EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC57: Lyria City IV
Chapter 57: Lyria City IV
Sylens remained where he stood long after the body had been covered.
The cold had settled in his bones, not from the night air, but from the hollow space his brother's absence left behind.
By dawn, the inn was empty—save for him, the corpse, and the jagged blood-script that mocked him from the floorboards. He didn't clean it. He wanted it there. A reminder. A wound that would not close.
When the sun finally rose over Lyra City, the Mortal Fang moved in silence. No drunken swagger. No careless laughter. The city's underworld knew when its wolves were mourning.
The funeral was swift, brutal in its simplicity. A pyre was raised in the Fang's courtyard, and his brother's body—wrapped in black cloth—was placed upon it. No priest, no incense, no blessings from the gods. The Fang prayed only to vengeance.
Sylens stood at the head of the gathering, the fire's glow painting his scarred face in shifting shades of gold and blood-red. He said nothing until the flames began to take hold, the first crackle of burning cloth breaking the silence.
"When the fire dies," he said at last, his voice rough and low, "the game begins."
His men didn't shout. They didn't cheer. They simply bowed their heads—each one understanding that the true mourning would not be done in tears... but in blood.
The flames devoured the body, and when only blackened bone and curling ash remained, Sylens turned on his heel and walked away. The pyre smoldered behind him like the eye of some ancient god, watching, waiting.
Somewhere in the streets beyond, a soft breeze carried the faintest trace of a woman's perfume—Aria's, though he didn't yet know it.
And in the shadows, unseen, Fenric was already counting the moves ahead.
Next Day
Sylens didn't bother with formalities when he entered the lord's chamber.He kicked the door shut behind him, the echo snapping through the marble hall like a whip.
Fenric looked up from the map he'd been studying, a faint smile touching his lips. "What's the matter, Sylens? You look like the city just spat in your drink."
"My bed," Sylens growled, jabbing a finger at the floor as if the entire city were beneath it, "just bled last night. My brother's ashes are still warm. And you—" he leaned forward over the desk, "—you take the seat as city lord and let this happen? You...When will you arrest the bastard who killed my innocent brother?"
Fenric didn't flinch. If anything, his expression softened—dangerously."You mean the man who raped a twelve-year-old girl before killing her?" His words were calm, but the weight behind them pressed like a blade to the throat.
Sylens froze for a fraction of a second. "...You knew?"
"I did," Fenric said. "And I had him dealt with." He leaned back in his chair, voice dropping to something almost conversational. "Three hours of work. Every scream earned. By the end, he begged for death."
Sylens' jaw tightened. "Who gave the order?"
"I did," Fenric replied, unblinking. "And I even specifically ordered for him to get tortured before he dies."
A tense silence hung between them. Sylens' hands curled into fists at his sides, torn between grudging caution and simmering fury.
Fenric leaned forward, folding his hands, his voice as cold as the steel on his desk.
"If not for your reputation in this city, I would have wiped you out long ago."
Sylens' eyes narrowed.
"Last night, your dogs came running and used my name."
"I am not some street gang lord," Fenric said flatly. "Nor am I one of those punks your mercenaries deal with. If you want to work in my city, act like an asset... or be erased like a problem."
He let the words hang before adding, "I am not like the last city lord—the one you killed—and called it an accident. And the Vice City Lord? The rat you planted in my office? Vorn, wasn't it? Now he's lying in a ditch outside the walls. And before you ask—yes, I killed him too."
Sylens' jaw clenched.
"And keep it mind from now on," Fenric continued, his voice calm but cutting, "keep up the good work. Because if I so much as smell a hint of your hand in any crime against me or the City... I will kill you myself." He smiled faintly, almost casually, as Sylens stared at him in silence.
The earlier image Sylens had of Fenric—a gullible, easy-to-manipulate prince—was gone. Before him now stood a cold-hearted predator, one who killed as casually as buying spices from the market.
"Why didn't you act earlier?" Sylens asked.
Fenric's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"The best way to show someone's true face," he said evenly, "is to first act like an ignorant one."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make Sylens strain to catch the words.
"Sooner or later, they will reveal themselves. And when they do... you simply ensure that you are the one holding the knife—never the one ignorant enough to stand in front of it."
Fenric reclined back in his chair as though the conversation had been about nothing more consequential than the weather. At that moment, the door opened and Aria stepped in, her presence slicing into the tension like a drawn blade.
"Aria," Fenric said, his voice calm but edged, "you're here. Did you deliver the message I gave you?"
She glanced at Sylens briefly, then nodded. "Yes... I did exactly as you asked."
Aria's storage ring flashed, and in a burst of light nine severed heads tumbled into the air between them. The sight was so sudden and grotesque that Sylens froze for half a heartbeat—just long enough to register the faces.
Before she could stow them back, he was already in motion. His long sword gleamed crimson under the lamplight as it swept toward her neck. His mercenary squad was nowhere to be seen; in this moment, it was just him and her.
But the blade never reached its mark.
A second edge, faster and sharper, intercepted his strike in midair. The cut traveled with fluid precision—too clean, too quick—and Sylens only realized what had happened when warmth blossomed across his throat.
Aria stood behind him now, her own sword drawn, the steel still humming from the strike.
"I told you," Fenric said softly, "any more scent of crime, and I will kill you."
It was the last thing Sylens heard before the world tilted and his body crumpled to the floor.
Aria exhaled, letting the illusion fade. The severed heads vanished—nothing but phantom bait, a conjured trick to draw him out. She stepped over his body, murmuring to herself.
"Now I wonder how he managed to dispose of the last city lord when he fell for a cheap stunt like that."
Aria sheathed her sword, her movements unnervingly composed, even as crimson spread in a slow pool beneath her boots. The severed heads she had shown were never real—mere illusions, crafted to provoke him into striking first. He had taken the bait, and she had simply returned the blow.
"The last city lord was a greedy fool—nothing more," Fenric said as he rang the bell on his desk. His voice was calm, almost detached.
Two maids entered moments later, their steps quiet but purposeful.
"Dispose of the body," Fenric instructed, leaning back in his chair. "Mount his head above the gate. Let it be known this is the fate of anyone who dares to raise a blade against the city lord in his own office."
The maids' expressions didn't so much as twitch. They bowed, seized the corpse with practiced efficiency, and dragged it away to fulfill his order without a word.
By midday, the gates of Lyria City bore a new and grisly adornment.
The mercenary captain's head sat high upon an iron spike, its fresh blood still dripping down the weathered stone.
The moment it appeared, foot traffic slowed to a crawl. People lingered in uneasy clusters, casting furtive glances toward the gate before whispering behind cupped hands.
"They say it's Sylens," a fruit seller murmured to a passing guard.
"It is," the guard said flatly. "His Highness ordered it himself."
"What did Sylens do?" a boy asked, craning his neck to see.
"Challenged the city lord... in his own office," the guard replied, spitting to the side. "Didn't end well."
"That can't be it," another voice cut in from the crowd. "Sylens has been running half the underground for years. He must've crossed a bigger line."
A washerwoman leaned in, speaking low. "I heard he threatened to take the city for himself."
"And now his head's at the gate," a baker said grimly. "This new city lord... he doesn't hesitate, does he?"
A man in a tattered cloak gave a humorless chuckle. "Hesitate? He's more brutal than the last three combined. I thought the Vareldis princes were pampered silk-robed types, but this one—" He pointed at the spike. "—he sends messages in blood."
Merchants tightened their grips on coin purses. Drunks kept their voices low. Thieves who once mocked the new lord now kept their eyes on the cobblestones, speaking his name only in hushed tones.
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC58: Lyria City V
Chapter 58: Lyria City V
By sundown, the story had reached every corner of Lyria. From the perfume-soaked parlors of the aristocracy to the damp cellars where the city's rats in human skin played at cards, the message was the same—Fenric Vareldis did not bluff.
In the taverns, the usual raucous music played softer. Even the bards chose their ballads carefully, replacing tales of scandal with safe, predictable legends of long-dead heroes. No one wanted their tongue to be the next trophy on the city gates.
Fenric, meanwhile, had not left his office since the execution. The scent of ink and old parchment clung to the air, mingling faintly with the metallic tang that still seemed to follow him after every killing. A dozen maps lay spread across his desk—some political, others far more personal. Lines of movement, supply routes, names circled in red.
Aria stood at the window, watching as a patrol marched past the courtyard below. "The underground's quiet," she said. "Too quiet."
Fenric didn't look up. "Fear is silence, and silence is fertile ground. The roots are growing."
She turned toward him, one brow arched. "Roots of what?"
"Order," Fenric replied simply. "The kind you can't buy with coin or command with rank. The kind that grows because people are too afraid to do otherwise."
There was a knock at the door. A young clerk stepped in, pale and nervous, holding a sealed letter. "Your Highness... this came from the palace. Urgent."
Fenric took it without ceremony, breaking the wax seal in one motion. His eyes scanned the page, the faintest curl of amusement ghosting across his lips.
"Bad news?" Aria asked.
