I reign supreme in the Western fantasy world for eternity.

Córdoba Cathedral.

The Patriarch stood before the statue, his hands clasped together, his silver hair gleaming softly in the candlelight.

The statue is carved from a single block of white marble, with simple lines and three faces, one of compassion, one of gentleness, and one of mercy. Its hands are slightly outstretched, as if embracing all who look up to it.

Seven silver candlesticks sat on the altar at the foot of the statue, their flickering flames casting the statue's shadow onto the chapel's dome, making it appear like a giant angel with outstretched arms.

I heard soft footsteps behind me.

An officer of the Knights Templar entered, knelt on one knee, and placed his right fist against his left chest.

"Patriarch, the latest battle report has arrived from the front."

"Read it." The Patriarch did not turn around, but continued to pray.

The officer unfolded the parchment: "The Third Legion will set out early tomorrow morning. The Demon vanguard remains stationary, still encamped west of the Cross River Estuary. Also—" He paused, "there were unusual energy fluctuations in the West Ridge Mountains last night, suspected to be caused by the use of forbidden spells, but the exact reason is unknown."

The High Patriarch opened his eyes and turned to look at the officer. "A forbidden spell? The Western Ridge Mountains? That dragon?"

"It's not clear yet; our scouts are heading in that direction."

The Patriarch remained silent for a moment, then walked to the bench in front of the icon and slowly sat down.

He wore a white robe, the gold threads embroidered on it shimmering in the candlelight. "Send someone to inform the Hero Squad of the news about the Third Legion. Also, deliver the Sage's Crown at dusk, don't forget."

"Yes."

"May it bring the guidance of holy light to the hero." The Patriarch's voice was very soft, as if he were talking to himself.

He looked up at the benevolent face of the icon, as if recalling something, "But sometimes, those who can see the future suffer more than those who cannot."

The officer pretended not to hear anything, but lowered his head even further.

The Patriarch waved his hand, and the officer stood up and backed out of the chapel.

The elderly ruler of the Western Church sat on a bench, candlelight flickering behind him and casting his shadow on the icon.

He closed his eyes, his lips moving slightly, as if in prayer, or as if conversing with some unseen being.

The candlelight flickered before him, casting shadows on the face of the statue, which sometimes smiled and sometimes looked sad, as if it had come alive.

Demon King's Castle, Abyss Palace.

In the pitch-black hall, only the flickering eerie flames on either side of the throne illuminated the reliefs on the walls with intermittent light and shadow.

The reliefs depict scenes of demon kings conquering the human world throughout history. The lines are bold and the atmosphere is magnificent. However, in the flickering firelight, the faces of those demon kings who conquered all directions are sometimes ferocious and sometimes empty, like skeletons that have been stripped of their flesh and blood by time.

The current Demon King, Malbaz, sat on his throne, resting his chin on one hand, his gaze fixed on the messenger kneeling in the center of the hall.

He wore a dark black robe with dark silver patterns embroidered on the collar and cuffs, the patterns gleaming coldly in the eerie firelight.

His face was mostly covered by the hood, revealing only a pale chin and a pair of scarlet eyes that showed no emotion.

In the shadows beside him stood a priest draped in a grey cloak.

The priest was thin, his face completely covered by a hood, revealing only a pair of cloudy white eyes.

Those eyes had no pupils, yet they seemed to see through all the secrets of the world.

He clasped his hands together in front of him, with a black bone ring on his thumb, the face of which was engraved with twisted prophetic runes.

"You mean, the team sent to the Western Ridge Mountains has lost contact?" The Demon King's voice wasn't loud, but it echoed in the empty hall, carrying a chilling resonance.

The messenger bowed his head, his voice trembling: "Yes. The last message was last night, saying the location of the Red Dragon's lair had been found. After that... there has been no further news."

The Demon King did not speak immediately; he turned his head and glanced at the priest beside him.

The priest slightly raised his head, a glint of light flashing in his cloudy white eyes.

His lips moved, his voice hoarse like dried bones: "Your Majesty, there's no need to worry about the Western Ridge Mountains anymore. The Red Dragon will neither be an aid nor an obstacle for us. The squad of heroes wielding the Holy Sword cannot be observed, so what we truly need to focus on is the Third Legion."

The Demon King remained silent for a moment, then rose from his throne, his long robes cascading down like a black waterfall.

He descended from the throne, his steps slow, each one making a crisp sound on the black marble floor.

"The Third Legion?" He stopped in front of the messenger, but his gaze fell on the priest.

