I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 480: Clan Master

All thirty-five heads struck simultaneously, serpentine necks extending with impossible reach as massive jaws clamped down on Granite Sovereign’s limbs and torso.

Granite Sovereign roared. It sounded like mountains cracking, and retaliated by liquefying the sand beneath the Hydra’s coils.

The black granules turned to quicksand instantly, pulling the serpent down even as it continued biting and tearing at the stone.

But the Hydra didn’t stop.

The creature had died and been reborn through binding.

Downing in sand was an inconvenience, not a threat.

The Voidweaver launched itself forward in a blur, webs shooting from its spinnerets.

The threads wrapped around Granite Sovereign’s legs, sticking to stone with adhesive force that immediately began pulling the elemental off balance.

"You think you’re clever," Granite Sovereign growled, trying to shift its weight to compensate for the webs. "But, none of it matters!"

Spikes of black sand erupted from the ground beneath the Voidweaver, each one sharp as obsidian blades, driving upward to impale the spider’s underbelly.

The creature shrieked as the spikes punched through chitin, venom, and ichor, spraying across the wasteland.

Then the wounds closed. Regeneration through Soul Link made the damage meaningless within seconds.

Then the minotaurs charged as a unified front.

Battle axes swung in coordinated patterns, each warrior targeting specific points on Granite Sovereign’s body.

Stone cracked under the assault. Chips flew from the elemental’s form as axes bit deep into the stone.

But Granite Sovereign was far from normal.

The elemental’s body rippled, stone flowing like liquid as it absorbed the damage and redistributed mass to reinforce threatened areas.

What the minotaurs cracked, the creature repaired in seconds, pulling material from the wasteland itself to patch wounds.

"You’re Disaster-class," Granite Sovereign said, its molten eyes fixed on Pho even as it fought the Hydra, Voidweaver, and minotaurs simultaneously. "But so am I. And you’re in my territory. Every grain of sand answers to my will."

"Then deploy them," Pho replied, already moving forward with speed that made his form blur. "Show me what desperation looks like when a blessed one realizes it’s outmatched."

Pho’s clawed hand struck Granite Sovereign’s chest.

Where normal ice would have shattered against stone, the Black Ice Soul went through defenses like they didn’t exist.

The forty-five percent true damage bypassed the elemental’s natural durability, cracking granite from the inside out.

Granite Sovereign staggered backward, molten eyes widening as it processed damage that shouldn’t have been possible.

"True damage. You weren’t exaggerating."

"I never exaggerate," Pho replied, striking again. His movements were precise, each blow targeting load-bearing points in the elemental’s structure.

"I’m going to break you apart piece by piece until your only option is the trump card. And then I’m going to pressure you through that until my master arrives to finish the binding."

The elemental’s form began to crack in earnest now, fissures spreading across its torso as the combination of Pho’s true damage, the Hydra’s constant assault, the Voidweaver’s immobilization, and the minotaurs’ coordinated strikes exceeded its ability to regenerate.

"You want desperation?" Granite Sovereign bellowed, its voice conveying intense frustration from its disadvantageous position. "Then witness your death!"

The transformation started from the elemental’s feet and spread outward in a wave that encompassed the entire wasteland in seconds.

-------

The messenger burst into the castle’s great hall at full sprint, his gray skin was pale with terror, lungs burning from the desperate run through Floor Ten.

He’d covered the distance from the entrance chamber to the castle in record time, driven by the memory of four companions dropping dead from lightning that had cooked their brains in milliseconds.

The main hall was bustling with the activities of a clan that specialized in smithcraft.

Demons worked at forges built into the walls, hammers striking metal that echoed through the space.

Materials were transported between stations by other personnel who had been optimized over several decades.

And at the center of the hall, seated on a throne carved from a single piece of volcanic rock, was the clan master.

He was massive even by demon standards.

Easily nine feet tall with gray skin that had darkened to charcoal from years near forge fires.

Muscles rippled beneath that skin, the kind of build that came from swinging hammers for hours every day.

His gaze, characterized by a subdued crimson luminescence, immediately focused on the messenger’s agitated arrival.

Beside the throne stood another demon. Smaller, about seven feet, with crimson skin marked by elaborate tattoos that identified him as nobility from another clan.

The Third Tier ambassador was present for trade negotiations that had been scheduled for weeks.

"Master!" the messenger gasped, collapsing to his knees before the throne. "The lower floors... They’re sealed! We tried to enter Floor Nine and...."

"Slow down," the clan master rumbled.

His voice conveyed the authority of an individual who had successfully led the Iron Soot Clan for more than a century.

"What do you mean sealed? Floor portals don’t just stop working."

"They do when a Soul Warden claims them," the messenger replied, his entire body trembling as the words spilled out. "He was there. Waiting for us. Grabbed me by the skull and..." The demon’s voice cracked.

"He killed them. All four. Just snapped his fingers and their heads... they cooked from the inside. All of them dropped at once."

The great hall had gone quiet, hammers falling silent as workers processed what they were hearing.

The temperature seemed to drop despite the forge fires burning along the walls.

The Third Tier ambassador laughed; it sounded harsh and dismissive. "A Soul Warden? That’s your excuse for losing a foraging party? Come now, surely you can invent a more believable..."

"He’s telling the truth," the clan master interjected, his intense gaze fixed on the messenger.

He had an astute ability to discern fear from fabricated narratives through subtle cues such as body language and scent.

"The lower floors are sealed. Which means someone with authority has claimed them."

The ambassador’s laughter died. "That’s... that’s not possible. The last Soul Warden died a century ago. There hasn’t been anyone with that kind of power in the tower since Malakai’s...."

"There is now," the messenger cut in, desperation overriding protocol about interrupting nobility.

"He told me to deliver a message. Said the Soul Warden has come to collect. Anyone who wants to negotiate survival should prepare offerings."

The clan master rose from his throne, the movement making every demon in the hall take an involuntary step backward. "How many floors has he sealed?"

"I don’t know, Master. But he came through the Floor Nine portal like the barrier didn’t exist. And his eyes..."

The messenger’s voice dropped to a whisper. "They were golden. Burned with lightning. When he looked at us, it was like being evaluated as food."

"Golden eyes," the Third Tier ambassador repeated, his crimson skin paling slightly.

"This was something else. Someone who killed four smiths with a gesture and didn’t even break stride. He’s coming here. To this castle. And he said..."

The demon’s voice cracked again. "He said to prepare offerings or prepare to be bound."

The clan master’s expression shifted from skepticism to fear. "How long ago did this happen?"

"Maybe twenty minutes. I ran the entire way without stopping."

"Twenty minutes," the clan master repeated, his mind clearly working through implications. "If he were planning an immediate assault, he would have pursued you. Which means he’s giving us time to panic."

His burning eyes swept across the great hall. "Everyone out. Clear the forges. Gather in the eastern wing and await further orders."