Chapter 7 Shadows, Saints, and Street-Level Catastrophes
The Duke's office was silent, the air heavy with unspoken thoughts as the morning light streamed through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the polished wooden floor. Elena stood by the window, gazing out at the bustling city below, her mind whirling with the report she had read in her past life. She could feel the weight of the information pressing down on her as she turned back to face the Duke, who had been waiting patiently, his expression unreadable.
Turning away from the window, she faced the Duke and Bernard. The documents in her hands were nothing more than a formality at this point—the details she needed had already been etched into her mind.
"Barog the Black," Elena began, her voice steady but edged with urgency. "A Rank 9 Legend Demon. His strength is unmatched in close combat, and his power is focused on body reinforcement. His demon blood enhances his physical form to a terrifying degree, making him nearly invulnerable to most attacks. His style of fighting is brutal—he thrives in the chaos of close quarters, using his monstrous strength and demonic power to overwhelm his enemies."
She paused, her gaze drifting briefly to the report in her hands. "Barog is not just a warrior; he's a tactician. His demons follow him, not out of fear but out of respect for his power. He commands them with an iron fist. And his physical power isn't the only danger he poses—he's been known to use his body enhancement abilities to wield enormous weapons, making him a threat even at range."
Duke Roseviver stood across from her, his hands clasped behind his back, his sharp eyes never leaving Elena. He was a man who had seen much in his years, but even he could not ignore the danger that loomed. "So, it's a matter of brute strength and magic, then," he said, his tone thoughtful.
"Yes," Elena replied. "But it gets worse. Barog may not be working alone. According to the report, he's been gathering an army of demonic worshipers. There are whispers of a ritual he's attempting to complete—one that will summon something far more powerful. Something that could change the balance of power in this entire region."
The Duke's eyes narrowed at the mention of the ritual. He had fought battles before, but the idea of facing an enemy who could summon creatures beyond their control made even him uneasy. "If that is the case, shouldn't we inform the Imperial Grand Knights?" he asked, though his tone was careful, as though he already knew the answer. He refrained from mentioning the Emperor directly, knowing it would be pointless to ask for help from a man so disconnected from the real dangers facing the realm.
Bernard shook his head. "We won't be getting any. Not from the Imperial Grand Knights."
Roseviver leaned forward. "Why not? Isn't this exactly the kind of threat they were meant to counter?"
Elena's expression darkened. "They were. But they're not here."
She walked slowly across the room, each step echoing on the marble floor. "The Grand Knights are the elite of the Empire, beyond the Imperial Knights. Each one is a Rank 9 at minimum. Many have reached Rank 10… and some, it's whispered, have touched the threshold of Rank 11. Their mere presence has ended wars."
The Duke narrowed his eyes. "Then why haven't they been dispatched?"
Elena looked him dead in the eye. "Because the Radiant Theocracy made its move first."
The room fell still.
"They've sent their Paladins to the southern borders," she continued, her voice low but intense. "Holy warriors—blessed by their Sun God. Each one imbued with divine power. Their strength rivals that of the Imperial Grand Knights, and unlike the Grand Knights, their power is fanatical. They believe they fight with divine justice on their side… and that makes them infinitely more dangerous."
The Duke was stunned and almost tripped. "The Paladins? That's a declaration of war."
Elena gave a slow nod. "It already is. The Theocracy's influence has been growing again—quietly, steadily. For the last two decades, they've been trying to rebuild after the purge. You remember why their faith was banned?"
"Of course," the Duke murmured. "The South noble's massacre."
Elena's voice turned cold. "The Radiant Uprising. When their doctrine declared that all men were equal before the Sun God… and the nobility was deemed a corruption of that light. Their followers turned into executioners. Entire noble houses wiped out. Burned. Children included. They believed it was cleansing."
She paused, as if remembering a scar. "The Empire responded. The Theocracy was branded heretical, and their temples were razed. But they did not die. They fled south… and rebuilt."
Bernard folded his arms. "So now their Paladins have returned."
"Yes. And the Empire couldn't ignore them. The Grand Knights were dispatched weeks ago—nearly all of them—to contain the Theocracy's advance. The border is in chaos. Skirmishes break out daily. And from what little intelligence we have, the Paladins are not just holding the line… they're pushing it."