"Not for us," he said, folding the letter neatly. "The capital thinks Lyria is a problem child. They're sending someone to... 'assist' me in administration."
Aria's gaze sharpened. "An overseer?"
"A viper," Fenric corrected, his tone almost bored. "And like all vipers, it thinks itself the only one with fangs."
Outside, the wind picked up, carrying with it the distant toll of the city's bells. Somewhere in the alleys, men who had once called themselves kings of the night now hid their faces. And beyond the walls, unseen by all, a dust-covered rider was approaching—bearing tidings that would change the city again before the week was done.
Fenric leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, his gaze distant but calculating.
"It's probably the Dark Empress's ploy," he said at last. "She thinks I'm consolidating too much power here—so she sends someone to 'oversee' me. In truth, to make sure I don't bring the city to order."
Aria's eyes narrowed. "If the man was sent by her, wouldn't that mean he might try to kill you?"
Fenric's nod was almost imperceptible. "That's exactly what he'll try. Most likely."
She tilted her head. "Then you'll have to kill him first."
"Of course," Fenric said evenly. "Though... if she sent one of her own blood to do it, she'll have a problem. If he dies without a proper reason, the rest of her family will be the first to call for her head. And she knows it."
His tone carried no bravado—just the cold certainty of a man who had already begun planning exactly how the pieces would fall.
***
The next morning broke under a sky the color of tarnished silver—heavy clouds rolling low, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
The palace rider arrived at the northern gate just after sunrise, his black stallion lathered in sweat, the imperial crest on his cloak drawing stares from soldiers and citizens alike. Word traveled faster than hoofbeats; by the time he reached the lord's manor, half of Lyria already knew an envoy had come from the capital.
Fenric was still at his desk when the doors to the audience hall swung wide. The man who entered was tall, lean, and dressed in the deep crimson of the Imperial Court Guard—a color reserved for those who served directly under the royal family. His hair was black and sharp as ink strokes, his expression unreadable.
"Your Highness Fenric Vareldis," the envoy said, voice smooth but carrying a subtle weight. "I am Lord Kareth Vion, here by decree of the Empress to assist in the governance of Lyria."
Aria stood to the side, her hand resting loosely on the hilt of her sword, eyes flicking between the two men.
Fenric rose slowly, deliberately, as if testing how much silence the envoy could tolerate before speaking. "Assist," he repeated, his tone mild. "That's an interesting word."
Kareth's smile was the kind that never reached the eyes. "In troubled cities, the line between governance and rebellion can blur. My presence ensures it does not."
"That's a polite way of saying 'watchdog,'" Fenric said, stepping down from the dais. "And we both know what watchdogs do when they think they've found a wolf."
Aria spoke up then, her voice cool. "Sometimes they bite first... and end up swallowing a blade for their trouble."
Kareth's gaze slid toward her, unflinching, before returning to Fenric. "The Empress hopes you will... value my counsel. It would be unwise not to."
Fenric's smile was slow, dangerous. "And I hope you'll value my hospitality. It would be unwise not to."
The air between them felt like a drawn bowstring—taut, humming, one wrong word away from release.
From somewhere deep in the manor, a bell tolled, announcing the hour. Fenric gestured toward the long table at the side of the hall. "Come. We'll dine. In Lyria, we prefer to feed our guests before we decide whether to kill them."
Kareth's lips twitched, just barely, before he followed.
The dining hall of the manor was all polished marble and shadowed alcoves, the flicker of torchlight casting gold over silverware and cold steel alike. A long table stretched between them, set with roasted game, black bread, and a decanter of deep red wine that caught the firelight like liquid garnet.
Fenric sat at the head, Aria just to his right. Lord Kareth took the seat opposite her, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips as though he already knew the game being played.
Servants moved like ghosts, silent and precise, laying dishes without meeting anyone's eyes. The air smelled faintly of rosemary and charred meat, but underneath it was the sharper, metallic scent of weapons close at hand.
Fenric raised his glass. "To Lyria—may it prosper in times of... transition."
Kareth's glass touched his with a soft chime. "And to those strong enough to lead it." He took a sip, eyes never leaving Fenric's.
The first half of the meal was courteous enough—safe topics, brief nods to the capital's politics, small observations about the state of the city. But each sentence was a blade wrapped in silk.
"I've noticed," Kareth said casually, "that the streets here are... quieter than they were under your predecessor. Almost as if fear has taken root."
"Fear," Fenric replied, cutting into his meat, "is the best fertilizer for order. The trick is knowing when to prune."
Kareth's smile was faint, his fork unmoving. "And when the gardener becomes too ambitious?"
"Then you replace the gardener," Fenric said, not looking up. "Or bury him under his own soil."
Aria sipped her wine, her gaze flicking between them like a duelist watching two masters circle.
When the plates were cleared, Fenric leaned back. "You've come a long way, Lord Kareth. Rest tonight. Tomorrow, I'll show you how Lyria truly works."
Kareth rose smoothly, bowing his head just enough to honor the etiquette—but not enough to suggest deference. "I look forward to it."
He left with a measured stride, his red cloak trailing behind him like spilled blood.
"He's not going to sleep," Aria said.
Fenric nodded. "No. Everyone knows how cold-blooded and cold-headed I am. He'll be out there tonight, digging for anything—evidence he can twist into a case that I'm unfit to rule. Something he can use to force me back to the palace."
Aria chuckled softly. "I doubt he'll find anything... or rather, he might just be astounded by how far the crime rate has taken a deep dive since you took over."
"Hm," Fenric mused. "Not many are foolish enough to aim at me anymore. I am, after all, the prince of the strongest empire on the continent—the Vareldis Empire. They might have the nerve to test me, but not to scare me. They know the weight my name carries... the shadow of Vareldis itself."
By the day after Sylens's head was mounted on the gate, the truth spoke for itself—those who had once dreamed of becoming criminal lords, those who had harbored ambitions over Lyria, had either fled the city entirely or buried those ambitions so deep they would never dare dig them back up.
"Besides," Fenric said, his tone almost casual, "no one can harm me unless it's another prince or princess. The Imperial Court grants us total freedom to fight amongst ourselves—but if anyone outside dares to interfere, their end is... very brutal."
Aria cocked her head, unable to resist asking, "Then what about the Dark Empress poisoning you when you were just a baby? Why wasn't she stopped for that?"
"It was... a kind of test," Fenric replied, his eyes narrowing slightly. "To see if I was even worthy of being considered part of the real game. When I was weak—when I posed no threat—no one cared. I wasn't fit to be a contender for the next throne."
His faint smile carried no warmth, only a cold certainty. "But now... now that I'm healed, I'm eligible to enter the race. And that means I'm entitled to every privilege the others enjoy."
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC59: Kareth Investigation
Chapter 59: Kareth Investigation
Fenric's gaze sharpened, the faint smile never quite reaching his eyes. "And with all the privileges," he added, "come all the dangers. Every shadow hides a blade. Every courtesy hides a trap. The Dark Empress knows this... and so does her pet viper."
He rose, crossing to the window where the rain-specked glass reflected both him and the city below. "Kareth will already be moving. He's not here to 'assist.' He's here to sift through my streets like a scavenger—searching for something, anything, that can be tied to a third prince's mission. That's the proof he needs to brand me unfit."
Far below, under the slate-grey sky, Kareth stood atop the roof of an old stone granary, his crimson cloak snapping in the wind. From there, the sprawl of Lyria unfolded before him—market stalls clustered like barnacles, crooked alleys twisting into shadow, the spires of the old temples stabbing upward like accusations.
He yawned once, more out of habit than fatigue, then stepped lightly along the ridge tiles until he reached the edge. His gaze moved over the streets like a hawk's. The common folk went about their business, carts rattling over cobblestone, vendors calling prices. No panic. No tension.
The rumors had promised a city trembling under the heel of a cold-blooded prince. What Kareth saw instead were smiles. Greetings exchanged in passing. Children darting between stalls, laughing.
He crouched, one gloved hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Strange, he thought. Fear leaves a different mark than this.
And that—he knew—was its own kind of danger.
He stayed tucked into the deeper dark of the alley's mouth, just another shadow among many. The damp air clung to him, carrying the low rumble of voices farther than the speakers likely intended.
"...told you, the prince doesn't play games," the foreman muttered. "Two nights ago, Old Jerrik tried skimming the grain tax. Now there's a spike in the square with—"
A quick shushing from the wiry man cut him off. "Careful. You never know who's listening."
The younger one chuckled nervously. "If he's got ears everywhere, maybe we should just stop talking about him."
They shifted the conversation toward mundane port gossip—cargo weights, missing crates, a fight on Pier Six—but Kareth had already caught what he needed. He eased back into the narrow lane, boots making no more noise than the drizzle slipping from the eaves above.
He didn't bother with the patrol routes tonight. Instead, he threaded his way toward the kind of tavern that reeked of cheap ale and cheaper caution.
Inside, the hum of conversation was thick with rumor.A barmaid poured a mug for a merchant who was whispering to his companion about "the prince who made the City Guard his own."Two dice-players grumbled about new curfew fines.At the far end of the counter, a toothless old man swore up and down he'd seen the prince walking the docks without an escort, "just to see who'd look him in the eye."
