The Fallen Tower (1)
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Name: Daelon
Level: 49
Attributes:
Skills:
Unique Skills (27)
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The status window filled Daelon’s vision, a testament to his growth. His attributes now averaged in the 70s, and his list of skills had expanded dramatically. Gone were the days when he had nothing but a few basic abilities.
Yet, among all these skills, one stood out to him—a new addition at the very end of the list.
“King of the Dead.”
An S-rank skill.
The highest rank in the game.
Even his A-rank skill, “Crimson Dragon’s Blood,” was a rarity, acquired not by chance but through the awakening of a C-rank skill’s potential.
He recalled the journey: extracting the regenerative factor from a sewer experiment’s corpse, and the full awakening of dragon blood during a battle with Qinglin.
“Crimson Dragon’s Blood” was undeniably his most crucial skill, granting him the transcendent regenerative abilities of a true dragon and the power to wield the dragon’s crimson flames. It was the very essence of the ancient dragon that lay dormant in the snowy mountains, the source of his strength in countless life-and-death battles.
“If that was an A-rank skill, then an S-rank must be…”
A thunderous roar interrupted his thoughts, shaking the ground beneath him. Bone fragments scattered wildly as the vibrations intensified, originating from beyond a golden barrier.
As the barrier faded, a ghostly white ship’s bow emerged, its spectral presence looming ominously.
The wailing of lost souls echoed from the sky, a chorus of cries that could be either joy or despair. The ghost ship responded, rowing faster, its sails billowing as spectral sailors bustled below.
With a shuddering halt, the ship dropped four dragon skull anchors, suspending it in mid-air. As the ship turned with precision, hundreds of cannons aimed directly at Daelon and his companions.
“Annihilate them.”
The count’s voice boomed from beyond the crumbling golden barrier.
A barrage of cannon fire erupted, the concentrated malice of souls condensed into projectiles raining down like hail. Following them, a storm of arrows, each tipped with the essence of curses, filled the sky.
Even the sturdiest city walls would crumble under such an assault. This was the might of the vampire count, a necromancer of unparalleled power, commanding an army alone.
Under the cacophony of ghostly wails, Daelon raised his hand calmly.
He rubbed his chin and spoke.
“Stop.”
Silence.
The deafening cannon fire, the wailing cries—all vanished as if they had never been. The wilderness was enveloped in a profound stillness, the air itself seeming to hold its breath.
The ghost ship’s barrage, frozen in mid-air, hung suspended as if time itself had stopped.
Beyond the vanished golden barrier, the vampire count staggered forward, his face pale with disbelief.
”…What.”
His eyes darted across the sky, taking in the surreal scene: the halted ghostly cannonballs, the thousands of arrows suspended in the air, the ghost ship’s oars frozen mid-stroke, its sails limp and lifeless.
“This can’t be…”
Daelon lowered his gaze slightly, noting the count’s grip on a bloodied figure—Felber, the tower master.
A swift axe swing severed the count’s hand, freeing Felber, who collapsed with a groan.
Still alive, Daelon noted. If he could still curse, he wasn’t dead yet.
“How is this possible? How can you stop my ship at will? Your necromancy can’t surpass mine!”
The vampire count shouted, retreating in panic, blood gushing from his severed wrist. His already pale face turned ghostly white.
“Did you find a flaw in the blood spirit ship? Was there a weakness in the summoning ritual? What trickery is this? Answer me! Answer me, human!”
“You’re so damn loud.”
Another axe flew, this time targeting the count’s ankle.
“Argh!”
“Accumulated Resentment”
A wall of bones and spirits rose swiftly to block the axe, but it crumbled upon contact, as if it were nothing more than rotten wood.
“Argh!”
The count fell, his ankle half-severed, desperately crawling away with his remaining hand.
Daelon flicked his wrist and strode toward him.
“Begone.”
He spoke again.
The ghost ship sank.
The cannonballs and arrows, once suspended awkwardly in the air, fell harmlessly to the ground.
The massive shadow of the ghost ship loomed overhead.
Instead of creating a crater upon impact, the ship shattered like fragile porcelain, scattering spectral debris in all directions. Yet, none of it posed any threat.
“Return.”
