I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 834: I will make you proud

“You may choose from anything up to the Disaster rank. You have your pick of the three thousand three hundred and ninety-two Disaster-class Dragons circling above us, or any of the Disaster-rank such as Stormfang, the Hydra, the Voidweaver, or the Serpent.

If you prefer specialized martial or tactical support, you may select from the two hundred and forty-seven Dread-rank Minotaurs, the sixteen Shadow Panthers, the Ice Drake, the two hundred Blight Demons, or my individual commanders Pho, Kyren, Corvin, and Loryn.

My bound troops cannot die. They will serve you faithfully, act as your shield, and ensure you do not perish from an unforeseen disaster. Choose your companions.”

Theo Althalos swallowed hard, his throat bone-dry as he looked up at the sky.

His cerulean eyes locked onto the massive, armored form of a colossal Disaster-class Dragon hovering near the edge of the plateau, its obsidian scales gleaming and its wings churning the air into small cyclones.

“I choose the Dragon,” Theo declared, his voice trembling slightly before he forced strength into his tone. “House Althalos is renowned for aerial cavalry. With a Disaster-class draconic mount, I can scout the entirety of Floors 11 through 13 in hours, rain dragonfire upon the guardian dens, and extract the God’s Blood Tree before the ground troops even locate the trail. No lower floor can withstand my advance.”

Jack nodded once. “Granted.”

Jack turned his gaze toward Rhys. “And you, Prince Rhys? Which of my vanguard will you take into the depths?”

Rhys looked across the line of titans, monsters, and warlords. His eyes passed over the colossal dragons, passed over the multi-headed Hydra, and landed upon a petite, redheaded figure standing near the rear rank, Mira.

“I choose Mira,” Rhys said calmly.

Theo let out a short, mocking scoff. “You pass over the ancient dragons and choose a woman!? The volcanic heat of Floor 20 will incinerate a light-footed skirmisher before you even reach the caldera. Your arrogance will be your funeral, Vileblood.”

Rhys did not answer him. He walked over to Mira, who greeted him with a sharp, respectful nod.

“The volcanic vents on Floor 20 create dense thermal interference,” Rhys said quietly to her, his tone analytical and precise.

“A massive mount like a dragon would draw every territorial Disaster-class beast within ten leagues. We move through the blind spots along the southern ridge, suppress our mana signatures, and strike the guardian before it realizes we’ve entered the floor.”

“Understood, Prince Rhys,” Mira replied softly. “I will track the heat pathways and map the spatial rifts ahead of your advance.”

Rhys turned back to Jack. “The heads of the floor leaders will suffice as proof of death. Carrying three corpses alongside the God’s Blood Tree would only slow down my extraction.”

“Heads and cores are acceptable,” Jack agreed.

Jack turned his back on the councilors and stepped toward a quiet stone outcropping twenty paces away, gesturing for Rhys to join him.

Rhys walked over and stood beside his mentor as the wind from the lower biomes ruffled their coats.

“You understand what this trial actually is, don’t you?” Jack asked quietly, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register that carried only to Rhys’s ears.

Rhys looked out over the expansive forests of Floor 25.

“It’s not about proving myself to the Council. They’re already bound by your Soul Contracts. It’s about severing the last psychological hold the pureblood military has over the kingdom.”

“Precisely,” Jack said, a faint, cold smile touching his lips. “Theo Althalos represents every aristocratic general who looked down on you, every pureblood officer who believed your mixed blood made you inferior. When you clear Floors 20, 21, and 22, I will open a direct spatial passage to Floor 13.”

Jack turned his head, his heterochromic eyes locking onto Rhys with lethal, unbending clarity.

“When you step through that portal, I don’t want you to merely finish the trial ahead of him,” Jack whispered, each word burning with iron purpose. “I want you to intercept him on Floor 13. I want you to draw your blade, cut through his pureblood pride, rip the heart out of his chest, and hand it to me on this plateau. That will be the undeniable proof that the Vileblood stands above their entire dynasty.”

Rhys’s knuckles tightened at his sides, his jaw setting hard as he absorbed the command. “It will be done, Jack.”

Jack’s expression softened slightly, a glint of wry amusement breaking through his cold demeanor. “Though… you should know, Pho is standing back there looking exceptionally depressed that his favorite student didn’t choose him for the run.”

Rhys glanced over his shoulder, seeing the martial sentinel standing stiffly with a decidedly sour scowl on his stone-like face.

A genuine, quiet laugh escaped Rhys’s chest. “Tell Pho that if I brought him, there wouldn’t be any monsters left for me to kill.”

“I’ll pass along the excuse,” Jack smirked.

They walked back to the center of the plateau where Loryn was already waiting.

The mad alchemist demon was a grotesque, haunting figure.

His frame was impossibly gaunt, looking like nothing more than taut gray skin stretched tightly over a skeletal cage.

His sunken eye sockets burned with manic, dark violet flame, his long, spindly fingers twitching with erratic spatial calculations as pure dark mana condensed along his elongated claws.

“The pathways are aligned, Master,” Loryn rasped, his voice sounding like dry parchment rubbing together. “The spatial anchors to Floors 11 and 20 are primed for transit.”

With two violent, sweeping gestures of his skeletal hands, Loryn tore reality open.

To the left, a swirling indigo vortex opened, revealing the misty, craggy ridges of Floor 11.

To the right, a deep, crimson-black rift stabilized, howling with the fierce, volcanic heat and spatial pressure of Floor 20.

Theo Althalos mounted the massive Disaster-class Dragon, the beast letting out a deafening roar that shook the plateau as it leaped into the indigo portal, disappearing into Floor 11.

Rhys drew both daggers from his hips, preparing to step toward the crimson rift.

Before he could take a step, a heavy, armored hand rested firmly upon his shoulder.

Rhys paused, looking up.

King Maelor stood beside him. For the first time in years, the ancient monarch’s golden eyes were stripped of all political calculation, all kingly detachment, and all royal restraint.

The hard lines of Maelor’s scarred face softened, his broad hand tightening around his son’s shoulder with a deep, trembling warmth that conveyed centuries of unspoken regret and unyielding pride.

“Rhys,” Maelor spoke softly, his voice deep, gravelly, and thick with genuine emotion.

“For decades, I let this court force you into the shadows. I let them treat you as a mistake to be hidden away. But you survived their cruelty, you forged your own path, and you returned as a warrior greater than any pureblood who ever walked these halls.”

Maelor looked directly into his son’s eyes, giving a slow, proud nod.

“You are my true son. You carry the unbroken fire of my blood. Go down into those depths, claim your victory, and take the throne that was always yours.”

Rhys’s chest tightened, a quiet, fierce warmth igniting behind his ribs. He gave his father a single, resolute nod. “I will make you proud, Father.”

Rhys turned, the green runes along his arms igniting with blinding, sovereign radiance.

With Mira gliding silently at his flank, the young prince stepped to the edge of the crimson rift, took a single, steady breath, and plunged into the abyss of Floor 20.

The portals snapped shut, leaving the plateau in quiet, anticipatory suspense as the final trial of Caeloria began.