Inham did not notice anything unusual about this "son." Although his observation skills and intuition were among the very best, he had just endured several fierce battles and confrontations, leaving his energy and mental focus nearly depleted. Most importantly, he could never imagine that Stephen would dare to swap out Jarvis and replace him with someone else—let alone that he had managed to find a replacement in such a short amount of time.
Fatal flaws are never about the body or strength, but rather the mind. Rodhart could sense that, psychologically, this extraordinary man—who had always orchestrated everything and controlled all outcomes—was now as defenseless as a rabbit against a venomous snake lurking in the shadows.
And even in terms of strength, Rodhart was no longer significantly weaker.
To avoid exposing any flaws, Stephen had indeed made some modifications to his body—at the very least, he couldn't allow Inham to detect that he was entirely a death knight. For example, he needed to exhibit certain signs of being "alive," such as having a pulse. So strictly speaking, he was now in a half-living, half-dead state, requiring not just necromantic magic but also white magic to sustain him.
When the white light from the scepter poured into his body, an overwhelming surge of vitality flooded every part of him. Having already been purified by white magic before, his body showed no resistance at all, fully accepting and absorbing this pure and immense power. Just like the previous Universal Salvation, this was another grand and transcendent spell beyond human capability—only this time, it was even purer, more fundamental. If Universal Salvation was a vast ocean of divine energy, then the power from the scepter was the essence distilled from that ocean, directly nourishing and replenishing his utterly withered body.
This body was constructed using the strongest and most efficient parts from himself and that burly warrior, and now, the immense and pure white magic had completely fused them together. Even without further supplementation from necromantic magic, Rodhart was already certain that his combat strength had surpassed the peak of his living days.
Inham turned and walked away, his unguarded back just a short distance ahead. At this range, Rodhart could slice off all the legs of a fly with a single stroke while still allowing it to continue flying—or he could reduce an elephant to ribbons of flesh. Under such circumstances, launching a sneak attack had at least an 80% chance of cutting this "father" in half from behind.
There was once a famous warrior who said that as long as you had a 60% chance of success, you should take the risk and go all in. This saying had practically become the motto for every ambitious, determined, and hot-blooded young fighter—and Rodhart was the very embodiment of such a person. With an 80% chance, the outcome would be decisive, eliminating the need for further deception or fear of exposure.
Yet, in the end, he did not act. The thought flickered through his mind for only a brief moment. The impending success did nothing to cloud his judgment. At this stage, even a mere 20% risk was not worth taking. Letting Inham go would naturally throw the situation in the plaza into further chaos, creating even greater opportunities for him.
Thus, after Inham disappeared, Rodhart took a slight detour before heading toward the plaza as well.
The battle in the plaza was already nearing its end. With a single strike, Grutt, who had emerged from the ranks of the orcs, had crushed the paladins and completely seized control of the Pope and his followers. It seemed that Orford had won. No one else noticed, but Rodhart clearly saw Inham quietly chanting among the crowd, preparing a grand spell.
Just as he had expected, this was indeed a better opportunity. With Inham's abilities, once this spell was unleashed, neither Grutt nor Lancelote—those who could threaten him—would ever pose a danger again. However, Rodhart no longer cared about that. His attention had been completely drawn elsewhere.
What captivated him was something inside the Glory Hall. Though he had no idea what lay within, he instinctively knew that it was what he sought.
At first, the disturbance was merely an attraction that his death knight body could faintly perceive. But as he came closer, when the sensation flooded every inch of his skin, mind, and soul, he realized that he had been unknowingly guided by this presence all along. From the moment he lay paralyzed, repeating that one belief in his heart, his will had already intertwined with another consciousness that permeated the air of the Glory Fortress.
Perhaps the real reason he hadn't slain Inham and had instead come here… was simply because of this.
This kind of purely instinctual sensation seemed almost inconceivable for someone as rational to the extreme as Rodhart. As he ran toward the source, he kept reminding himself that this inexplicable feeling might not have any real significance. The disturbance wasn't particularly strong, yet the impression it left on him was unimaginably profound—like the primal urges of hunger and thirst, something that arose from the deepest part of his soul. It was an overwhelming, inescapable pull, as if his entire mind had been consumed by this singular desire: Go there. There lay something that could quench all hunger, fulfill all longing—something that would resolve everything.