Kareth listened.He never interrupted.He just let the city speak to him in fragments—fear wrapped in respect, respect tinged with uncertainty.
By the time Kareth slipped back into the rain-washed streets, he knew one thing for certain.
"It's different from the rumors in the capital," he muttered under his breath. "There, everyone talks about Lyria like it's under the Third Prince's iron grip. But here..." His gaze lingered on the warm glow of an inn's window, where laughter spilled out into the street. "...here, they respect him."
The realization made his task heavier. He wasn't a citizen, not even a neutral party—he was a man from the Dark Empress's faction. His only goal in coming to Lyria had been to dig up something... unpleasant about the prince. A weakness, a scandal, anything he could carry back.
Yet after days of listening in taverns, alleys, and market stalls, he hadn't uncovered a single damning secret. No whispers of tyranny. No evidence of corruption. Only the unshakable livelihood of the people and a city that seemed... alive.
It was infuriating.
And, though he'd never admit it aloud, just a little unsettling.
In the weeks that followed, life in Lyria settled into a rhythm that was almost... comfortable. For Fenric, mornings often began in the palace courtyard, the crisp scent of rain lingering from the night before. The city lord's residence—once little more than a crumbling relic—now bustled with disciplined guards, attentive stewards, and the hum of purposeful work.
Word of his reforms had traveled far. Trade routes that were half-dead before now thrived, the flow of caravans doubling, then tripling in just three short months. New faces arrived in the markets every day—merchants from the East, scholars from the South, even mercenaries looking for honest pay.
The people noticed. The city noticed. And though Fenric carried himself with the same quiet, calculating air, there was an undercurrent in the streets now—a sense that Lyria was no longer just another provincial outpost.
Kareth noticed too. He'd taken on the false name "Kein," posing as a minor scribe for the city records office. Each day, he wove himself deeper into the local gossip, hoping to catch even a scrap of dirt that could be twisted into a weapon against Fenric. But it was maddening. There was nothing. No illicit dealings, no bribery, no whispers of cruelty. Even when he tried to fabricate something, the threads fell apart under the weight of the people's loyalty.
He needed evidence. Real, hard evidence. And so far, Lyria had given him nothing but frustration.
Meanwhile, Fenric's cultivation advanced with startling speed. His daily sessions in the secluded garden—equal parts meditation and sparring—pushed him to the Fifth Stage of the Low Master Realm, each breakthrough steady and earned. Aria, too, refused to be left behind; she had surged to the Sixth Stage of the High Master Realm, her progress fueled by a competitiveness she barely tried to hide.
It was a day like any other—until a breathless runner came skidding into the courtyard.
"Lord Fenric, we have an urgent situation," the young man panted, rainwater dripping from his cloak.
Fenric wiped his sweat as he asked, one brow raised. "What is it?"
"The grain caravan from the west... it was attacked by bandits!"
Aria, who had been leaning against the wall, straightened instantly. "Bandits? I thought we cleared out their nest weeks ago. Where did this lot come from?"
"We don't know," the runner admitted, voice trembling. "But one of the guards who survived said the leader—he was unlike any man he'd ever seen. Spoke of him as if... blessed by something unnatural."
Fenric's gaze sharpened. "And the rest of the guards?"
The runner hesitated. "...All dead. Only the man who spoke to us survived. He's resting now, but in bad shape."
Aria exchanged a look with Fenric. In this city, so much had changed in three months—the people had begun to trust him, life was improving, and even the Bandits were killed long ago to keep the routes safe.
So, where this new bandits came from?
"Well, go and see to this, Aria—and watch from a distance. It smells like a trap to me," Fenric said.
She gave a sharp nod and was gone in the next heartbeat, vanishing down the corridor like a gust of wind.
Fenric turned to the waiting servant. "Take me to the guard."
The servant bowed and led him swiftly through the keep, their footsteps echoing off the stone halls until they entered the infirmary.
The air smelled faintly of herbs and iron.
On the bed lay the survivor—a man pale from blood loss, his left hand gone entirely, the stump wrapped in thick linen. His head was bound with another bandage, and bruises darkened the skin around his eyes.
Fenric stood at the bedside for a moment, studying him in silence before finally speaking.
Fenric pulled a chair closer and sat, his silver-white hair catching the dim light.
"Tell me," he said quietly, "what happened?"
The guard stirred, his breath uneven, and opened his eyes with visible effort.
"We were... escorting the grain caravan, my lord," he rasped. "Everything was quiet—too quiet—until they came out of the trees. At first, I thought it was just another gang of road scum. But..." His eyes unfocused for a moment, as if replaying it. "They moved like soldiers. Not starving thieves—trained."
Fenric's gaze sharpened. "And this 'man in red' the messenger spoke of?"
The guard swallowed. "Aye... him. Wore a crimson coat, like some noble's son gone wrong. Carried no sword, no bow. Just walked toward us... and then—" His hand trembled against the blanket. "My shield shattered. I didn't even see what struck it. Men fell without him lifting a weapon. Like... like the air itself obeyed him."
Fenric leaned back slightly, weighing every word. "And the others? How many survived?"
The guard's eyes dimmed. "Only me, my lord. The rest... they never got back up."
Fenric's gaze narrowed. "Then why did he leave you alive?"
The question struck like a hammer. The man froze, lips parting but no words forming.
Then—shhk!
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC60: Baron Laxin
Chapter 60: Baron Laxin
Then—shhk!
A pale, whitish-blue rapier manifested in Fenric's hand, faster than most could blink. He lunged, aiming straight for the impostor's throat.
But the impostor was just as quick. He jumped back, narrowly avoiding the thrust, and drew a crimson-red sword, meeting Fenric's next strike head-on.
Shannng!
Steel screamed against steel, the clash echoing down the corridor. The earlier servant—eyes wide—turned and bolted to call for reinforcements.
"Well... looks like you figured it out," the man drawled, his voice no longer weak but cold and sharp.
Fenric's eyes hardened. "An impostor, from the very start."
The false guard's grin widened. "Smart boy. But not smart enough to walk out of here alive."
Suddenly, from his empty left sleeve, something began to form—an eerie black hand, twisted and clawed. The moment Fenric saw it, recognition hit him like a hammer.
The name rang like a funeral bell in Fenric's mind.
The Death Hand Bandit.
Laxin—the son of a disgraced noble.
Years ago, during a vicious feud between noble houses, Laxin's family had been annihilated. At the time, he was only twelve, the sole survivor—though not without scars. Nine years later, when he returned to his homeland, he found the ruins of his family estate... and learned the truth: his mother and younger sister had been reduced to servants in another noble's household, eventually dying from relentless abuse. His father had been executed in public.
On that day, Laxin painted the earth red. He slaughtered every member of the noble house responsible. Not even servants were spared from his anger.
And the reason for his monstrous strength?
Nine years prior, when he suddenly vanished, when everyone—including his own family—believed him dead, he had stumbled upon an Ancient Legacy. There, in a hidden domain, he inherited the power of the Death Supreme—a legendary dragon of the Dragon Race, sovereign of the Death Element. The Death Supreme was feared across the annals of history, ranked second only to the Dragon Supreme himself—a position so revered that none dared dispute it.
The Death Supreme's legacy was infamous. It could bind life... and snuff it out with a mere touch. Laxin had trained in that deadly art for over nine years, all while unaware that the family he sought to protect had already been tortured to death.
In the original book, he was notorious—not just for his mastery over death, but for being the sole necromancer in the entire story world. He alone could command multiple high-ranking undead, even the Abyssal Lords—physical monstrosities at the peak of undead might—and the Death Overlords, lich-like beings wielding catastrophic magic.
In one arc, even Empress Balina herself had been forced to expend enormous resources and her whole family just to drive him back. That was the level of power the Death Supreme's legacy bestowed: complete dominion over death and its manipulation.
But now...
Why was he here? And why was he after Fenric?
Fenric's gaze sharpened. "Can I ask who sent you?"
Laxin's lips curled into a smirk. "Do you think just anyone can command me?"
He stepped forward—his very presence pressing down like a suffocating fog. The pressure was palpable, the kind that came only from a Grandmaster-rank powerhouse.
Fenric's grip on his rapier tightened. This was no bluff—this man could kill him if he was careless. But Fenric was not about to step back.
"I don't think I have any feud with you," Fenric said evenly, eyes locked on Laxin's every movement.
The young man—barely nineteen, with dark green hair and stormy grey eyes—studied him in silence for a heartbeat before speaking.
"Hmm... you're Fenric Vaelthorn Vareldis, aren't you?"
Fenric inclined his head, his silver-white hair catching the faint light. "That is my name. Third Prince of the Vareldis Empire."
A dangerous glint lit Laxin's eyes."Then my business here is very much with you."
There was no further warning.
One moment, Laxin stood still. The next, he blurred forward, a streak of killing intent wrapped in black and crimson. His sword—a wicked blade dyed the hue of fresh blood—cut through the air with a scream that seemed to echo from the underworld itself.
