Chapter 102: That child must die

While news of the calamity in the Central Region remained tightly stifled—contained by the iron grip and sweeping censorship of the Goldenfyre.

Only faint, scattered rumors managed to drift beyond the reach of their suppressive web.

The decimation of entire mountain ranges and the staggering heaps of piled corpses were reduced to whispers, hushed myths traded in secret by those too afraid to speak them aloud.

Far from the silenced battlefields, deep within the Northern Continent, an entirely different world existed.

Here, the land was dominated by a desolate, endless mountain range locked in perpetual frost.

Massive spires of ancient ice pierced the grey sky, shrouded continuously in an intense, blinding mist that tasted of sharp, biting frost.

Jagged icicles, as large and deadly as war lances, hung suspended from towering cliffs, groaning under the weight of howling, sub-zero gales that swept across the frozen wasteland.

Nothing lived on the surface. Nothing could live.

Yet, deep within the subterranean depths of this frozen hell, buried under miles of bedrock and glacier ice, lay an underground sanctum carved straight into a massive cavern.

It was a secret lair shrouded in eerie warmth and heavy silence. Iron torches hung at rhythmic intervals along the vast perimeter, their flickering, deep-orange flames casting elongated, dancing shadows against the walls.

The cavern walls themselves were constructed from massive blocks of pitch-black, light-absorbing stone.

Every surface was meticulously carved with intricate, glowing runes and ghastly murals that depicted writhing, grotesque abominations—monstrosities with too many limbs, hollow eyes, and gap-toothed maws that seemed to twist and writhe in the ambient torchlight.

The very air inside was dense with old blood, ozone, and an suffocating, ancient malice.

At the heart of this underground lair, inside a sealed, cavernous chamber, a gathering had begun.

Seven figures stood together in the vast chamber, each completely engulfed in dense, unnatural darkness.

No light from the torches could penetrate the thick shadows surrounding them, leaving only their distinct, imposing silhouettes visible against the black stone backdrop.

Though their features were obscured, their mere presence radiated an overwhelming, oppressive aura.

A testament to their individual, domineering prowess.

One shadow bore sharp, wild spikes of hair; the air surrounding him cracked with latent, volatile energy, threatening to tear the surrounding space apart at a moment’s notice.

Beside him stood a completely bald silhouette, remarkably motionless, yet emitting a dense, crushing gravitational pressure that caused the black stone beneath his feet to spiderweb with hairline fractures.

A third figure possessed long, flowing curly hair that swayed gently despite the lack of wind; a suffocating, miasmic aura hovered around him, smelling faintly of rot and decay.

The fourth silhouette had an unmistakably slender, feminine build, moving with a fluid, predatory grace that made her seem more like an ethereal phantom than a mortal being.

A single step from her promised instant death.

Near the left flank stood a dwarf, broad-shouldered and stocky, but his small frame belied a terrifying, concentrated density of raw physical force, as if a mountain were compressed into a single mortal shell.

To his right stood a towering giant of a silhouette, easily double the height of the others, whose passive breathe rumbled like tectonic plates shifting underground.

And finally, raised above them all on a massive, jagged stone dais, sat the seventh figure—resting upon an obsidian throne.

The mana pressure leaking from the throne was absolute, a heavy, abyssal authority that naturally subjugated the formidable monsters standing below him.

Yet despite their vast differences in form and power, all seven shared one chilling detail: pair after pair of glowing, crimson eyes flickered in the dark.

Seven sets of sinister blood-red lights burning through the shadow, every single pair fixed intently toward the direction of the obsidian throne.

The silhouette seated upon the throne leaned back, resting his head lightly against his propped fist.

A heavy, resonant silence settled over the secret room before he finally broke it.

"Code 025, Black Spider is dead," Code 001 declared, his voice cold, flat, and echoing off the black stone walls.

"And the Western Continent’s Hydra Branch has been completely destroyed."

An immediate stir broke out among the six figures standing below.

Waves of restless energy rippled through the darkness as confusion spread through the rank.

Muffled whispers and sharp exhalations cut through the quiet air.

The feminine silhouette broke the brief chaotic pause, letting out a soft, melodic giggle that dripped with cruel amusement.

"Black Spider?" she murmured, her voice smooth like silk, sliding through the shadows.

"He certainly didn’t strike me as the type who would go and die first. What on earth happened out there?"

The remaining eyes refocused intently on the throne.

The figure seated upon it exhaled a slow, heavy sigh, the sound echoing ominously through the quiet cavern.

"An Archangel has descended," he answered plainly.

A collective gasp rippled across the six silhouettes.

The whispers among them instantly grew louder, sharper, laced with genuine caution and disbelief.

"An Archangel...?"

"They deployed one of them over a mere branch?"

They spoke in hurried tones about the sheer terror of an Archangel taking the field.

Everyone present knew the absolute weight of that title.

The Archangels were the highest-ranking officials of the formidable Red Angels organization—fanatical loyalists of the Crimson Duke himself, and terrifying beings treated with absolute reverence and dread across all Four Continents.

The Crimson Duke cherished those monsters like his ultimate trump cards; he would never deploy them unless it was utterly necessary.

The broad, dwarf-like silhouette took a heavy step forward, the stone beneath his boot groaning under his immense mass.

He raised his glowing crimson eyes to the throne.

"Has the Crimson Duke finally turned his sights onto us?" the dwarf asked, his voice low, gravelly, and laced with suppressed violence.

"Has he started targeting Hydra directly?"

"Yes," Code 001 replied without hesitation. He shifted slightly on his throne, his crimson eyes gleaming with cold calculation.

"Our attempt to spark chaos within the Rynchester Duchy by assassinating the seventh successor failed completely. In the process, the existence of our Hydra branch was exposed.

The total annihilation of our Western Continent branch was the Crimson Duke’s personal retaliation... and the rest of the Great Families are now fully aware of it as well."

He paused, letting the weight of the revelation sink in before continuing.

"Lucky for us, the Crimson Duke will not be coming here to the North—not unless he is prepared to ignite an all-out, continent-wide war."

Code 001 let out another quiet, hollow sigh, his shadows coiling tightly around the armrests of his obsidian seat.

"However, there is no denying the damage. This failure has effectively set back our grand plans by at least five years."

The room grew tense.

Five years of meticulous preparation, crushed in a single stroke.

"But..." Code 001’s crimson eyes flickered violently in the darkness, burning with a sudden, dangerous intensity. "...that does not mean I will halt what has already been set in motion."

Below the dais, the six silhouettes exchanged bewildered, uneasy glances.

The spiky-haired figure scratched at his sharp silhouette before taking a half-step forward, unable to contain his curiosity.

"What do you mean by that, Code 001?" the spiky-haired silhouette asked, his tone sharp, crackling with latent lightning.

"If the Duke is watching, what is the play?"

Code 001 leaned forward, the dense shadows parting just enough to reveal a chilling, merciless grin beneath those burning red eyes.

"The fate of the seventh successor, Craig von Darkstar, has already been decided," Code 001 declared, his voice carrying an absolute, unshakeable finality that shook the bedrock of the underground lair.

"That child must die—even if Hydra has to face the full, unbridled wrath of the Crimson Duke to see it done."

"This is the will of that man!"