Reincarnated with a lucky draw system

Chapter 439: MAXIMIZING FEAR II

Together the duo moved to the nearest cluster, beginning the round of cluster domination.

The void around them seemed to respond to their presence, growing colder and heavier with every step.

Aaron, although it took quite some time, and with careful assistance from Dracula, completely sealed off the super cluster.

With control over space, Aaron expended his mana, isolating the space from the rest of the universe.

No signals could escape; no reinforcements could arrive.

The entire region became a tomb, cut off and self-contained.

Dracula and Aaron arrived in the midst of the strongest within the cluster.

A lich believed to have lived for thousands of years stood before them, its skeletal form draped in tattered robes of midnight silk.

Phylactery gems pulsed with sickly green light in its hollow sockets, and the air around it reeked of ancient necromancy, thick with the weight of accumulated death.

The actual location of the lich’s soul vessel had been forgotten even by the lich itself, buried deep within layers of necrotic wards and forgotten catacombs that twisted through the heart of the floating citadel.

Time had eroded the memory, leaving only faint echoes of the ritual that once bound it there, yet the vessel still pulsed faintly, a hidden heartbeat sustaining the ancient undead lord.

The lich commanded his own empire, a sprawling domain of skeletal legions and wraith-infested moons, serving as one of the trusted aides of the Undead Sovereign.

His throne room was a cavernous hall carved from obsidian and bone, lit by sickly green flames that flickered in iron braziers.

Pillars etched with runes of eternal decay rose into the shadowed vault above, and the air carried the metallic tang of old blood mixed with the musty scent of centuries-old dust.

"The undead have gotten a lot better since the last time I paid a visit," Dracula remarked as he walked into the castle of the lich, his voice calm and resonant, carrying through the vast chamber like a low tolling bell.

His boots echoed softly against the polished floor of black marble veined with silver, each step deliberate and unhurried.

"Who the hell are you?" the lich demanded, rising from his throne of fused skulls and blackened iron.

His skeletal fingers tightened around the armrests, the green fire in his eye sockets flaring brighter as the duo bypassed every layer of security, wards, guardians, spectral sentinels, without so much as a ripple in the defenses.

He felt a dangerous vibe from the pair, an instinctual warning that prickled along what remained of his decayed nerves.

Caution screamed in the back of his hollow skull.

His thoughts, however, settled on the man who had spoken the compliment.

The aura radiating from him was sharper, deeper, more primal. Everything about the stranger screamed danger in ways the lich could not ignore.

The neutral expression on the man’s face, calm and almost serene.

The way he walked, slow, unhurried, as though the castle itself were merely a corridor he passed through on his way to somewhere else.

The long dark hair flowing freely behind him like spilled ink.

The pale white skin that seemed to glow faintly under the green flames.

The crimson red eyes that held no warmth, only endless night.

The dark fitted robe suited only a true king,.or rather, suited only for a sovereign.

Its fabric absorbed light, edged with subtle crimson threading that caught the firelight like fresh blood.

The disposition and aura of the man dwarfed that of the other companion entirely, forcing the lich to place his entire focus on him.

The weight of that presence pressed against the lich’s ancient bones like gravity itself had grown heavier.

"When I last visited this place, I doubt you had even been created as a lich," the man continued, his voice smooth and measured, each word landing like a stone dropped into still water.

"It’s sad how the mighty undead race has fallen so low that a mere lich can play king."

The lich didn’t know why, but the words didn’t annoy him the way insults should.

Instead, they stirred something deeper.

The slow, deliberate cadence of the man’s speech compounded an unknown feeling the lich had believed he could no longer feel,.something cold and hollow that clawed at the edges of his immortal composure.

"Who the hell are you to talk to me in such a manner!" the lich yelled, forcing anger into his voice to mask the uncomfortable sensation rising within him.

His skeletal jaw clacked sharply as he rose fully, green flames roaring higher in his sockets.

"Little one," Dracula replied, his tone almost gentle, almost pitying.

"I am the very being that the night is forced to obey. I am the very being that paints the moon crimson with the blood of my enemies. I am the cursed and blessed one. The Lord of Eternal Night. I am—"

"Dracula," the lich completed, his voice cracking into a hoarse whisper. His eyes, those burning green orbs, widened in genuine shock, the flames within them flickering erratically.

The fear he had tried so hard to suppress surged forward the moment suspicion turned to certainty.

It flooded through his decayed veins like ice water, undeniable and suffocating.

"But... but Dracula is dead," the lich stammered, shaking his head violently.

"There’s no way you can be Dracula! How dare you try to convince me!"

Once more he tried to cover his fear with denial, shouting the words as though volume alone could banish the truth standing before him.

Who could blame him? Facing the Lord of Eternal Night, the very being who had once brought chaos to the universe, battled against entire pantheons alone, and emerged almost victorious, was enough to shatter even the strongest undead resolve.

"Believe what you may," Dracula said softly, his lips parting just enough to reveal the gleam of elongated fangs.

"But I am here to collect interest from the undead race on their act of betrayal against me."

The next moment, the lich was overwhelmed by fear.

Pure, visible fear that could no longer be hidden.

It rolled off him in waves, his skeletal frame trembling, the green flames in his eyes dimming to sickly embers, his bony hands clutching at the throne as though it could anchor him against the rising terror.