Cam awoke from his nap, blinking against the soft light filtering through his window. He felt a strange exhaustion lingering in his limbs, remnants of something he couldn’t shake. After a moment of confusion, he remembered. His master had insisted he rest, and now, as he glanced around, he realized he was in his room—or rather, the room assigned to him by his lord master. Despite his best efforts to decorate it to resemble his old quarters, each time his eyes opened to its unfamiliar walls, he was reminded this was not the room he had called home for the past 277 years.

This room was in a new castle, one hastily assigned after the recent attack on the capital. The assault had decimated much of the capital’s infrastructure, including the patriarch’s grand castle and his master’s estate. The Patriarch, unwilling to rebuild atop the ruin, had ordered the entire Noctils elves’ population to relocate further north, where reconstruction began anew. His master had tried to replicate the old castle’s design, but for both of them, it didn’t feel the same. The wooden floorboards didn’t creak as they once did, the wood lacked the familiar scent, and even the temperature feel colder. It gnawed at Cam, just as it gnawed at his master.

His master, ever wise, had once explained that their kind’s long lifespans made them more susceptible to such attachments. Humans, with their fleeting lives, adapted quickly to change. Elves, however, lived long enough to form deep emotional bonds to places and objects. Cam sometimes wished he didn’t feel such attachments; it would make life simpler. But he was an elf—envying humans was pointless.

As he pondered these thoughts, an image surfaced in his mind. Rumors had circulated about two humans residing in the castle of one of his master’s fellow advisors. One was a man with hair the color of blood—not the dull red of northern mongrels, but a vibrant, striking crimson. The other was a woman whose black hair was so like a Noctils elf’s that, if not for her face and ears, she could have passed as one of them. Curiosity had gnawed at Cam, especially about the woman, though he never had the chance to see her—until the day chains bound him to her. He remembered seeing her above him, chains in hand.

She was their savior.

Her beauty lingered in his thoughts. Are there many humans as beautiful as her where she came from? He suspected his master, with a life full of adventures, might have an answer.

Thinking of his master brought Cam out of his reverie. He remembered why he was here in the first place. After feeling inexplicably drained, his master had ordered him to rest. Now, feeling rejuvenated, Cam dressed quickly and left his room to find his master.

Navigating the castle’s halls, he eventually found the tall elf in the garden, standing by the pond.

"Oh, you're done resting already?" his master noted, glancing over his shoulder.

His master was tall, his ears longer than most, his eyes a unique shade of green, and his hair an unusual black that betrayed his mixed blood.

"Yes, Master," Cam responded with a genuine and respectful bow.

"It’s barely been an hour."

"Yes, and it was more than enough, Master. I feel better already."

"Mh, if you say so," his master murmured, turning back to appreciate the clear pond, where small red fish swam lazily. "The weather around these parts isn’t suited for such beautiful creatures. It’s too cold for them."

"I always make sure to warm their water frequently, Master," Cam said.

"I know. Without that, they’d already be dead," his master reassured him. "But that’s not what I meant. This simply isn’t where they belong."

"Oh… What do you suggest, Master?"

"I think… I think we shou—"

His master suddenly cut himself off mid-sentence. His serene expression shifted to one of grave concern, and his body stiffened like a statue.

"Master, are you alright?" Cam asked, alarmed.

Deaf to Cam’s words, his master muttered in a despairing voice, "This… this can’t be."

Panic surged through Cam. "Master, what’s happening—" He was about to ask but he stopped mid-sentence as the sky above them suddenly darkened. Raising his gaze, Cam quickly realized it wasn’t the sky itself but the Ancestral Tree surrounding the barrier becoming less transparent than usual. Normally invisible from this distance, it now filtered the light so heavily that night descended upon them.

As if the sudden darkness wasn’t terrifying enough, Cam noticed the barrier was moving—shrinking. The barrier’s edges approached rapidly, and for a moment, Cam felt certain it would crush him into a bloody paste. But at the last second, it harmlessly excluded him, focusing instead on his master.

The towering Ancestral Tree shrank down, forming a black straight thread that connected his master to something in heaven.

"Master," Cam called, reaching out to his master’s shoulder, trying to snap him out of his trance. His touch seemed to work—his master turned towards him, offering a brief smile that vanished just as quickly.

