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Chapter 127: An Invasion? What Kind of Idiot Would Dare That? The "Undead King" Is Surprised
🕑 Added 2025-06-08 19:17:03 +0000 UTCThe hall was thick with the rich aroma of roasted meats, exotic spices, and aged wine. A lazy, luxurious haze hung over the room, making it feel more like a den of overfed lions than a command center.
Thud. Thud.
Zero the "Battle Demon" lounged across a plush velvet couch, legs spread, gnawing hungrily on a glistening meat shank in each hand. His deep bronze skin and thick limbs gave him the air of a barbarian warlord.
Compared to Zero's brutish manner, the pair sitting at the banquet table across the room were elegance incarnate.
One was a man with short golden hair and a face laced with narrow scars—so many that when he chewed, they seemed to squirm like centipedes. Despite removing his helmet for the meal, he remained clad head to toe in pitch-black armor.
This was Peshurian the "Spacial Slash."
Opposite him sat a fiery woman with silver-white hair, bronzed skin, and the lithe grace of a desert dancer. Her attire was bold, revealing, and exotic—just like her reputation. She was known as Edström the "Dancing Scimitar."
Half-reclining on another couch nearby was a wine-red-haired man with a rugged, exposed chest, swirling his wine lazily as his golden eyes flicked toward Edström from time to time.
Malmvist the "Thousand-Kill" grinned slyly.
"If you look at me one more time," Edström said without even turning her head, "I'll gouge your eyes out."
"Such a dangerous woman," Malmvist replied with a light chuckle, finally turning his gaze elsewhere, though his smirk said he was far from intimidated.
Apart from Edström, there wasn't much to look at in the room anyway. The rest of the Security Division had been told to wait outside. They weren't qualified to sit at the same table as Six Arms—the elite unit to which these monsters belonged.
Truthfully, if Zero hadn't called them here, the six of them rarely gathered in one place. They each had their own domains, their own carnage to attend to.
Out of nowhere, a pale man with sunken cheeks spoke up from his end of the table.
"Word is, you've got your eye on a half-elf girl," said Succulent the "Phantom Devil."
Malmvist paused, swirling his wine mid-air.
"And?"
"Let me have her," Succulent said with quiet earnestness. "Half-elves are rare, yes—but not exactly high-tier. I can offer 1,200 gold coins."
Malmvist gave a low laugh, his eyes filled with undisguised scorn.
"I doubt you have that much to your name. Is this coming from that worm Ampetif?"
Even though all departments were technically equal on paper, the Security Division clearly held more real power. Naturally, they had dealings—favors, threats, bribes—with other department heads.
Succulent, for example, had close ties with Ampetif, the head of the Slave Division.
Malmvist, on the other hand, had trained assassins so effective they'd taken half the Assassination Division's contracts. Their department head hadn't dared say a word in protest.
Power speaks louder than politics.
"Tell Ampetif she's my prey," Malmvist said coldly, eyes glinting with pride.
"Fair enough." Succulent shrugged, unbothered. He was just the middleman—commission secured either way.
"Speaking of prey," Zero growled between bites, "what's the word on that noblewoman?"
"She checks out," Peshurian answered, dabbing his mouth like a gentleman. "Actually, she's the sort of person we want. Singlehandedly wiped out her fiancé and her own noble house. Word of it's spread all across Baharuth Empire."
"She's wanted across the entire nation. Smart girl—fled here first thing."
Peshurian's scarred face twisted in a grin.
"How interesting."
The others glanced at one another, brows raised. Now that was news.
"Definitely worth recruiting," Zero muttered, his appetite momentarily forgotten.
Their meeting today was, after all, supposed to strategize for an upcoming duel between Gazeff and Reness. This just added fuel to the fire.
Then—
"...Intruders."
A voice like cold ash whispered from the shadows.
Everyone's heads turned toward the far corner, where an emaciated figure sat so still he had almost faded into the background. But no one ever forgot he was there.
Davernoch the "Undead King."
"Undead. A whole group of them," he added flatly.
"Intruders?"
The word echoed through the room like a dropped wine glass.
Then came the laughter.
"Pahahahaha!"
"What kind of idiot invades this place?"
"Bad day to be stupid. All Six Arms just happen to be home."
"Undead? Bad luck, pal—you picked the one day Davernoch's in a social mood."
Mocking jeers filled the hall. It wasn't often they were all gathered, let alone gifted such entertainment.
"Finally," Malmvist said, sitting up and running a hand through his red hair, his smile darkening. "Something to do."
Zero didn't laugh. His face darkened. He said nothing—but his eyes burned with murder.
To him, the idea of an outsider stepping foot on their turf, intentionally or not, was an insult.
And insults demanded death.
Screams echoed from the hallway.
But none of the six moved. Not yet. Their expressions remained calm, indifferent.
BOOM.
The heavy front doors shuddered under an impact. Then again. Then—
CRASH.
They burst open, slamming against the walls as a tide of corpses surged through. Their skin was pale, their clothes bloodied. Most still wore the uniforms of the estate's guards.
The stench of blood overpowered even the rich wine-scented air.
"Damn shame. That was good wine," Malmvist sighed, setting his half-finished glass on the table.
Davernoch stood, his bones creaking. His face was a horror—a shriveled skull draped with a paper-thin layer of flesh. Death poured off him like perfume off a noblewoman.
This was no living man.
And unlike the newly risen dead before them—he was the real thing.
"Undead Control," Davernoch murmured, raising a skeletal hand and sweeping it toward the flood of corpses.
Dark energy rippled outward.
But then he froze.
His jaw clenched, voice suddenly dry and stunned.
"I… I can't control them. Their caster's magic is stronger than mine."
The room dropped ten degrees colder.
Davernoch rose to his full height.
All mockery vanished.
"You're joking," Succulent said, half-standing, eyes wide.
Davernoch didn't respond with words. He lifted his hand again.
"Fireball."
A glowing orb the size of a basin flared to life above his palm.
BOOM!
The fireball tore through the center of the undead horde, exploding in a blaze that shook the entire hall.
The smell of charred meat filled the air. Smoke curled from the blast zone, now a blackened crater. Broken tables, overturned chairs, shattered crystal everywhere.
"Do I look like I'm joking?" Davernoch turned toward Succulent, the firelight casting deep shadows across his rotted face.
The rest of the group stood, tension crackling between them.
The lazy arrogance that had once filled the room?
Gone.
Now, the Six Arms were alert.
Ready.
Something powerful had just stepped into their lair.