Clang!
Fenric's arm moved on instinct, his own weapon flashing up to intercept. Steel met steel, sparks scattering like shattered moonlight. The impact rattled his bones, but the Mystic Moon Rapier—an ethereal Spirit Armament born from his pact with Lunaris—held firm. Its slender silver blade hummed faintly, threads of moonlight weaving along its edge, answering the call of its master.
The two locked weapons for half a heartbeat. Laxin's gaze burned with cold murder; Fenric's narrowed with steely resolve.
Then came the force—raw, crushing, unnatural. It wasn't simply physical strength; the weight of death itself pressed down, seeking to crush his will as much as his body.
Fenric slid back three paces, boots gouging shallow trenches in the dirt.Laxin followed without pause, his crimson blade carving arcs of lethal precision.
Fenric's rapier danced to meet each strike, moonlight clashing against the bloody haze. He could feel it now—each swing from Laxin didn't just threaten to wound his body, but to tear away his life-force entirely.
"Death... essence," Fenric muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. "He's not holding back."
Laxin's lips curved into a faint smirk, the kind one gives before executing a sentence already passed."Good. You recognize it. Then you understand... you can't win."
And with that, his next swing wasn't aimed to test—it was meant to kill.
Fenric's rapier blurred, tracing lines of silver through the air, but even so—he couldn't keep up completely. Laxin's strikes were faster, heavier, and each carried the crushing weight of a man four whole realms above him.
No matter how much his body had been tempered... no matter the strength he had gained from Lunaris's blessing... such a gap couldn't be bridged through willpower alone.
Steel rang out in rapid succession. Clang—clang—claaang!A shallow cut bloomed along his left shoulder. Another grazed his ribs. His breath came short—not from fear, but from the sheer oppressive tempo of the fight.
Laxin didn't miss it."You can't keep this up," he said coldly, his crimson blade knocking Fenric's guard wide for a heartbeat. "Why cling to this farce? Why risk yourself for a cause you cannot win?"
Fenric slid back, his rapier's tip lowering only slightly. "And why," he countered, voice steady despite the blood at the corner of his mouth, "does a man who wields the might of a Grandmaster lower himself to slaughtering the weak?"
For the briefest instant, Laxin's expression tightened—then the cold smirk returned."You wouldn't understand."
Fenric's mind raced. He needed Lunaris to return now. Magic alone could only hold Laxin's aura at bay for so long. The death essence gnawed at the edges of his defenses, seeping into his body like frostbite.
If this dragged on, it wouldn't just be a matter of losing the duel—he'd lose the ability to stand.
Still... he refused to lower his blade.
Laxin's next step forward felt like a guillotine falling."I will find out," Fenric murmured under his breath, eyes locking with his foe's. "And when I do, I'll make sure you regret every swing of that sword."
Fenric's grip tightened on his rapier. Silver light began to ripple along the blade, not just from human-crafted mana but from something deeper—older. His human magic wove itself seamlessly with the guttural resonance of Dragon Tongue spells, each syllable vibrating in the air like a heartbeat from the age of legends.
"Luxa Seln. Raen Drath!"A blazing arc of fire and light shot from his rapier's tip, cleaving through the lingering haze of death essence. The blast tore a trench in the floor between them, forcing Laxin to halt his advance.
Laxin's eyes narrowed. "So... you also carry a dragon's blessing."The air around him warped—thickening, darkening—as his own power surged forth. It wasn't the pure elemental resonance of Fenric's blessing. This was twisted, heavy, drenched in something older than rot.
Black and crimson magic roiled around his frame, etched with runes that seemed to burn and decay at the same time."But what I have," Laxin said, his voice a guttural growl that seemed to echo from two throats at once, "is stronger than anything you possess."
He thrust his hand forward. Death magic erupted like a storm, a tide of spectral claws and screaming shadows racing toward Fenric.
Fenric didn't retreat. He stabbed his rapier into the ground, channeling both human incantations and the guttural command words of the dragons. Mana surged through the floor, erupting in silver-gold pillars that burned through the wave of shadows.
The air itself began to tremble. Steel and magic were now secondary—the duel had shifted into a clash of raw, supernatural dominance.
Laxin swept his sword aside, dissolving it into a blade of condensed death energy. Fenric's rapier flared, dragon runes crawling along its surface like molten light.
The fight was no longer steel against steel. It was light and flame against decay and shadow.
The duel suddenly shifted to might of Magic now lost to world yet now being displayed by humans who are only 18 or 19 years old.
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC61: Baron Laxin II
Chapter 61: Baron Laxin II
Laxin's eyes burned with draconic crimson as he snarled, "So... you carry a dragon's blessing as well. But so what?"
His hand came up, clawed fingers curling as if grasping unseen power. Shadows deepened, and the air grew heavier, as if the night itself bowed before him. "What I possess," he said, voice like a blade scraping bone, "is something greater—Dragon Death Magic."
The air split with the hiss of ancient words."Noct Drath!" — Darkness Strike.
A crescent of black fire erupted from his sword's edge, searing the ground in its wake.
Fenric spun away, boots skidding on crushed stone, and barked his own incantation through gritted teeth."Luxa Seln!" — Light Shield.
Radiance flared, the moonlit barrier clashing with the wave of annihilation. The impact rang like a bell, shards of light scattering into the air.
He didn't stop—Fenric's voice rolled again, sharp and commanding."Veyl Vana!" — Wind Push.
A sudden gale slammed into Laxin, forcing him back a half-step. It was barely enough to create breathing room, but it was something.
"You think I will bow?" Fenric's voice cut through the wind. His mana surged, not just human magic now—silver scales shimmered faintly along his forearms, the mark of his own blessing answering the call. The words in Dragon Tongue struck the air like hammer blows."Raen Drath!" — Fire Strike.
A roaring lance of silver-blue flame shot forth, searing through the night.
Laxin met it with a contemptuous sweep. "Pathetic—""Noct Torah." — Create Darkness.
The fire vanished into an imploding sphere of shadow, its heat consumed in silence.
Their duel shifted, steel almost forgotten as magic roared back and forth, the garden trembling under their exchange. Statues shattered, fountains cracked, and every tree bent under the invisible weight of draconic power.
Beyond the ruined hedges, armored figures appeared—knights from manor drawn by the commotion. Yet none crossed the shattered gates. They lingered on the edges, their instincts screaming that stepping into this was suicide.
From the far shadows, a single pair of eyes watched unblinking.
Kareth stood cloaked in silence, the warm sunlight filtering through the high garden walls but never quite touching him. His posture was relaxed, yet every fiber of him was alert, one hand resting lightly on the hilt at his side.
His orders were clear—harm the prince, kill him if you can. If Fenric died here, it would be fate fulfilling itself. And if he somehow survived... well, no one needed to know Kareth had been present at all.
The Empress's voice still echoed in his mind, soft and cold: "Do everything to bring harm to him if not outright kill him."
Even as Fenric staggered beneath the force of a brutal spell that cracked the stone under his boots, Kareth's fingers only tightened slightly on his sword hilt... then eased.
He remained still. Hidden. Silent.
The prince's survival—or death—would be by his own hand.And with no one knowing Kareth had been here, no blame could ever touch him.
'Hmm... that girl is not with him.' His eyes narrowed as he noted Aria's absence. A faint smirk tugged at his lips. 'Without her, he will definitely die.'
Still, his gaze sharpened with something like curiosity as the battle in the garden unfolded. He had seen mages fight before, but never like this. The speed of their incantations was blistering, their control razor-precise. Magic circles flared and dissolved almost instantly, replaced by new ones mid-motion.
****
Fenric's Mystic Moon Rapier caught the light like a silver crescent as he swept it up to deflect a roaring arc of crimson flame—Raen Drath!—Laxin's voice rang like a war drum in the ancient tongue of dragons.
The flame slammed against a hastily raised barrier—Veyl Seln!
—a twisting shield of wind that burst outward in a shockwave, scattering petals and leaves across the garden. Fenric slid back three paces, boots grinding over broken stone, breath ragged but eyes sharp.
Then his own voice cut through the air, low and precise:Luxa Torah!
Light gathered at the tip of his rapier, condensing into a blinding spear before lancing toward Laxin. The older man laughed, swinging his blade in a wide arc as he spoke another word in the dragon's tongue—Noct Vana!—darkness surged, swallowing the light and twisting it into a cloud of shadowy serpents.
Fenric's lips curled. Two can play at that. He shifted to human magic, drawing on his own mana sea. The air shimmered as a ring of runes spun around him, pulling moisture from the very air. The next moment, a surge of water erupted—Solv Drath!—crashing into the shadow serpents and tearing them apart in a spray of black mist.
But Laxin was already moving. His own dragon blessing pulsed visibly beneath his skin, and the runes that formed around him were not merely symbols—they carried weight, like scales pressing against the air.
Noct Eryl!
Chains of midnight wrapped around Fenric's legs, pulling him toward the ground. He slashed downward with his rapier, speaking Raen Drath! again, the flaming arc burning the chains away—but not before Laxin closed the gap.