"So we're left to fend for ourselves," the Duke muttered.
Elena nodded. "No reinforcements. No cavalry. If Barog strikes now, we're on our own, though we might receive an unexpected ally soon"
"What do you mean by that?" The Duke asked.
"If I had to guess," she said thoughtfully, "The Black Dragon Knights will already know."
Bernard tilted his head slightly, watching her. "The spies?" he asked in his usual flat tone, though his curiosity betrayed itself in his eyes.
She gave a slight nod. "Spies, yes—but calling them that barely scratches the surface."
She straightened, folding her arms across her chest as her voice dropped a notch lower.
"They are not knights in the traditional sense. Not the kind that rides into battle with banners flying or steel glinting. The Black Dragon Knights are shadows made flesh. They are House Slayer's eyes and ears within the Empire—and beyond. Silent. Patient. Deadly."
The Duke's brow furrowed slightly, Fear and Recognition in his eyes as Elena continued, her words carrying a cold elegance.
"They infiltrate courts, consulates, merchant guilds, even street gangs. They listen. They observe. And when needed—they act. If the Grand Duke desires something, a person, an artifact, a whisper of rebellion—they will scour the land until it's found and delivered. Quietly. Efficiently. And without leaving a trace."
Bernard's arms were now folded, intrigued as Elena's tone turned darker.
"They're trained from a young age in illusions, espionage, cryptography, and manipulation. Most of them don't even use names—only codenames in ancient draconic. They're selected through a process so brutal that only a handful survive. And those who do… are loyal to one man, and one man only—Dragonguard."
She gave a ghost of a smirk, tapping her finger once against her lips.
"There's a reason even nobles hesitate when they hear the phrase 'The Black have been dispatched.'"
The Duke nodded gravely, his fearful expression revealing the sincerity of her words.
The room grew still for a moment before Elena added, amusement flickering behind her eyes:
"Though lately… an unlucky few have been reassigned to less glamorous work."
Bernard blinked. "Less glamorous?"
"Mhm." Elena gave a faint chuckle. "Damage control."
The Duke raised an eyebrow. "Damage control?"
She nodded. "You see, one of House Slayer's most… flamboyant weapons, Leon Slayer—yes, that Leon—has a bit of a reputation for solving problems with a heavy hand. Entire streets leveled, markets turned to rubble, palaces… dented. Let's just say, the Black Dragon Knights have had to start negotiating compensation more than assassinations lately."
A pause. "One time, a cathedral collapsed during a fight with a demonic bishop. They say Leon blamed the architecture."
Even Bernard's lips twitched faintly at that.
Elena's gaze sharpened again. "But don't let the stories fool you. They're still as dangerous as ever. Assassins, manipulators, ghosts who wear masks of silk. They don't just collect secrets—they erase them."
Her voice became a whisper then. Cold. Final.
"We see all. We hear all. We erase all."
A silence settled in the room, heavy and humming with hidden truths.
Then Elena smiled lightly and added, "That's their motto, in case you were wondering."
Elsewhere, at the edge of the city gates, the golden afternoon light filtered lazily through the clouds, casting long shadows across the cobbled path. Two guards stood watch—Lucius, fresh-faced and eager, and Hector, a grizzled veteran of many winters.
"Boring day," Lucius yawned, peering over the horizon. "I wouldn't mind a little excitement."
"Careful what you wish for," Hector said with a tired smirk.
At that moment, a lone figure approached from the dusty road. A man in a long black cloak, his gait smooth, measured, as if the world itself parted for him. No dust clung to his boots. No fatigue touched his steps.
Lucius frowned. "Halt, traveler! Present your papers—"
The air shifted.
Lucius suddenly choked, as if an invisible weight had collapsed onto his chest. His knees buckled, lungs squeezed tight. He gasped, eyes wide in panic. The cloaked figure didn't glance at him. He simply walked past, silent and composed.
Hector didn't move. He watched as the figure flicked a single silver coin toward him—one that landed with a soft clink in his palm. A gesture that spoke volumes.
When the man disappeared into the city, Lucius finally caught his breath and stumbled to his feet. "H-He—What the hell was that?! He could've killed me!"
