Dark Upheaval
The night was exceptionally quiet on the Island of Avalon.
Skylar stood on the shore, his face calm, preparing to leave.
He turned to look at Viviane.
She stood by the water, her long white hair cascading down, her robes swaying slightly in the night breeze. Her expression was more serene than before, as if she were contemplating something important that she had yet to speak about.
"I should go now," Skylar said gently. "Is there anything else you'd like to say before I leave?"
Viviane was slightly taken aback.
She raised her head, her gaze falling on Skylar. In her clear, lake-like eyes, a hint of hesitation seemed to flicker, yet it also seemed as if she had made up her mind.
After a moment, she spoke softly.
"... My king."
When that address was uttered, even the air seemed to freeze for a moment.
Skylar was clearly taken aback for a moment, and subconsciously looked at her. "Viviane?"
Viviane did not avoid his gaze. Instead, she slowly took a step closer, her expression solemn and restrained, as if it were not an expression of emotion, but a kind of cognition that had been buried for thousands of years being awakened again.
"Please forgive my abruptness," she said softly, "But this is the first time I've addressed someone in this way since King Arthur."
She paused, her voice becoming even softer, yet unusually firm.
Before you leave, I want to take you somewhere.
Skylar didn't immediately press for details, but simply nodded.
They left the garden and walked along an ancient path that was almost unrecognizable.
The path seemed to have been deliberately hidden by time, leading neither to the mountain peak nor deep into the lake, but rather traversing a stone forest shrouded in mist. The further one went, the heavier the surrounding magic became, as if each step was treading on the echoes of history.
Finally, the fog dissipated.
What appeared before Skylar was an open space that was not grand, yet awe-inspiring.
A slightly raised rock platform resembles a throne naturally formed by the earth. In the center of the platform, a sword is stuck diagonally into the stone.
The sword was broken, leaving only half of it.
Even so, the remaining hilt and broken blade still exude an undeniable presence, as if even broken and dormant, it has never truly lost its weight.
"Where is this..." Skylar whispered.
She stood at the edge of the rock platform, not taking another step forward, her tone carrying a deep-seated respect.
Skylar nodded in understanding. Having read extensively about the History of Magic, he naturally knew that before his death, King Arthur returned to the Lady of the Lake who had helped him rise to power, and finally slept in Avalon, the place destined for kingship.
He solemnly bowed to the stone platform to express his respect for this renowned king. Regardless of the mistakes Arthur made in the later years of his reign, his contributions to the British Empire are undeniable.
Skylar's gaze fell on the broken sword.
"Is that the Sword in the Stone?"
"Yes," Viviane nodded. "Arthur's first sword was not the Sword of the Lake, but the beginning of his being chosen and recognized."
Skylar could clearly sense the residual magical fluctuations on the broken sword.
It was an unusually familiar smell, as if it resonated with some aspect of myself.
As if guided by some unseen force, he involuntarily took a step forward.
Viviane did not stop her.
When Skylar reached out and his fingertips gently touched the hilt of the Sword in the Stone—
The air suddenly jolted.
A deep yet clear humming sound rang out in the air, as if some kind of seal had been triggered. The broken blade of the Sword in the Stone glowed faintly before quickly returning to stillness.
Immediately afterwards, an ancient book appeared out of thin air, its pages closing automatically, and hovered in front of Skylar.
On the cover, the familiar and ancient word "Abatair" appears clearly.
Skylar's breathing visibly faltered.
"Is this the fifth volume of Abatair?"
He could hardly believe his eyes.
Abatair consists of eight volumes, and he has been searching for it all this time, only managing to collect the first four. Unexpectedly, the fifth volume has been sleeping here all along, buried by time along with Arthur's relics.
The books trembled slightly in the air, as if responding to his gaze.
When Skylar took it into his hands, a massive torrent of information instantly flooded his senses.
This is the Magic Chapter.
Unlike the previous volumes, which focused on spells, structures, and rituals, this volume almost completely transcends the level of "how to use magic" and instead focuses on magic power itself.
The source, flow, and differences in form of magic.
And why does magic exhibit such drastically different "essences" across different wills and eras?
The more Skylar looked, the faster his heart beat.
In one of the tattered pages, he was struck by a very familiar description—
A form of magic that is neither dependent on emotions nor originating from the soul.
It originates from a deeper "source of existence" and can erode, cover, and assimilate other magical powers.
The book does not use the term "Dark Source Power," but its characteristics almost perfectly match the power that Herpo displayed.
"I see..." Skylar murmured softly.
This is not Dark Arts in the ordinary sense.
Rather, it is a rewriting of the magic structure itself.
Rather, it is a rewriting of the magic structure itself.
If most wizards "borrow" magic, then Herpo controls "the rules of magic."
This is precisely why he has been unable to fully analyze or directly resolve the issue before.
It seems the answer to countering Herpo's "Dark Source Power" lies here.
"This is Arthur's keepsake, left specifically for the next king who bears the Sacred Sword Oath. Now, it belongs to you." Viviane's voice sounded behind him, tinged with a hint of emotion. "I see in you the responsibility a king should possess, and I believe I haven't misjudged you—you will certainly do even better than King Arthur."
Skylar closed the book, took a deep breath, and turned to look at her. "I don't believe in fate, but since you've chosen me, I will certainly not let you down."
King Arthur, leading the Knights of the Round Table, quelled the chaos of the world and laid the foundation for a century of peace and prosperity for the British Empire.
He now has a group of loyal followers willing to die for him, and he is confident that he is no less King Arthur.
The night breeze blew by, the Sword in the Stone remained silently stuck in the rock.
The end of an old king, and the rise of a new king.
On the same night, deep in the mountains of Transylvania.