Steel clashed. Sparks flew. The air between them hummed with residual magic. They moved from swordplay to spellcraft and back again without pause, their duel a storm of light, shadow, fire, and wind.
Kareth, from his shadowed perch, could feel the mana in the air—heavy and electric. Even the other kingdom envoys who had come to watch dared not interfere. The sheer force radiating from the two combatants was enough to push them back.
The fight tore through hedges, shattered stone benches, and scorched the grass. Above, the sky darkened—not from clouds, but from the sheer density of mana rising into the air.
Laxin's voice thundered again—Noct Torah Raen!—and black fire burst forth, spiraling like a dragon's breath. Fenric countered instantly—Luxa Vana Veyl!
—a wave of light-infused wind surging forward, clashing with the flame in an explosion that shook the manor grounds.
The garden became their arena, the scent of charred earth and ozone mixing with the drifting petals of half-destroyed flowers.
Kareth did not move. Did not speak. He merely watched, knowing the end was coming... and wondering which of these two would still be standing when the last spell was cast.
Lanxin's magic blazed like a storm given form, the air thick with the scent of scorched earth and burning mana. Fenric was struggling—his breathing ragged, his Dragon Tongue incantations slowing under the relentless pressure. Every exchange now drove him further from victory.
"You've fought well, Prince," Lanxin said, his tone heavy with smug certainty. He stepped forward, the dark-gold lines of Dragon Death Magic spiraling around him like a living executioner's coil. "But your end is here."
He raised his hand for the final strike—
—then stopped mid-motion.
A flash of instinct pulled him into a sharp duck just as a blade hissed through the space where his neck had been. A single black strand of his hair drifted to the ground.
Lanxin straightened, his eyes narrowing toward the intruder—a dark-haired girl, her presence as sudden and sharp as the cut she'd just made. The edge of her sword still dripped with a thin line of crimson, proof that her strike had been a hair's breadth from ending him.
"Aria..." Fenric's eyes widened, his voice caught between relief and disbelief.
Aria's expression was unreadable, though her gaze flicked to Fenric for the briefest heartbeat before locking on Lanxin. Her tone was ice."How dare you harm my young master!"
Lanxin's lips twisted into a slow, mocking grin, though his stance shifted ever so slightly, guarded now. "And who might you be? Another insect who thinks she can defy me?"
Aria didn't answer. She moved.
The air cracked as she blurred forward, sword arcing in a killing stroke so fast even Fenric barely caught the flash of steel before it reached Lanxin's throat.
He twisted aside, the swing whistling past, his robes snapping from the force.
The duel between Fenric and Lanxin was over—not by surrender, but by intrusion. The air between the three crackled with the aftershocks of human magic, dragon magic, and the icy, murderous intent now radiating from Aria.
Far above, Kareth's hidden eyes narrowed. The board had shifted—and not in a way he had planned.
Damn it... he was this close to dying. Kareth exhaled in frustration, pulling back into the shadows. If he lingered too long, there was a chance Aria might sense him here. Knowing, he hadn't lifted a finger to help Fenric—not because he couldn't, but because he didn't want to and this could be used against him.
From Kareth's perspective, Fenric's death would have solved several problems neatly. He had even taken certain measures to make sure the prince wouldn't survive this duel. But now? Now there was a complication—an unpredictable killer, powerful enough to turn the tide, had returned to save him.
Kareth's gaze sharpened, thoughts turning cold. I need to remove her from the picture... if she stays, we can't touch Fenric. And with her talent, she could be a thorn in the future.
After a final glance at the tense stalemate below, he turned away and vanished into the dark.
Fenric, on the other hand, finally allowed himself a breath of relief. Aria was back, and her presence tilted the scales. Though, in truth, he wasn't sure who was the greater force between the two of them now.
From what he'd seen, Lanxin had yet to fully draw upon his Death Supreme Blessing—there were no undead answering his call. That meant either Aria still had a real chance to win or he is simply holding back now.
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC62: Baron Laxin III
Chapter 62: Baron Laxin III
Laxin moved first. His shadow surged outward like a tide, the black haze of Death Aura billowing across the shattered ground. His eyes burned with that eerie, pale light—the hallmark of one chosen by the Supreme of Death. A single step cracked the earth beneath him as he shot forward, blade of condensed death-energy lashing down toward Aria.
Aria caught it with her twin scimitars, the clash ringing like thunder. Sparks scattered, but she barely budged. Instead, she twisted her wrist, forced his blade aside, and with the grace of a predator, launched a counter slash at his throat. Lanxin tilted back just enough, strands of his dark hair shearing away.
Fenric, watching from the side, narrowed his eyes.
"She's stronger than me," he whispered through his breath, clutching at his side where blood still leaked. His healing magic pulsed faintly, knitting flesh together. Although he have said , among the two of them he is stronger, that is only when , she is not aiming to kill him, but if she aims to kill him he will be defeated easily. And Right now she is aiming to kill Laxin.
Aria fought with precision, every strike meant to end him, not to drive him. Her blades blurred, each arc a stormwind laced with golden flame. Laxin was forced to respond with absolute focus, his death aura thickening into shields and claws of shadow, but each time he barely evaded the edge.
A whip-crack of air echoed as Aria spun, her scimitar cutting down diagonally. Laxin braced his death blade, the two forces colliding with such intensity that the ground split apart, a deep fissure tearing through the battlefield.
Fenric exhaled, body trembling as the healing finally closed the last of his wounds. He rose, one hand extended forward. Mana surged—half brilliant blue, half burning silver. He spoke no words, but both human arcane runes and ancient dragon glyphs spiraled around his palm. With a sharp thrust, he unleashed a torrent of elemental force.
A searing spear of light-fire roared through the air, smashing against Lanxin's death aura. The collision erupted in a shower of sparks, forcing Laxin to leap back. His gaze flicked toward Fenric, annoyance flashing across his face.
"You dare interfere again?"
Fenric's lips curled. "I'm not interfering—I'm fighting. And you... you're not as untouchable as you think."
He lifted both hands this time, one glowing with the crystalline complexity of human magic, the other carved in the burning script of Dragon Tongue. A dual incantation bloomed in the air:
"Luxa Drath!" – A spear of radiant light.
"Raen Torah!" – A storm of conjured fire.
The two spells intertwined, fusing into a single spiraling lance of incandescent flame-light. It howled across the field, slamming into Lanxin with an explosion that carved a smoking crater in the earth.
But the Death-Blessed warrior emerged, cloak shredded, aura flaring darker than ever. His lips twisted into a grin.
Aria darted in again, scimitars crossing in a devastating strike. Laxin caught one blade with his weapon, the other grazing his shoulder, golden flame biting into his flesh. He snarled, retaliating with a burst of pure necrotic force, a shockwave that flung Aria back several paces.
In that moment, Fenric's eyes sharpened. Still no undead...
He thrust both hands outward again, weaving together fire, light, and wind. Dragon glyphs lit up the sky, swirling into a vast sigil above him. A storm of burning meteors rained down, each one guided by his intent.
Laxin roared, shadowy wings flaring from his back as he conjured a barrier of death. Meteors slammed into it one after another, shattering parts of the shield but never quite breaking through. Until—Aria appeared at his flank, blade gleaming.
She struck.
This time, she didn't hold back as much. Her scimitar blazed with killing intent, ripping through the weakened death-shield like cloth. Lanxin barely managed to duck, but the strike still tore across his chest, leaving a searing gash that hissed with golden flames.
His face twisted in fury. "Enough!"
At last, his Death Supreme Blessing surged. The air grew heavy. The battlefield dimmed as if the world itself recoiled. From the fissures in the ground, skeletal hands clawed upward, empty sockets glowing with sickly green fire. One by one, undead soldiers dragged themselves free, an army of death answering their master's call.
Fenric's heart lurched. So he was holding back after all...
The battlefield transformed into chaos—flames and shadows, life and death colliding. Fenric, Aria, and Laxin stood as the storm's eyes, their powers clashing in endless crescendos.
Fenric's voice boomed across the chaos, Dragon Tongue mixing with human chants:
"Solv Vana! Veyl Torah! Luxa Drath!"
Water surged, wind howled, light spears screamed through the air—magic woven in layers no ordinary mage could hope to command. At his side, Aria carved through the undead like a golden tempest, her blades singing arcs of death that rivaled any Supreme's strike.
Laxin stood at the center, cloak of shadows tearing wider as more undead clawed their way into reality. His laughter, cold and merciless, echoed across the battlefield.
The undead surged, a sea of bones and rotting flesh crashing toward them like a tide. Their hollow moans carried the chill of graveyards, echoing through the ruined battlefield.
Aria stood still amidst it, twin scimitars lowered at her sides. Her eyes glimmered, an obsidian sheen sliding over them like the reflection of a void. For the first time, the air around her thickened not with heat or golden light—but with suffocating black flame, each flicker gnawing at the very fabric of life itself.
Fenric's head snapped toward her, disbelief flashing in his eyes. She is going to use it huh
Normally she don't use those sinister flames as they are very dangerous but she is now going to use it now.
