I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 868: Celestial Archon [Golden Ticket Chapter Bonus]

The titan’s golden eyes flared with incandescent fury at Jack’s defiance.

“Arrogant dust,” the giant snarled, his voice vibrating through the bedrock as the white-gold chains screeched against his bones. “You stand upon the edge of annihilation and mistake your borrowed trinkets for power. You stole the Father’s silver! You carved his divine script into your mortal meat, believing you could walk among gods!”

The divine gravity intensified, the white stone beneath Jack groaning as hairline fractures spread across the chamber.

Jack didn’t bother arguing.

He simply exhaled, closing his eyes for half a second. When he opened them, he released the iron grip he kept over his inner soul core.

He did not call upon his dark mana. He did not summon the corrupted purple lightning or his demonic authority. Instead, he allowed the silver streaks running through his soul meridians to ignite without suppression.

A blinding, immaculate silver radiance tore through Jack’s chest, illuminating the vast chamber in a pale, crystalline light that completely overwhelmed the titan’s burning golden aura.

It was not an imitation. It was not a stolen spell, nor was it a grafted divine brand.

The silver resonance hummed with the exact, unadulterated frequency of the Creator.

It carried the primordial law of the Soul Warden mixed with Sarin’s Blood.

The ancient, undeniable authority woven into the very fabric of the world when it was first spoken into existence.

The crushing pressure around Jack shattered like cheap glass.

The titan froze.

The fury on his massive, stone-hewn face collapsed, replaced by a shock so profound that the giant forgot the agony of the spikes driven through his knees. His burning golden pupils contracted into pinpricks, staring down at Jack not as a mortal insect, but as an impossible ghost.

“No…” the giant rasped, his voice trembling, stripped of all its roaring thunder. “The frequency… it is whole. It is pure. It is not stolen. It is… inherited.”

The titan bowed his colossal horned head as far as the chains would allow, the white-gold links rattling softly against his collarbones. The absolute arrogance of an ancient being dissolved into terrifying, solemn reverence.

“I am Vaelok-Tor,” the giant whispered, the words heavy with centuries of dust and sorrow. “A Celestial Archon. One of the three primordial lineages crafted by the hands of Sarin when the stars were first named. Forgive my blindness, Successor. I believed the Father’s light had been completely extinguished from this dying realm.”

“You called me a thief,” Jack said flatly, the silver light slowly receding back beneath his skin, though the cold authority in his eyes remained absolute. “Explain why an Archon of Sarin is pinned like a slaughtered beast beneath a mountain of orcs.”

Vaelok-Tor let out a deep, bitter rumble that sounded like dry gravel grinding in a quarry.

“The orcs of the surface… they are my blood. My corrupted, cowardly children,” the Archon spat with venomous contempt. “When Sarin completed the world and departed to the higher spheres, the lesser thrones grew jealous. The celestial hierarchy fractured.

External powers whispered to my chieftains, promising them freedom from the Father’s absolute laws. They feared my devotion to Sarin’s return. So my own lineage struck from the dark. They forged these suppression chains with stolen celestial script, drove these obsidian stakes through my bones, and buried their Father in the mantle.”

The Archon raised his head slightly, his broken expression hardening.

“They built Krogar-Zun on the surface to hide their shame. They fabricated their pathetic ‘ancestral songs’ and ‘clan honor’ to bury the memory of their greatest sin. They are traitors who worship dirt because they were too weak to bear the light.”

Jack’s expression didn’t change. It matched everything he had already deduced about the Zor-Grimmarch hypocrisy. “Can you break the chains?”

“No,” Vaelok-Tor replied solemnly. “These bindings are tethered to the bedrock of the continent and reinforced with divine blood. Until you possess the strength to slaughter a true god, you cannot shatter the iron that holds me. My time will come when your war reaches the heavens. But you… you have entered the crucible.”

“The Spire,” Jack noted.

“The Spire is not a tower, Successor,” the Archon revealed, his golden eyes burning with ancient knowledge. “It was never an obstacle course built for mortal vermin to climb for trinkets. It is the corpse of Tartarus.”

Jack’s gaze sharpened. “Tartarus.”

“A primordial titan of absolute ruin,” Vaelok-Tor explained, the memory casting deep shadows across his face. “Before the dawn of mortal history, Tartarus sought to consume creation in its cradle. The Father, Sarin, descended in wrath. He slaughtered the primordial, hollowed out its colossal, immortal carcass, and forged its bones into the floors of the Spire.

It was created as an engine. A crucible to train his inevitable successor, to test his bloodline, and to grant him an army worthy of reclaiming the cosmos.”

Jack reached into his coat and withdrew a heavy, ancient grimoire.

The cover was bound in pale, celestial leather that seemed to absorb the light around it. It was Sarin’s First Tome, The Book of Origin.

Jack held it up toward the Archon. “The tome is silent. Every page is blank, save for the final sheet that yielded the formula for dark elves.”

Vaelok-Tor looked upon the book, and for the first time, a look of profound awe touched his weathered features.

“The First Tome does not answer to ink or parchment, Successor,” Vaelok-Tor said. “It is a living genesis. It feeds upon the purity of the Father’s blood running through your veins. As your soul meridians deepen and your bloodline purifies, the pages will duplicate. They will bleed new knowledge into reality. But you need not wait for the book to awaken on its own. I can grant you the formula for the vanguards my treacherous children were meant to be.”

The Archon closed his eyes, and a single drop of golden, celestial essence separated from his brow, drifting through the air to land upon the closed leather cover of the Book of Origin.

The white leather rippled like water. A second page pulled itself from the back of the tome, duplicating with a crisp, parchment hiss, ancient celestial glyphs etching themselves across the blank sheet in glowing crimson and gold script.

“Hear the genesis of the true horde,” Vaelok-Tor spoke, his voice echoing with forgotten creation rites. “To forge warriors worthy of the Father’s design, you must undo the weakness of the modern orcs. You require:

Orc Bodies, uncorrupted by surface rot, Orc Blood, spilled in violent ambition. High-grade Demon Blood, to burn away mortal hesitation, and a higher, deeper purity of Sarin’s Divine Blood, to anchor their souls to your will.

Bind these with the seven elemental matrixes of creation.”

The Archon looked down at Jack, his burning golden eyes locking onto the book.

“Feed them the formula, Successor, and you will not raise mindless thralls. You will awaken the ancient trinity of the true horde: Orc Berserkers to shatter siege lines, Orc Augurs to command the deep mana of the world, and Orc Reavers to butcher from the unseen shadows.”

Jack watched the glowing script solidify upon the newly duplicated page, memorizing every ratio and reagent. “Where do I get the orc bodies without marching through Kragor’s halls?”

Vaelok-Tor let out a dark, grim chuckle.

“Look beneath your feet, Successor. Beneath this very vault, sealed in the deep strata of the fault line, lies the catacomb of the original lineage.

Thousands of ancient orc warriors buried alive during the great betrayal. Their flesh is preserved in petrified magma, untouched by decay, waiting for the true master to claim them. But remember my words: you cannot awaken them until your own blood reaches the necessary purity.”

Jack closed the Book of Origin, sliding it back into the inner pocket of his coat.

“Rest in your chains, Archon,” Jack said, turning his back on the titan. “When the time comes to tear down the false heavens, I will return for your strength.”

“Go, Successor,” Vaelok-Tor rumbled, his massive head lowering in quiet, ancient anticipation. “Conquer the corpse of Tartarus. The Father’s legacy awaits you to bring him home.”

Shout out to Jamar_Mcneil, Andrew_Slater_5987, Jody_Breeze, and Markie_Jones on Golden Tickets!