"Master, are you alright?" Cam repeated, not realizing that the elf standing before him was no longer his master, but the Umbryan Patriarch himself. He had resorted to the last-ditch feature of his Ancestral Tree—an ability that allowed him to abandon his main body and transfer his essence into another.

"THAT BITCH!" the Patriarch roared, stomping the ground in fury.

The force knocked Cam off his feet, shattering the garden’s ground and spilling the pond’s water—and the tiny red fishes—across the floor.

"THAT BITCH, SHE KILLED ME! SHE DARED," he seethed, rage radiating from him in waves. His fists clenched so tightly that blood seeped from his palms, dripping to the ground. This was the angriest he had ever been in his long life. But as furious as he was, he wasn’t so blinded by his emotions that he lost his grip on reality. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to regain control, pulling his anger back to a manageable level.

With a heavy sigh, he looked at his bloodied fist—a fist that wasn’t his own, but rather that of Lâu, one of his trusted advisors. Lâu was a former monarch whom he had stripped of the ancestral tree several centuries ago. Compared to the other dethroned monarchs under the Patriarch’s command, Lâu had been particularly strong. That’s why he had chosen him specifically to hold onto the Ancestral Tree the Patriarch had left as a barrier to protect the capital.

While it might seem like it did, this arrangement didn’t restore Lâu to the rank of a monarch. Though he technically held the sigil, his control over it was heavily restricted. In essence, he existed merely as a stand-in for his master—the Umbryan Patriarch—in his absence. The moment the Patriarch returned to the capital, ownership of the sigil would automatically revert to him. Beyond that, Lâu’s role in holding the sigil served another purpose: he was to act as a vessel for the Patriarch to reincarnate into, should an untimely end unexpectedly befall him. Which is exactly what happened here.

If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

When the Patriarch chose Lâu for that role, he never imagined he’d have to rely on that particular function. He had acknowledged the venture’s danger but was confident that retreat was always an option. Never did he think he would have to abandon his body—or worse, his ancestral tree to survive. Because yes, while his essence was spared, the sigil—his ancestral tree remained on his corpse; it hadn’t conveniently followed his essence here. Just like his skills, abilities, and level—all of it was lost and now, most likely, in that woman’s possession.

The thought infuriated him beyond measure, but he knew the worst thing he could do was waste precious time on anger. He needed to find a solution to this dire predicament.

It was then, as he was formulating a plan—or at least trying to—that he noticed something strange. The sky began to darken. His heart skipped a beat. He raised his gaze to the source of the sudden gloom. The sun, high above, was obscured by a large spherical object, plunging the capital into what resembled a total eclipse. In fact, it didn’t just look like one—it was a total eclipse. A dark blue moon hovered above Quel’thelas, one of the two continents famously moonless.

As a Monarch, he understood the significance of what he was seeing. A moon could only signify one of two things, which, when stripped to their core, were essentially the same—the presence of a monarch, either of angelic or demonic origin. From the oppressive aura descending upon him, it wasn’t difficult to discern which of the two it was.

Descending to hover just ten meters above the ground were three humanoid figures. Two of them were female—twins, by their identical appearance. Their long violet hair shimmered in the dim light, and but for their pale complexions and long ears, one might have mistaken them for some bastard variety of elf. But he knew better.

Both wore garments reminiscent of human nobility, though their weapons—a chakram for one, and a red blade for the other—betrayed their martial readiness.

The twins flanked a male demon, whom the Patriarch immediately recognized as the owner of the sigil plunging his capital into darkness.

The type of demon was made evident as the twins smiled and the man spoke, revealing a prominent set of fangs.

"Patriarch Linh, I presume?" he asked, though it was clear he already knew the answer.

"Who am I speaking to?" the Patriarch demanded.

With a slight bow, the demon smiled wider. "Ivan Kaal Raveth Lucifero, protector of the North-Western border under which shines the blue moon and seventh Archduke of the Underworld." The smile widened even further. "That’s how I’m officially known. But to a select few—among which I’m sure you’re familiar—I’m simply called, Lucy."

In that moment, the Patriarch’s suspicions were confirmed.

"You’re working with her," he said bitterly. The timing of their sudden appearance left no doubt. What were the odds of another monarch waiting practically at his doorstep unless they had been sent by her? No—not just sent. He had been waiting for him.

That bitch! He seethed.

She must have known he would resort to this last-ditch use of his ancestral tree to revive in one of his subjects.