The truth struck him cold. Death Soul Flame.
Aria whispered, voice as soft as a requiem:
"Rise, O soul-ashes. Burn, O eternal night."
The black fire erupted from her body, devouring the ground beneath her feet in a slow, hungering crawl. When the undead horde surged upon her, the flames leapt like predators, wrapping around their bones and flesh. Their screeches split the night as they ignited—not into light, but into deeper shadow, their essence reduced to drifting soul-embers.
Laxin's eyes narrowed. "You—" His voice trembled with recognition, then turned sharp with fury. "So you're a Death Soul Lord..."
Aria lifted her blades again, each now wreathed in soul-flame. "And you think your blessing of death makes you sovereign here? Pathetic. I also have the power of Death."
She launched forward, a blur of shadow-fire. Her scimitar cut through a cluster of undead in a single arc, their bodies crumbling into motes of black ash. Laxin swung his blade to meet her, the impact shattering the ground beneath them. Death aura collided with death flame, the clash so violent it sent shockwaves across the field.
Fenric staggered but steadied himself, his own aura surging as he raised another incantation. He layered ice, lightning, and fire into a triple-woven Dragon Chant, symbols spiraling around him in radiant arcs. "Aria! Keep him still!"
Aria's only response was to vanish into a step of shadow, reappearing at Lanxin's back. Her scimitar plunged downward, black fire screaming across its edge. Laxin twisted, parrying just in time—but the force still tore through his armor, spilling blood across the ground.
In that heartbeat, Fenric's chant roared to completion.
"Zyraath Torahl!"
A colossal dragon of storm and flame manifested above him, its wings spanning the battlefield. With a roar, it dove, crashing toward Lanxin with the fury of a falling star.
Laxin roared back, death aura spiking, summoning a wall of shadows and undead to meet it. The impact was cataclysmic—undead scattered like straw, the death barrier shredded under the dragon's claws. Laxin was hurled back, cloak aflame with black and red fire, eyes burning with hatred.
He coughed blood, then grinned through crimson teeth. "So... this is how it is. A prince with dragon's blood... and a Soul Lord with black fire. Hah... Hahaha!" His laughter rose into madness, his aura expanding until the very air turned oppressive. "Then I'll show you what it means to wield the blessing of Supreme Death fully."
All around them, corpses twisted grotesquely. Not just soldiers, but the very remnants of life in the battlefield—the ground, the air, even shadows—began to take shape, coalescing into an abomination of bone and malice.
A Death Colossus rose, towering over them, eyes blazing green fire. Its roar shook the earth, a sound not of beast but of countless voices screaming at once.
Aria's black flames licked higher. Fenric's dragon glyphs flared brighter.
The ground convulsed as Lanxin's form dissolved into streams of shadow, seeping into the colossal abomination he had summoned. Bones snapped and rearranged, sinew stretched like grotesque cords, and the Colossus screamed—not just as one, but as thousands of throats joined in agony.
Its eyes burned emerald, but within them flickered Laxin's own cruel gaze. His voice thundered, layered with monstrous echoes.
"Now, prince... now, Soul Lord... let us see if your lives can withstand death made flesh!"
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Chapter 63: Baron Laxin IV
Its eyes burned emerald, but within them flickered Laxin's own cruel gaze. His voice thundered, layered with monstrous echoes.
"Now, prince... now, Soul Lord... let us see if your lives can withstand death made flesh!"
The Death Colossus moved. Each step shattered the earth like an earthquake. Its hand, formed of corpses fused into clawed fingers, came down with the weight of a mountain.
Fenric shouted an incantation, golden glyphs spiraling around him as he dragged power from the depths of his vast Mana Sea.
"Luxa Seln! Thar Seln!"
A double-layered shield of light and stone erupted above him, just in time to intercept the crushing blow. The ground cracked, the air screamed, and Fenric's knees buckled as the shield shattered like glass. He was hurled back, tumbling across the battlefield, blood spraying from his lips.
"Fenric!" Aria's voice cut sharp through the chaos. Her scimitars gleamed obsidian, both engulfed in ravenous black soul-flame. She dashed forward, her body flickering between shadow and fire, each step faster than the eye could follow. She leapt onto the Colossus's arm, slashing in a frenzy. Each cut left trails of flame that consumed bone and sinew alike.
But the Colossus only laughed with Laxin's voice. "Futile!"
Its other hand lashed out, backhanding Aria. She was hurled like a ragdoll, crashing through stone and rubble, her blood smearing across the battlefield.
Fenric staggered upright, wiping crimson from his lips. His eyes narrowed—not with despair, but with resolve. "No... I won't let this end here."
He lifted his arms, and the Dragon Grimoire in his Mana Sea pulsed with light. Words in Dragon Tongue thundered from his lips, each syllable bending reality itself.
"Raen Drath! Solv Torah! Veyl Vana! Zyraath Torahl!"
Flame, water, and wind spiraled into a colossal dragon construct of pure elemental fury, its body wreathed in lightning. The spectral beast roared and hurtled forward, slamming into the Colossus's chest with catastrophic force.
The battlefield exploded in light and shadow. Dust and bone fragments filled the air. The Colossus reeled back, chunks of its grotesque form exploding away—yet the shadow-stuff reknit itself almost instantly. Laxin's laughter echoed again.
"Pathetic, prince! Your power is vast, but death devours all!"
The Colossus leaned down, its gaping maw of skulls opening wide. A torrent of pure death energy surged forth like a tidal wave, black and green, dissolving everything in its path.
Fenric raised glyphs of defense—but before the wave hit, a figure blurred into place. Aria, blood streaming down her face, arms trembling, stood before him. She slammed both scimitars into the ground, black soul-flames erupting skyward to form a spiraling dome.
The death wave crashed into it. The ground melted, the air screamed, Fenric's hair whipped wildly as the pressure bore down. Aria screamed with the effort, her knees sinking into the soil, flames roaring higher with each heartbeat.
But the barrier held.
Fenric's eyes widened. She was pouring her very soul into it.
When the wave finally ceased, Aria collapsed to one knee, panting, flames flickering weakly around her."Fenric... don't waste it. Strike him—now!"
Fenric's hands trembled, then steadied. His silvery-white hair glowed faintly in the storm of magic. He lifted both arms, Dragon Tongue spilling from him like a litany.
"Noct Drath! Luxa Torah! Raen Veyl Zyraath!"
Light and darkness, fire and wind, converged. A colossal dragon of twilight and flame emerged, its wings half radiant, half abyssal. Its roar tore through the night like divine judgment.
It soared at the Colossus, its claws raking across its chest. The abomination howled, shadow-flesh boiling away, leaving Laxin's true form partially exposed within.
Aria pushed to her feet, staggering. She leapt again, her scimitars a blur. She carved through the gap Fenric had created, black flames cutting deep into the exposed Laxin. For the first time, Laxin screamed in genuine pain.
"You insects!" His voice boomed. The Colossus's arm lashed out, piercing through Aria's side. Blood burst from her lips as she was lifted into the air, impaled.
"ARIA!" Fenric's scream shook the battlefield.
Aria smiled faintly, blood staining her teeth. Her eyes locked onto Fenric's. "Do it... now... end him..."
She raised her scimitars one last time, plunging them deeper into the Colossus's flesh, flames consuming it from within.
Fenric's heart clenched, but his soul roared. He summoned every drop of his vast mana, his body burning with power. His Dragon Tongue reached its crescendo, every word vibrating the heavens.
"Zyraath... TORAAHL!"
The twilight dragon above them expanded, swallowing the sky. It dove like a falling star, wings wrapped in flame and void. With a roar, it slammed into the Colossus, ripping it apart in a cataclysm of light, flame, and shadow.
The explosion shook the battlefield for miles.
Silence followed. The Colossus was gone—shredded into nothing. Laxin's body fell from the disintegrating remains, charred and broken, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Fenric stood amidst the ruin, his body broken, arms trembling, blood running down his face. His magic had nearly emptied him. He staggered forward.
Aria lay on the ground, pale, blood pooling beneath her. Yet her eyes flickered open, faint but alive.
Fenric dropped to his knees beside her, voice breaking. "You're not dying. Not here. Not now."
Her lips curved into the faintest smile. "I told you, Fenric... I am death. How can I die easily?"
And with that, the battlefield was silent, save for the distant settling of ash.
Fenric exhaled sharply, chest burning with exhaustion, but his hands never faltered. The silvery-white glow of his Mystic Moon Rapier, its cleansing flames, spread across the battlefield. The once-bloody ground hissed as it devoured corruption, purifying the lingering filth of Death energy.
Aria lay beside him, battered, her breaths shallow. He extended his palm, letting the radiance wrap around her body like a gentle cocoon. Her wounds knit closed, color returning to her cheeks as she stirred faintly.
For the first time in the battle, Fenric's eyes softened. "Rest. I'll handle the rest," he whispered, his voice a quiet promise.
Then his gaze snapped upward, cold and razor sharp.
Laxin was staggering, blood dripping from the deep cuts carved into his body during their clash. His smirk, though shaky, still carried arrogance.