The spirits dispersed at Daelon’s command, their relieved sighs echoing like a fading whisper.
“Ugh!”
The vampire count struggled to rise, forming a hand seal with his remaining hand.
“Spirit Prison Hand”
“White Death Spirit”
The ground split open, and dozens of massive arms emerged, their fingers tipped with long, black claws, red eyes gleaming in their palms.
Daelon continued walking, neither blocking nor dodging.
He simply whispered as he walked through the wave of ghostly hands.
“Return.”
At his word, the spirits dissipated.
“False Army”
“Return.”
At his word, the ghostly soldiers found peace.
“Spirit Severing Wheel”
“Return.”
At his word, the torturous wheel of hell lost its power and crumbled.
“The Wailing of Wandering Spirits”
“Night Parade of a Hundred Demons”
“Return.”
At his word.
The massive spirit conglomerate, the essence of the vampire count’s fully unleashed domain, fell from the sky like a meteor.
It vanished with a sizzle, like a drop of water on a red-hot stone.
“Ugh! Cough!”
The count collapsed again, black blood pouring from his mouth and nose, the backlash of his domain’s forced dispersal.
Daelon casually poured a few potions over Felber, then leisurely approached the count.
The vampire count, coughing up dead blood, spoke in a trembling voice.
“Cough! The blood spirit… did the blood spirit grant you power? Did it abandon me for a new champion?”
Daelon raised his hand, and the holy sword he had left behind in his battle with the blood spirit returned to his grasp.
Even as he did so, the count continued to plead for his life, blood dripping as he spoke.
“If you are the new champion… I will accept it humbly… Together, we can burn the world, conquer it, and beneath our feet…”
With a swift motion, Daelon severed the count’s head.
He flicked the blood from his blade.
Few beings could survive decapitation without extraordinary powers.
The vampire count, formidable as he was, found himself powerless once his head was severed by the sacred sword.
“Ah…”
Dalen let out a deep sigh.
It had been a long journey.
From slaying the avatar of Suum in the northern continent to traveling to the distant southern empire to bring down the blood lord and the vampire count.
“Tommy! Take care of the master! And… Dalen? Dal…!”
“Old man, the stamina potion in the bag…”
[Father…]
Perhaps it was because of this.
His heightened senses suddenly dulled, and the sounds around him echoed dreamily, as if in a trance.
His vision blurred, and his sight began to tilt.
In truth, his body had already reached its limit during the battle with the blood lord.
Just fully unleashing his domain had drained his spirit and body to the brink, and the S-rank skill he used to defeat the count had consumed every last bit of his remaining strength.
[…Yes. Rest for now. I will stand guard.]
Having overcome such a grueling ordeal, surely he could afford a moment’s rest.
In the fading haze of his senses, Dalen surrendered himself to the encroaching darkness.
A dull thud resonated through his back.
That was the last thing he remembered.
The great southern forest of the continent is a perilous place.
Its dangers are magnified at night, far more than during the scant daylight that filters through.
Moonlight and starlight are blocked by trees towering dozens of meters high, leaving the ground shrouded in darkness where predators prowl with gleaming eyes, hunting for prey.
Among them are beasts capable of tearing apart skilled sorcerers or warriors, and massive plants that silently swallow their victims whole.
Even the empire, which has conquered and tamed vast lands, has left the southern forest untouched.
“Huff, huff…”
Deep within this forest lies the grand hall of the Shadowmoon Clan’s stronghold.
Luxisithuka collapsed, gasping for breath.
Her lungs, which could endure hours of relentless sprinting, now felt as if they might tear apart.
It wasn’t because of the forest’s beasts or carnivorous plants.
As the fifth finger of the Shadowmoon Clan, Luxisithuka Tavrella had never feared such trivial threats.
What made her fur stand on end was the massive figure before her, toying with the severed head of a ratman.
Not just any ratman, but the head of the Shadowmoon Clan’s leader.
[So… he has ascended to the sixth rank, you say.]
The figure was none other than Enaxagus, the god of schemes whom the Shadowmoon Clan worshipped.
[And you, as an assassin and informant, tore the teleport scroll before you could even confirm his power?]
“Squeak…”
The figure, resembling the grand carving on the hall’s wall, was the avatar of the malevolent god she served.