Here, the sun never shines; dark clouds hang low, and cold mist, like a decaying shroud, lingers between the valleys. Beneath a certain eerie cave lies an underground passage unknown to the orthodox Wizarding World —the true entrance to the Necromancer Underground Guild.
It is also the headquarters of the Death God Sect.
Yan Feng's figure emerged from the shadows.
He was even more disheveled than when he left the Ministry of Magic. His black robes were tattered, and there were still unhealed burn marks on his chest—the aftereffects of Liu Tao's Eastern magic. Even though a whole day had passed since the great battle, he had not fully recovered.
"That damned Liu Tao... at least... I'm still alive."
Yan Feng gently rubbed his chest, where a dull ache still lingered, and muttered to himself.
The defeat in the Battle of the Ministry of Magic was the most devastating setback of his life.
The three-headed Corpse Hou was completely destroyed; it was practically his trump card, crafted over decades. The international arrest warrant was now in effect simultaneously throughout the global wizarding world.
Especially that old monster Liu Tao, Yan Feng knew very well that he would never let this go.
That's why he came here.
The Necromancer Underground Guild is a gray area in the magical world. Here, as long as you can pay the price, it can provide shelter, intelligence, and even power.
Yan Feng strode into the main altar.
The underground hall was deep and empty, surrounded by black stone pillars, with ancient death runes carved on the walls. Dark red soul fire burned quietly high up, illuminating everything as if it were a tomb.
"I am coming."
His voice echoed in the empty space.
"As usual, I've brought my sincerity."
He raised his hand, black energy surged, and seven shadows appeared behind him—
Seven flying Chinese Flying Zombie clad in golden Qilin armor.
Their expressions were blank, their eyes gleaming with a deathly white light. Although he had lost his left and right arms in the battle against the Ministry of Magic, Yan Feng still had seven Corpse Raiser under his command, enough to control more than fifty Chinese Flying Zombie. This was still a force that any power could take seriously.
"I need shelter," Yan Feng said coldly, "And support as well."
In exchange--
He revealed a confident yet sinister smile.
"I am still a necromancer worth investing in."
The hall was deathly silent.
There was no applause, and no response.
This made Yan Feng frown slightly.
According to past practice, the underground guild leader who has never shown his face will at least send one of his deacons to appear.
Footsteps sounded.
More than one person.
Several figures slowly emerged from the shadows deep within the hall, their steps unhurried, even carrying a hint of nonchalance.
They wore uniform black robes, the hems embroidered with silver-gray skull and scythe patterns. Their aura was restrained, yet it instinctively made one feel uneasy.
Yan Feng's pupils contracted slightly, as his gaze quickly settled on one of the people.
He was a middle-aged wizard with a cold face and a gloomy demeanor.
Yan Feng's heart sank.
"... It's you?"
He recognized that face.
At the Ministry of Magic.
That very night.
"Croaker," Yan Feng murmured, his voice carrying a distinct wariness for the first time. "I see... You're not from the Ministry of Magic."
Croaker smiled slightly.
There was no warmth in that smile.
"You finally realized it," he said calmly. "Unfortunately, a little too late."
Yan Feng instantly understood.
He abruptly took a step back, raised his wand, and the seven Flying Zombie behind him simultaneously stirred, their yin energy churning.
"Where is the leader of the underground guild?" he demanded sharply. "I demand to speak with him!"
Croaker shook his head.
"An underground guild?" He said as if he'd heard a funny joke. "Did you misunderstand something from the beginning?"
He raised his hand, and the guardians stopped in their tracks.
"Starting thirty years ago, this place ceased to be merely an underground guild."
"Starting thirty years ago, this place ceased to be merely an underground guild."
"This is the hall of death."
The soul fire in the entire hall surged simultaneously, and the runes on the ground lit up, forming a massive sealing array!
Yan Feng's expression changed drastically.
"No!" he growled, "You were waiting for me from the very beginning?!"
Croaker did not deny it.
"Your defeat, your escape, you come here seeking help--"
"All of this is within our expectations."
He slowly approached, his gaze falling on the magical artifact in Yan Feng's hand.
--Calling Soul-Summoning Banner.
The pitch-black banner fluttered without wind, and countless wandering souls could be vaguely seen wailing and struggling within it.
For the first time, genuine interest appeared in Croaker's eyes.
"Especially it."
Yan Feng finally understood.
From beginning to end, he was not the one who was "accepted".
He was the prey.
"You want to devour me?" Yan Feng sneered, forcibly suppressing the unease in his heart. "You? I have seven Corpse Raiser and over fifty Flying Zombie. As long as I give the signal—"
He hadn't finished speaking.
A protector of the Death God Sect gently raised his hand.
Silencio.
The two Flying Zombie behind Yan Feng suddenly stiffened, then disintegrated from the inside and turned into Ashes.
Yan Feng's face turned deathly pale instantly.
"What kind of magic is this...?"
"This... a dying man doesn't need to know," Croaker said calmly.
The next instant, several black chains shot out from the runes on the ground, wrapped around Yan Feng's limbs, and dragged him violently toward the center of the formation.
The wand slipped from his hand.
The Flying Zombie's roar abruptly stopped.
Yan Feng finally realized that he was not facing an underground organization at all, but a real cult that had long since infiltrated the dark side of the magic world.
"You'll regret this..." he growled through gritted teeth.
Croaker bent down, reached out, and took the Soul-Summoning Banner from his hand.
"Perhaps," he said softly, "But you won't live to see that day."
Darkness surged up.
The formation closed.
Yan Feng's voice, along with his last ambition, was buried in the headquarters of the Death God Sect.
The Soul-Summoning Banner quietly fell into the hands of the Death God Sect.