A vast surge of necromantic magic swept across the plaza like an unstoppable tide. Inham had finally made his move. At the same time, Rodhart drove his sword through the side wall of the great hall, cutting an opening and diving inside.
The hall was already deserted. He hardly needed to search at all—he simply followed the pull of the sensation and arrived at a room. There, lying quietly on a bed, was the corpse of an old man. The source of the disturbance was a peculiar small pouch fastened to the dead man's waist.
This object that stirred such an intense reaction in him seemed to go unnoticed by others; no one else had paid it any particular attention.
Rodhart unfastened the pouch from the old man's body and slowly loosened the drawstring. His fingers trembled. Even he couldn't believe that someone like him could still feel this level of excitement.
The disturbance was now so close, so overwhelming. The sensation it carried was intimate, as if a fragment of his very soul had been extracted, purified, and amplified countless times over—until it had become something utterly, perfectly aligned with him.
Ambition, desire, conquest, hatred, darkness, death... and eternity.
Eternity.
Rodhart could clearly sense every subtle nuance of this presence. Everything it contained was exactly what he sought—what fueled his very existence. This essence was like the warmest, softest, most delicate hand reaching into the deepest, most hidden recesses of his soul, caressing and kneading it with unbearable gentleness. His ambition, his desire—they swelled, surged with life, ready to explode…
The pouch was already open, revealing the small black hilt within. Rodhart reached out and grasped it.
In that moment, he felt as though he was not holding an object, but his own heart, his own soul. He was holding eternity itself.
Countless images flashed through his mind at blinding speed—the local magistrate of his hometown… the slaughtered villagers… the imperial courtesan who had betrayed secrets… Duke Murak, who once held an empire in his grasp… Bishop Ronis, whose aspirations reached the heavens…
And finally, the images settled on a pile of mangled flesh in the corner of the room.
Jarvis.
Once, Jarvis had been full of ambition, overflowing with potential, standing at the precipice of greatness. He had possessed both the talent and the opportunity. Yet in the end, he had become nothing more than a discarded heap of flesh—his substitute, his sacrifice.
Dust.
No matter what they had been in life, they had all failed in the end. They had all become mere tools for the strong, stepping stones for those destined to rise higher. They were nothing more than dust particles in the vast, indifferent world. And even those who still stood tall—the so-called strong—would, sooner or later, become dust as well.
But not him.
That fate no longer had anything to do with him. He had transcended it.
He was eternity. He was no longer dust. And he never would be.
He wanted to feel excitement, but he couldn't.
The aura emanating from the sword hilt instantly filled every fiber of his body, seeping into even the tiniest corners of his soul and mind. Joy, anger, sorrow, pleasure—all emotions were silently engulfed by this presence, vanishing forever. Even the ambition and desire that had driven his every action were erased. Everything that made him human was gone.
If not for the fact that his will was so eerily aligned with this aura, even his last remnants of rationality and judgment would have been swallowed whole.
His once-perfectly reconstructed body began to wither like a leaf shriveling under intense heat. If not for the fact that this body was never truly alive, if not for the vast reservoir of holy magic that had flooded him from the scepter earlier, he would have been utterly consumed in an instant. But with that magic as a buffer, his body gradually merged with the presence of the sword hilt.
Finally, the withering stopped. His body had transformed—no longer flesh, but a hardened, lifeless black substance identical to the hilt in his grip. His mind fully sank into a darkness far greater, far deeper, far more infinite than anything he had ever known.
He was so hungry.
The thought surfaced without joy or distress. He opened his eyes, and before him, a massive mass of flesh and blood floated in the air. He took a breath.
In an instant, that writhing, magic-infused mass was sucked into his body.
Stepping out of the grand hall, he gazed down at the thousands of people spread across the battlefield below. Contrary to his past fantasies—where he had imagined the thrill of standing at the pinnacle, the exhilaration of overlooking the masses as mere ants beneath his feet—he felt nothing.
He had lost the ability to feel anything. His eyes were empty, void, as if he were merely looking at a field of dust.