"You think this is over?" Laxin coughed, his voice ragged. "I may fall... but the undead will rise. You can't stop what's coming, Fenric. You'll drown in my army, hahahaha—!"
Fenric stood slowly, his aura surging higher with each step. His healing flames coiled behind him like divine wings, illuminating the ruins of the battlefield. His silvery hair shimmered, his shadow stretching long across the broken earth.
"Undead?" His voice was steady, resonant, carrying a gravity that silenced the air. "You never even had the chance to summon them. And now... you never will."
Laxin's laughter broke into a cough as Fenric appeared before him in a single stride. His sword gleamed, infused with refined moonlight mana.
"Your death... ends here."
The blade swept in a single, decisive arc. The battlefield echoed with the ringing sound—then silence.
Laxin's mocking grin froze on his face as his head slid from his shoulders.
His body collapsed, but Fenric did not let it fall freely. With a swift incantation, he sealed the corpse into his storage artifact, his eyes narrowing. Do you really think I don't know about your resurrection ability? he thought coldly. That little trick only works if your body is left exposed. Not this time.
Turning back, his expression softened once more. Aria was awake now, struggling to sit up. She met his gaze, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words came—only the faint shimmer of relief in her eyes.
Fenric knelt, sliding an arm beneath her carefully. "Save your strength. We're done here."
The flames of his Mystic Moon Rapier spread once again, cleansing the last stains of battle as he carried her toward the distant walls of the Imperial infirmary. Soldiers who had hidden during the fight now peeked out, trembling as they witnessed the young prince—bloodied, radiant, victorious—walking through smoke and ruin with Death's chosen foe slain behind him.
Though Fenric's body ached with every step, he kept moving forward. Victory was his—but it hurts.
"Fix it all," Fenric ordered, his voice sharp as steel. The command lashed out at the battered knights nearby, who flinched but scrambled to obey. He could not truly blame them—compared to himself and Aria, they were but fragile blades of grass caught in the storm.
Most had fought as best they could, but against Lanxin's overwhelming might, their efforts had been little more than sparks in the dark. Several lay unconscious, others bleeding heavily despite the healers rushing between them. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burned flesh, clashing with the faintly sweet aroma of the healing salves already being applied.
Fenric's eyes lingered on them for only a moment before he softened his tone—barely. "Do not falter now. Gather yourselves. Support the healers."
The knights bowed their heads, shame written across their weary faces, yet also relief—relief that the prince had survived, relief that they had not been abandoned.
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC64: Baron Laxin V
Chapter 64: Baron Laxin V
The knights bowed their heads, shame written across their weary faces, yet also relief—relief that the prince had survived, relief that they had not been abandoned.
Fenric turned his gaze to Aria, who lay upon a stretcher conjured by glowing runes. He pressed his hand lightly against her chest, summoning forth the Mystic Moon Rapier—his Silver Moon Flames, born of Lunaris pact blooming. The radiant silver-blue light cascaded over her wounds, knitting torn flesh, cleansing the taint, and pushing back the creeping corruption left by Laxin's Death aura.
Aria's breathing steadied, her lashes fluttering once before sleep claimed her. Fenric lingered at her side, shoulders heavy, his hand still faintly glowing from the last remnants of his Mystic Moon Rapier's healing light.
But then a sharp jolt of pain lanced through his ribs, making him wince. He pressed a hand against his side, the blood seeping through his fingers stubbornly. His expression darkened.
"Damn it..." he muttered under his breath, his voice edged with bitter resolve. "Why did that bastard aim for me out of nowhere? ...Fine. When he rises again, I'll make him mine. If Laxin thinks death frees him, he's mistaken—he'll crawl back into this world only to serve as my slave."
His words, whispered like a curse, hung in the air with a chilling promise.
The healers rushed in at last, robes fluttering, their hands already glowing with radiant light. "Your Highness!" one of them cried as they pressed their palms against his wounds.
Holy incantations surged, bathing Fenric in orbs of green and silver brilliance. The energy seeped into torn flesh, bone, and spirit, stitching what battle had broken. Across from him, Aria too was enveloped, her form bathed in healing luminescence. Her chest rose and fell with steadier rhythm, her complexion softening as the lingering shadows of death were driven out.
Fenric closed his eyes briefly, letting the waves of restoration wash through him. His heartbeat slowed, pain fading little by little. Yet behind the veil of healing light, his mind never quieted.
Even wounded, even saved—he was already plotting what would come next.
****
The following day, deep within the hidden chambers of the Lyria City Lord manor, Fenric sat in silence before a stone altar. Upon it lay the corpse of Laxin. Headless, motionless—yet already stirring with the residue of dark magic as the resurrextion ability of its begun to work back.
The air was thick with incense and the cold stench of iron. Runes carved into the floor glowed with a faint, sickly red, pulsing in rhythm with Fenric's own heartbeat. His eyes narrowed as he watched the body twitch.
A crackling sound split the silence. Laxin's severed head, suspended within a sphere of spell-light, fused itself back onto the corpse. Bones knit, sinew reformed, and his eyelids fluttered open.
A guttural breath escaped his lips. "Damn it... next time, I'll cut off that prince bastard head."
"but where is this? where did they dump my body?"
His voice dripped with venom, yet his tone faltered as a searing pain suddenly lanced through his chest. He staggered, clutching at the mark now branded upon him—an intricate symbol burning with Fenric's power.
"No..." he gasped, choking. "What... is this?"
"That is Slave mark and I am the Master" Laxin head turned back as his eyes widen in fear " how? how did you know I can resurrect back?" he asked in fury as Fenric just looked at him coldly.
The mark flared, chains of spectral light snapping into existence, binding his very soul. He fell to his knees, bloodied tears leaking from his eyes as the weight of the bond crushed his will.
Fenric rose from his chair, looming over him with cold authority. His gaze was icy, unyielding.
"From now on," Fenric said, his voice calm yet merciless, "you are my slave. I cannot kill you outright... but every day you live will be worse than death. And every time you dare resist me—" he gestured lightly, and the mark pulsed again, making Laxin writhe in agony, "—you will learn what despair truly means."
Laxin coughed, blood staining the floor, but he could not look away from his new master. The fire of rebellion flickered in his eyes, but the chains of the slave mark bound him fast.
Fenric's expression hardened into something cruelly resolute.
"Bleed for me, suffer for me, and serve me. That is all that remains of your existence."
"Just kill me! I will never serve you, bastard!" Laxin roared, the slave mark on his body flaring once more. Tears of blood streamed down his face as he writhed in agony.
"Why did you attack me?" Fenric asked, voice calm but edged with steel.
Laxin glared at him with hatred burning in his eyes. "Why do you even ask? Wasn't it you who ordered my family's annihilation!?"
Fenric blinked in genuine confusion, his breath catching. "And who told you that?"
"The Shadowed Blades!" Laxin spat. "Their information network is the best in the Empire. I asked them, and they confirmed it." His voice cracked with fury. "So what now? You think being a prince makes you untouchable, even after slaughtering my family?"
Fenric narrowed his eyes, thoughts racing. The Shadowed Blades...
"Do you even know which family they belong to?" he asked slowly.
Laxin sneered. "Why the hell would I care?"
"They belong to the Dagros family. The family of the Fourth Prince—the one who hates me the most." Fenric's voice grew sharp. "Now do you understand?"
Laxin's expression flickered, confusion breaking through his rage. "Wait... are you saying that fool of a Fourth Prince fed me false information? That he used me to kill you?"
Fenric rubbed his temple with irritation. "And here I thought this was part of some grand conspiracy... but you really did come for me after being fed false intelligence."
"You think you can trick me with words and make me an obedient slave!?" Laxin bellowed.
Fenric gestured, and a faint glow filled the room as he placed a crystalline sphere at Laxin's feet. The Truth Orb pulsed with silver light.
"This is a Truth Orb. You can test it yourself."
Laxin clenched his jaw as he saw the Truth orb, they are pretty famous and expensive, then spat bitterly. "Fine." He touched the orb. "I am a Master Rank disguising as Grand Master rank."
The orb glowed red, affirming the truth.
"huh? you were only Master rank?" Fenric looked at him in dibelief as he snorted back " or what do you think you are antural prodigy who can fight three ranks above?" he said as Fenric pursed his lips, 'I need to appraise my opponenets with Soul projection from now on' he thought while Laxin ignored him and focused back on the orb.
"My family was slaughtered." Again, the orb flared red.
"I came for Prince Fenric to avenge them!" The light pulsed red once more.
Finally, he snarled, "Prince Fenric Vaelthorn Vareldis—the Third Prince of the Empire—ordered their deaths!"
But this time, the orb remained dull, not reacting.
Laxin froze. The silence was louder than any denial.
He spoke again to confirm it.
"Prince Fenric Vaelthorn Vareldis—the Third Prince of the Empire—ordered their deaths!"
And again it was dull, no reaction.
"You see?" Fenric said coldly. "You were lied to. Whether you believe it or not, because of your actions, your fate is now sealed. You are my slave."
