I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 810: Three Prong Assault Begin!

Caspian’s entire body was shaking now, his voice cracking into barely controlled panic. “W-what are you saying?! Who summoned them?! I have been managing the situation! I have been handling the containment! I…”

“You have been following instructions,” Jack interrupted ruthlessly. “Instructions from someone who convinced you that you were in control, when in reality you were simply executing someone else’s agenda.”

Near the center of the arc, Fauna Meridan leaned back in her chair, her knees pressing tightly together. Her hand slid beneath the fabric of her dress, her fingers tracing frantic, rhythmic patterns along her inner thigh. Her breathing was shallow, her eyes dilated, her entire body responding to Jack’s absolute dominance with a surge of twisted arousal.

“Oh, gods, Jack…” Fauna whimpered in a breathless, syrupy whisper, completely unbothered by the chaos around her. “Like… are you saying someone on the Council is involved? Because like… that’s so unbelievably hot… You just coming in here, uncovering all their secrets, taking total control of everything…”

Gale’s tapping accelerated into a frantic blur. Rowan’s expression hardened. “You are making accusations without evidence! You are presenting theory as fact!”

Jack raised his hand slightly. The sudden, suffocating pressure of his dark mana flared for a fraction of a second, cutting off Rowan’s words as if a hand had closed around his throat.

“The demons are being used to produce Bloodrush,” Jack stated coldly. “They are consuming orc and elven bodies in the dark elf ruins below. They are creating a drug designed to enhance the military capability of whoever controls the supply. This has been happening for weeks. The infestation has been planned, orchestrated by someone who believed they could harness demonic power for political gain.”

Aria Solyus stood up, her face contorted in disdain. “You have no proof of this! Standing before us, throwing wild accusations against Council members without evidence! It is insulting to the dignity of this body!”

“Your dignity is precisely the problem,” Jack replied flatly. “Your belief that you are superior to external scrutiny. That your position grants immunity to accountability. That belief system is what allowed this rot to develop unchecked.”

Queen Morvana’s voice cut through the room, cold and utterly dismissive. “This is fascinating. A human commoner suggesting conspiracy without evidence, attempting to sow discord within the Council and position himself as a savior.” She gestured dismissively toward the guards. “Maelor, I believe we have heard sufficient rhetoric for one day.”

But King Maelor did not move. His expression had shifted into something calculating, his hands gripping the armrests of his throne as his eyes tracked between Jack and his wife.

Jack smiled. “Your Majesty,” Jack said smoothly to Maelor. “I believe refreshment is warranted. The Council appears stressed. Perhaps the wine?”

Morvana’s golden eyes narrowed slightly, but she offered no objection, preferring to maintain the illusion of regal composure.

At her silent nod, the royal servants stepped forward from the perimeter shadows, distributing fresh glasses of deep crimson wine to each Council member, to Maelor, and to Morvana herself.

Jack raised his own glass. One that had materialized in his hand without anyone noticing.

“To the future of Caeloria,” Jack declared, his voice ringing through the chamber with absolute, terrifying authority. “May we all survive what comes next.”

He did not drink. He simply held the glass high, a dark, expectant smile playing on his lips as the Council members, desperate to mask their shaking hands beneath courtly protocol, raised their glasses to their lips and swallowed.

The heavy doors behind the throne swung open, and Rhys entered.

Leandros’s goblet froze halfway to his mouth. His ancient eyes widened as his mind finally pieced together the sequence.

The tournament, the blood drug, and the wine.

It was a trap.

Every Council member had already swallowed. The crimson liquid had entered their systems. The dark mana latent within the drink was already integrating into their bloodstreams.

Jack’s smile widened. “Welcome to the future,” he said.

————-

The air didn’t just smell of copper and rot; it was heavy with the pressurized steam of boiling Bloodrush, rising from dozens of multi-story iron vats anchored directly to the magma vents below.

Heavy brass pipes, thick as ancient trees, crisscrossed the cavern floor, feeding liquid essence into massive distillation cauldrons.

Hundreds of Blood-Forged red demons, armored in thick, chitinous carapaces, patrolled the floor and catwalks, while hundreds of bound captives hung in iron pens along the far walls.

And standing at the center of the processing floor, surrounded by heavy crimson banners and glowing mana conduits, were three colossal entities: Disaster-class Red Demon Generals.

These were not the mindless thralls from the upper halls.

They stood nearly fifteen feet tall, their obsidian-plated carapaces dripping with superheated crimson essence.

They radiated a crushing, high-tier aura that put them on the same power rank as Pho himself.

Monstrous commanders capable of flattening armies, standing just one tier below Ren’s Sovereign-level authority.

The central Disaster-class general raised a massive, jagged greatsword, its three crimson eyes locking onto the elevated stone landing where the intruders stood.

“Intruders at the upper landing!” the general bellowed, its voice shaking the cavern’s foundation and shattering the glass gauges along the distillation vats. “Crush the white-armor meat! Protect the vats!”

From the shadows of the massive pillars, swarms of Blood-Forged demons answered the call, locking their iron shields together and forming a surging red wave aimed directly at the access ramps leading up to the landing.

Pho let out a dark, savage laugh, his grip tightening on the handle of his ice axe until the forged titan-steel groaned under his knuckles. “Three Disaster-class commanders and an entire garrison. Now this is a real fight.”

Ren’s discerning gaze efficiently assessed the comprehensive scope within a mere two seconds, meticulously computing vectors, structural loads, and energy trajectories with remarkable precision.

Above the processing floor, a complex network of heavy iron catwalks and support girders crisscrossed the ceiling, suspended by massive iron chains.

“The structure is pressurized,” Ren said, his voice flat and perfectly audible over the roar of the boiling vats. “If they ignite the main conduits, the entire cavern will collapse before we can secure the facility. We break them in a three-prong assault.”

Pho grinned, a jagged layer of core-ice encrusting his forearm. “Call it.”

“Prong one: Pho takes the front line and freezes the distillation pressure,” Ren commanded cleanly. “Prong two: the Dark Elf Phalanx drops onto the right flank to lock the pens and sever their reinforcement lines. Prong three: I take the high ground and dismantle the generals.”

Ren glanced back at the dark elf commander. “Move.”

Before the commander could even bow, Ren executed his relocation. He did not run down the access ramps, nor did he leap into the crowd. His form ceased to exist on the stone landing.

A millisecond later, a soft clack echoed overhead as Ren materialized fifty feet above the processing floor, landing perfectly on the narrow iron catwalk running directly beneath the ceiling.

His sheathed katana rested lightly at his hip, his blue eyes looking down at the battlefield like an executioner selecting targets from a tower.

The tactical execution began simultaneously across all three points.