In that moment, the Patriarch realized how thoroughly she had manipulated him. She baited him with threats, leading him to believe that quickly waging that doomed battle was the wise choice, granting him time to secretly revive here and plan his next move. But he never had that time.

As much as it pained him to admit it—she had him.

"Indeed, I work with Ma’am—Arianna," the Archdemon nodded.

The Patriarch was about to ask what Arianna had offered to secure the Archdemon’s loyalty when another realization struck him. He understood the answer without asking, just as he now understood how Arianna had acquired the Demon Slaughterer title and that Demonic Bane (Monarch Killer) ability. The question of which demonic monarch had to die for her to claim that title was no longer a mystery.

There was no point in asking. The answer was clear. This Archdemon, that excuse of monarch, the half-breed who snatched the Argyrian Patriarch’s sigil, and the insolent thief who stole the Aurian Matriarch’s ancestral tree—they were all her partners in crime.

At the sight of the two demonesses smiling condescendingly at him, the Patriarch activated [Flight], ascending to their level.

As he did, the Archdemon said, "For you to be revived under this form, I can only assume you refused her offer to walk away with your life."

"I am no craven," the Patriarch spat, his voice laced with irritation. The mere suggestion that he might have accepted her offer grated on his nerves.

"He's proud..." the demoness to the Archdemon's left chimed, her tone dripping with mockery.

"Too proud, I'd say," echoed the other demoness on the right, both of them wearing identical smirks.

"Pride," the Archdemon mused thoughtfully. "How could he not be prideful? He's a monarch, after all. Pride is second nature to us. Unfortunately, I have a feeling that pride is going to lead you to make the same mistake twice in a single day. And all when there's a much better alternative offered to you."

"The one where I just surrender what's mine to you people?" the Patriarch barked.

"The one where you walk away and live to see another day. Your life as a monarch will end here, but you'll live to experience whatever's left to experience," the Archdemon replied calmly.

"What makes you think I want to live such a life?"

"There is no shame in having pride, but pride should never get in the way of reason," the Archdemon said, his voice deepening as he opened his arms wide. "You will fight, perhaps believing that in this weakened form you'll defeat me, or maybe just to act upon your pride. But ultimately, we both know the outcome."

In his current form, the Patriarch couldn't use Appraisal—the vessel he'd reincarnated into simply didn't have that skill; furthermore it is a known fact that monarchs aren't appraisable. But even without the skill, he knew enough to gauge that he lacked the power to defeat someone of the Archdemon's level. Perhaps when he was whole, he might have stood a chance. But now, he was too weakened. His only advantage lay in his proximity to his subject, allowing him to draw energy seamlessly. Yet this advantage posed a grave risk—one all elven monarchs were acutely aware of. They always took battles far from their subjects, ensuring they were protected under sturdy barriers. Their subjects were their greatest vulnerability, and the Archdemon understood this all too well.

"Should we fight, should you be able to put up a fight, you and I both know it will come at their expense," the Archdemon stated, his voice calm but pointed.

These words ignited a fresh wave of fury within the Patriarch. The Archdemon sounded exactly like her. Still, the Patriarch's gaze drifted to his capital, to the castle standing tall at its center, surrounded by his people—all tirelessly working to rebuild the capital to its former glory.

"I can understand your pride as a monarch," the Archdemon continued. "But will your pride as a patriarch allow this to be burned to the ground?"

These words, clearly designed to coerce his surrender without a struggle, left the Patriarch speechless. His anger urged him to retort, but the sight of the elf—the one whose master’s body he now inhabited—brought him back to his senses.

The elf—clutching his head, blood dripping from the Patriarch’s initial outburst—stood below, looking up at him with concern after returning the fish to the pond they’d been thrown from. The Patriarch recognized him. Cam was a Noctil elf, and he, as the monarch of all Noctil elves, had created them—had even named them. What kind of creator forgets his own creation?

It was only when everyone’s gaze shifted to him that Cam finally prioritized his safety and fled into his master’s castle. Yet if a battle erupted, that castle would be anything but a safe place.

Finally tearing his gaze from the scene below, the Patriarch turned back to the Archdemon standing before him.

The Archdemon wasted no time. "What will it be, Patriarch?"

After a heavy, resigned sigh, the Patriarch spoke. "I have one last question. Before I answer, I want you to answer that question. Truthfully."

"Do ask," the Archdemon replied with a sly smile.