Laxin's face twisted with despair and rage as he slammed his fist against the orb, trying to force a reaction. "No! I'll test it again! Again and again!" he shouted, but the crystal refused to glow.
Fenric turned his back on him, his cloak shifting like a shadow. "I'll give you a day to mourn your foolish choices. But after that..." His eyes glinted mercilessly. "You are nothing but my blade."
He left the chamber, the echo of his footsteps fading.
Behind him, Laxin sank to his knees, blood tears dripping down his face as he screamed his grief. The orb sat cold and silent, its light extinguished.
Laxin sat hunched in the dim chamber, the glow of the truth orb still pulsing faintly at his side. His fingers trembled as he clutched at his chest, the phantom ache of the mark searing like a brand deeper than bone. Rage boiled in his veins, but no matter how much he clawed at his own skin, the mark did not fade. It pulsed with Fenric's will, unyielding, unbreakable.
"Damn it..." Laxin whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking. "All this time... chasing lies." He struck the floor with his fist, crimson droplets from his eyes staining the stone. "Shadow Blades... you played me like a fool..."
His head lowered, but his glare burned through his tangled hair. The mark throbbed again, a cruel reminder that his every breath was now tethered to Fenric. He spat, the sound bitter, defiant even in his shackles.
"I'll never bow to you. Slave or not... I'll find a way. Even if it kills me."
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC65: New Butler
Chapter 65: New Butler
Meanwhile, Fenric strode through the corridors of the manor, his face set in stone but his thoughts a storm. The revelation gnawed at him.
The Shadow Blades... Fourth Prince's dogs.
His hand brushed his sleeve, where faint traces of his own blood still lingered. Aria's faint breathing from the adjacent chamber gave him a moment's grounding. He glanced toward her door, watching the soft spill of candlelight.
They wanted me dead... and they fed Laxin a lie to make him their weapon. Fourth Prince... how far are you willing to go?
Fenric's expression darkened, a cruel smile tugging at the edges of his lips.
"Very well. Play all the games you want. In the end, I will be the one who wins," he muttered as he returned to his office. Sitting at his desk, he dipped his quill in ink and began writing a letter bound for the capital.
Not long after, the door creaked open.
"Your Highness, you are alright? I rushed here the moment I heard you were attacked," Lareth said, his face pale, voice shaken.
Fenric waved a hand dismissively. "Save your loyalty speeches, Kareth. You and I both know you need my head more than my well-being."
Kareth exhaled, lighting a cigar with trembling fingers. Smoke curled around him. "And yet... here I am. Perhaps I need both—your head and your survival."
He then gave a humorless chuckle. "Though I was away, it was no lie that I could not help you then. But now? I'll see who dares to move against you." His gaze hardened as if he is genuinely concerned.
"don't worry about me, a Envoy is coming here to see after all" Fenric said smiling.
Kareth narrowed his eyes. "What are you scheming? Why would an envoy from the capital come here..."
"Why else?," Fenric cut him off sharply. His smile returned, thin and dangerous. "Of course they will come to see me. After all—I was attacked."
He did not mention what the letter truly contained: a veiled accusation that would force the court's eyes onto the Kareth as he didn't help him, and perhaps... set in motion his downfall.
Far away in the capital—
Inside a dragon-carved chamber draped in velvet and smoke, a man lounged lazily on his bed. His hair spilled across the cushions, his eyes sharp despite the indolence of his posture. A maid entered silently, bowing deeply.
"Well?" the prince asked, his tone cold and cutting. "Did he die?"
The maid shook her head. "No, Your Highness. He survived."
Drake's lips curled into a frown. "Wasn't that Laxin a Grandmaster? Tell me, why does Fenric still draw breath?"
The maid's gaze lowered, her voice cool, unwavering. She was no ordinary servant—her bloodline bore the steel edge of the Ragos family. "He indeed was an Grandmaster. The one who protected him was a girl—the maid named Aria. A slave. Dark-haired. The one Fenric acquired from the slave market."
The prince froze, then laughed low, bitterly. "A slave protected him? Hah. Then perhaps... that Slave is far more troublesome than I imagined."
His eyes gleamed, dangerous. "Very well. If that slave could shield him against an Grandmaster attack, which means she is at Grandmaster too..."
He leaned forward, shadows coiling across his face like serpents."...She must be dealt with before she grows any further," he muttered.
"That is also the will of the Matriarch," the masked servant replied coldly. "The maid has talent. If she joins our family, then it is good. If not... she dies."
Drake gave a slow nod, but as the figure bowed and left, his jaw tightened. Behind his calm expression, his thoughts burned.
Damn Ragos... now sending a maid to supervise over me!. You think you own me, you bitch?
A crooked smile twisted his lips, almost deranged in its edge. Once I break free from your control, the very first thing I'll do is kill you all—or make you crawl like the slaves you forced me to act like.
He exhaled sharply, forcing himself back against the headrest. Closing his eyes, he let the darkness within him swirl, pulling his mind into meditation.
***
Back in Lyria City, an unusual scene was unfolding.
Three days had passed since Laxin's defeat at the prince's hands. Now, dressed in a crisp butler's uniform, the once-proud young master stood silently at the side of the dining hall, hands folded neatly behind his back. His expression was calm, but the faint twitch at the corner of his jaw betrayed the storm raging within.
At the head of the table, Prince Fenric dined in his usual unhurried manner, eating almost clumsily—yet with the confidence of someone who no longer had to care about appearances. Each bite was taken with deliberate ease, while his "butler" looked on, forced to witness the indignity of his new role.
The rumors had already spread like wildfire through the estate: the duel had ended not in Laxin's death, but in something far crueler. Declared beaten, the arrogant heir had been stripped of his status and bound to serve the very man who humiliated him.
The palace servants whispered ceaselessly:
"Better to be executed than live like that."
"Can you imagine? The Laxin, pouring wine and opening doors..."
"They say the prince kept him alive out of spite—made him a slave as a living warning."
Every glance toward Laxin carried disbelief, pity, or barely concealed delight at his downfall. Yet behind his mask of obedience, his eyes simmered with barely restrained hatred—especially whenever they fell upon Fenric.
Later that evening, within the privacy of his chamber, Fenric sat in a high-backed chair, his silver hair catching the candlelight. Across from him knelt Laxin, his posture rigid, fists clenched at his sides as though the act of bowing itself carved into his pride.
Fenric's gaze sharpened.
"Tell me, Laxin... what are your true abilities?"
Laxin's lips pressed into a thin line. His silence lingered, his eyes like burning coals, daring to resist.
Fenric leaned forward, voice calm but carrying an iron edge.
"I am not asking. I am ordering you."
At once, the slave mark etched into Laxin's chest flared to life, searing him with chains of crimson light. He choked, the taste of blood flooding his mouth, his body convulsing as if invisible shackles pulled his very soul apart. His pride screamed at him to hold his tongue—but the mark showed no mercy.
Through clenched teeth, blood trickling from his lips, the words were torn from him.
"...I... was granted the Death Supreme Class... awakened in me at sixteen. It is... rare, feared... tied to the dominion of death itself."
His body shuddered as the slave mark pulsed hotter, dragging more truths from his soul. His nails dug into the floorboards as he croaked out the rest.
"...It grants me command over corpses... I can twist the dead into walking soldiers... and drain vitality like one siphons air. My body resists decay, and wounds heal by leeching the life of others."
Blood tears welled at the corners of his eyes, his pride in tatters.
"...But... I have not yet mastered it. I only know how to shape raw death qi... I cannot yet wield it as effortlessly as one breathes mana..."
Fenric tilted his head, watching with the faintest smile.
"Death Supreme, hm? No wonder your arrogance carried such weight."
The mark dimmed at last, releasing him. Laxin collapsed forward, coughing raggedly, the floorboards slick with spit and blood. His body trembled, not from weakness, but from the humiliation of being forced to bare his greatest secret.
Fenric's tone remained steady, almost casual, as if he had simply been appraising a new weapon.
"From now on, every ounce of death within you belongs to me. You'll refine this gift—not for yourself, but under my command. Consider it repayment for your arrogance."
Fenric leaned back in his chair, his silvery-white hair catching the faint glow of the lanterns. His eyes narrowed with a glint of mischief.
"As for your class," he said slowly, voice smooth as a blade sliding into its sheath, "I have many ideas you can work on."
Then his tone shifted, quieter, as though dangling bait.
"And perhaps one day... you can kill the true killers of your family."
Laxin's bloodied face jerked up, his eyes widening.
"What do you mean...?" he rasped, voice rough but filled with sudden intensity.
Fenric's lips curved into a knowing smile, one that offered no comfort.
"Grow stronger, and I will point you toward the real culprits. Not the names whispered in taverns. Not the false faces you've been fed. The true ones... the ones who actually put your parents in the grave."
Laxin's breath hitched, rage flaring in his chest as his gaze locked onto Fenric, searching for even a shred of deceit.
Fenric, behind that placid expression, allowed his thoughts to flicker briefly. A perfect chain. Bind him with vengeance—let hatred be the leash he cannot chew through.
The chamber grew heavier with silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the lantern flame.
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