eyes, a dark weight settled in his chest.

He wondered if her gentle soul would ever truly forgive him for the monstrous path he was about to walk.

The methods he was forced to deploy in this second life.

Devouring the raw flesh of abominations to ease his hunger, deceiving his kin, and mercilessly orchestrating the downfall of his enemies—were violent, bloody, and unforgivable.

’But these are burdens that only I can carry,’ Craig thought, his expression growing cold and unyielding.

He was the only one who had regressed.

He was the only mortal on this continent who knew the absolute horror, pain, and extinction waiting twenty-five years down the line.

If he had to become a demon in human skin to save this world from total annihilation, so be it.

Craig turned away from the portrait and walked over to the wide arched windows, stepping out onto the stone balcony.

Below him, the staggering expanse of the City of Dragons stretched into the horizon, glowing with millions of magical lanterns under the pitch-black sky.

He heaved a long, solemn sigh, resting his palms on the marble balustrade.

"To think this glorious, timeless city will be reduced to a pile of burning ash and slaughter in twenty-five years..."

Craig pulled his hands back, tightening his fingers into a crushing fist until his knuckles turned white.

He would break the cycle.

He would find a way to crush the second coming of the Apocalypse, no matter how many bodies he had to step over to reach the apex of power.

And to do that, his absolute priority was to secure his position within the Darkstar family structure.

Tomorrow morning’s Dragon’s Calling ritual in the ancient volcanic temple was his definitive starting line.

He had to succeed, force the elders to recognize his dominance, and tame a beast that would shake the entire Western Continent.

Failure was not an option.

***

Back to the grand dining hall.

The long mahogany table had been cleared of silver platters and half-eaten delicacies.

The bustling servants and noisy vassal representatives had long vacated the room, leaving only a single figure remaining at the absolute head of the long table.

Patriarch Oscar von Darkstar sat alone in his obsidian throne.

He had just finished his wine, casually wiping his lips with a fine linen napkin before tossing it onto the table.

"What do you think of my seventh son?" Oscar asked smoothly into the quiet, dim lighting of the empty hall.

SHRRRR!

The second the question left the Patriarch’s lips, the long shadow cast by a stone pillar near the entrance rippled like water.

A tall, slender figure emerged seamlessly from the darkness, dropping onto one knee ten paces away with his head bowed in absolute reverence.

The figure was clad in a tight, midnight-black suit, his entire head concealed behind a blank, featureless silver mask that contained no eye slits or breathing holes.

The Director of the most mysterious shadow organization of the Ducal House.

CODENAME: RED ANGEL

Just because the Darkstar Family represents the Swordmanship realm doesn’t mean they’re against the existence of magics.

They’re the representation of Darkstar’s versatility.

A shadow organization comprising of only dark mages and a few elite knights.

They’re the Duke’s shadow.

"My Lord Patriarch," the masked figure spoke, his voice unnaturally distorted by magic.

"The Seventh Young Master is... an absolute anomaly. In all my decades of monitoring the bloodlines, I have never witnessed such an occurrence."

The shadow paused, adjusting his posture slightly. "A direct descendant of the Darkstar family awakening his mana core before setting foot inside the Temple of Dragons?

Given the century-old ancestral restriction placed upon our bloodline, such a feat should be physically impossible. It is definitive proof that Young Master Craig possesses an extraordinary, latent structure."

Oscar leaned back into his throne, a subtle, intriguing smile curling the corners of his handsome lips.

He slowly stood up, stepping down from the raised platform, his dark golden eyes locking onto his shadow.

"And how do you reckon he will fair against his older siblings when the Succession War officially commences?" Oscar asked, his tone carrying a light, dangerous curiosity.

The masked shadow raised a single gloved finger, answering without a moment’s hesitation.

"As matters stand right now, My Lord... the Seventh Young Master possesses a survival probability of less than one percent."

The masked shadow continued flatly, "The top three successor candidates—your eldest sons and daughter—are genuine monsters in their own right.

They have spent the last five years consolidating massive military backing, securing vassal alliances, and cultivating high-grade sword techniques.

The moment the Succession War is declared, they will spare no effort in ruthlessly crushing Young Master Craig before he can build a proper faction."

"Is that so?" Oscar chuckled softly.

"Yes" The masked shadow lowered his hand, his masked face tilted toward the floor.

"Until he proves his raw worth and tames a top-tier dragon during tomorrow’s Dragon’s Calling ceremony, the Seventh Young Master possesses virtually no political leverage."

"I see..." Oscar grinned, a dark, dangerous glint flashing across his golden eyes.

He reached down to the table, picking up his golden goblet, and took a slow, deliberate sip of the dark vintage wine, letting the smooth liquid settle on his tongue.

"Deploy your shadow unit to the frontier immediately," Oscar commanded coldly, his voice echoing with absolute authority.

"Investigate every single event, encounter, and anomaly that occurred within the Lucerion Barony over the five years my seventh son governed it.

I want a full report on how he truly broke his limits."