The priest nodded slightly: "The enemy general will lead his army out tomorrow to confront our vanguard head-on. Their mage corps is the core fighting force of the Third Legion. If we can destroy them first, the main battlefield will be nothing to fear."

Demon King Malbaz's lips curled slightly, but the smile was more like a venomous snake flicking its tongue. "You mean—send a surprise attack team to bypass the main battlefield and wipe out their mage corps directly?"

"Indeed." The priest bowed his head. "I have already foreseen their marching route. Tomorrow night, the Third Legion's supply train and mage corps will camp in a valley forty miles west of Kolde. The terrain there is low-lying with gentle slopes on both sides, making it ideal for an ambush. Sending an elite squad to launch a night raid can destroy their ranged attack capabilities in one fell swoop."

The Demon King turned around, walked back to his throne, and sat down again.

Ghostly flames danced beside him, casting his shadow long and thin.

"Shadow Guard," he said, his voice as cold as a poisoned blade, "Go and do this. Avoid direct confrontation. Kill the mage, burn the supplies, and retreat immediately. I want the Third Legion to lose an arm before it even reaches the battlefield."

A low reply came from the darkness, but there was no one in sight; only the soft scraping of armor faded into the distance.

He leaned back on the throne, his crimson eyes fixed on the reliefs in the hall, then on the priest. "Continue the prophecy. I want to know who has the greater chance of winning this war."

The priest closed his eyes, and the bone ring on his thumb glowed faintly.

A moment later, he opened his cloudy white eyes, and for the first time, there was a hint of emotion in his voice: "Your Majesty... there is a fog in the prophecy, and I cannot see the final outcome. But one line is clear—after the Third Legion's mage corps is wiped out, their morale will plummet. At that time, if the vanguard forces press forward head-on, the chances of victory will increase to ninety percent."

The Demon King nodded, and a trace of human emotion, anticipation, finally appeared in his crimson eyes. "Nine-tenths, that's enough."

He waved his hand, and the messenger and the priest bowed simultaneously and retreated into the darkness.

The main hall returned to silence.

Demon King Malbaz stepped down from the throne and walked towards the wall behind it.

On that wall was carved a huge relief—the first Demon King stood with a sword in hand, his feet on a human fortress, with an endless army of demons behind him.

The lines of the relief are bold and sharp, as if they were cleaved with a knife and axe.

Malbaz stood in front of the relief, extended his right hand, and placed it on the heart of the first Demon King.

A thin crack spread from the chest of the first Demon King, extending downwards to the ground and upwards to the dome.

A dark red light shone through the crack, as if another heart was hidden behind the wall, revealing a secret door leading directly underground.

Malbazz went inside.

The hidden door closed silently behind him, the relief returned to its original state, and the first Demon King still stood with his sword, as if nothing had happened.

Behind the hidden door is a staircase leading downwards.

The steps were narrow, allowing only one person to pass at a time. Every ten steps along the walls on either side, there was a flickering fire, its flames dancing faintly in the silence, casting Malbaz's shadow onto the stone wall.

He walked for a long time.

The stairs spiral downwards, as if they were leading all the way to the Earth's core.

The air grew increasingly damp and cold, carrying a stench of rust and decay.

At the end of the stairs was an iron gate.

The iron gate had no lock, no handle, only a smooth iron plate with a dark red sheen, as if it had been soaked in blood and dried countless times.

Malbaz pushed open the door.

It was a circular dungeon.

The walls were built from solid black stones, with fine water droplets seeping from the cracks, giving off an eerie glow in the dim light of the eerie fire.

The ground was covered with a thin layer of puddles, the water was dark red, it was hard to tell whether it was rust or blood.

In the very center of the dungeon stood a pillar radiating golden light—forged from the broken holy swords of failed heroes throughout history, capable of suppressing the demons' release of magic.

A demon was tied to a pillar.

His hair was dark black, hadn't been washed in a long time, and was matted into strands that hung down, covering most of his face.

His bare upper body was covered with scars—old ones, new ones, scabbed ones, and ones still bleeding, layer upon layer, as if it had been torn apart countless times.

His wrists were chained to a pillar, his toes barely touching the ground, and his whole body was suspended in a twisted position, like a butterfly specimen nailed to the wall.

His breathing was so light that it was almost inaudible.

His chest rose and fell slightly, like a lamp about to go out.

Malbaz stood in front of him, looking down at him.

He spoke, his voice echoing in the empty dungeon, carrying a cold, emotionless calm:

"How have you been, my dear brother?"