Hector pocketed the coin with a solemn look. "That man didn't need to kill you, boy. He could've erased you."
Lucius stared at him. "Who was he?"
Hector shook his head, his expression grim. "That man... his aura—it was something else. The mana measuring device detected a Rank 10 Mythic signature on him. That means even the Duke wouldn't be able to do anything if he wanted to destroy the city.
Lucius's jaw dropped, the words failing to process in his mind. "Rank 10… Mythic? What does that even mean?"
Hector's face softened with a rare, almost pitying look. "It means that man could level this city with a thought. You don't challenge people like him, Lucius. You don't even try."
Not far away, deep in the city's heart, a new storm brewed—though this one had a roguish grin and a devil-may-care swagger.
Leon of House Slayer, a Rank 10 mythic Demonslayer and brother to the Stormbringer himself, strolled through the market district with a lopsided smile and a glint of trouble in his amber eyes. His black cloak trailed behind him, nearly tripping a drunk noble as he passed.
"Oh, sorry there, Lord Stumblemore," Leon chuckled, tossing the man a gold coin for his embarrassment.
He stopped at a corner, pretending to admire a fruit stall, when his eyes caught a freshly pinned notice—an intelligence flyer stamped with the Duke's seal.
Leon grinned as he read the intelligence notice stamped with the Duke's seal: "Barog the Black – Rank 9 Demon – High Threat Level."
He clicked his tongue, unimpressed. "Rank 9? That's it?" He leaned lazily against the fruit stall, plucking a plum without paying for it. "Let's see if the demon can survive a bit against me…"
From the alley behind him, a shadow twitched.
"Ahem."
Leon raised an eyebrow without turning. "Oh no. Here we go."
A quiet, raspy voice emerged from the darkness—a voice so used to dealing with Leon's shenanigans that it practically oozed resignation. "Lord Leon, may I respectfully request you not level the city this time?"
Leon finally turned to face the shadow—a slight figure cloaked in black, one of the Black Dragon Knights.
The shadow continued, dry as a desert. "House Slayer has still not finished paying reparations for the last time you fought in the capital. The Eastern District Bakery Guild is suing us for 'loss of cinnamon rolls' after you collapsed an entire street."
Leon blinked, deadpan. "In my defense, the demon started it."
"You threw him through six buildings."
"It was tactical urban repositioning."
The shadow coughed. "It was a bakery, My Lord."
Leon bit into the plum. "Was a demon hiding in it?"
"It was Grandma Hilda's pastry shop."
Leon shrugged, completely unrepentant. "And her pies were divine—shame about the roof, though."
The shadow groaned softly, as if reconsidering his life choices. "Just… try not to cause another reconstruction crisis, please?"
Leon winked. "No promises."
And just like that, with a swirl of his cloak, he vanished into the crowd, leaving behind an exasperated shadow… and a trail of discarded plum pits.
Meanwhile, somewhere deep within Slayer Citadel, House Slayer's Treasury Office
The office was a quiet sanctum of ledgers and ink. Parchments filled with gold expenditure reports, troop funding breakdowns, and long lists titled:
"Reparations Pending: Collateral Damage (Leon Division)" sat stacked in neat towers.
The Head Treasurer—a wiry, graying man named Master Harven, whose permanent eyebags could narrate tales of financial trauma—sat at his desk with a shaking quill.
He was mid-sip of calming mint tea when a young courier burst into the room, breathless.
"Sir—sir! Lord Leon has been sighted entering Duke Roseviver's city!"
Spfft—SPLASH.
Mint tea sprayed across the ledger. Harven's quill snapped.
The room went utterly silent.
Then, ever so slowly—Harven pressed a hand to his chest, muttered a prayer to whichever god still had pity left for accountants, and stared blankly at the ceiling.
"By the Vaults... we're going to lose another street, aren't we?"
He turned to a junior scribe. "Get the emergency relief forms ready. And the insurance claims."
"But sir… insurance stopped covering demon-hunts two incidents ago."
Harven's eye twitched. "…Then send a raven to the bakery guild and offer… free reconstruction. With… double the cinnamon rolls."
He slumped forward into his ledger pile, whispering:
"Why couldn't Lord Dragonguard be the reckless one for once…"