Chapter 38: Sword Of The Night

Chapter 38: Sword Of The Night Ragnar stared at the options, his momentary triumph replaced by a cold sweat. Option One was suicide. Option Two was... mortgaging his future for an even longer, more painful period of magical indentured servitude. But Isabelle Thorne... she was worth it. A Level 13 Sword Saint as his Bloodkin? The strategic advantage was immeasurable. No dungeon lord in recorded history had a former top-tier Hero willingly converted to their side. "Pixia," he muttered, "remind me to have a very stern word with the universe about its predatory lending practices." He took a deep breath and let it out through gritted teeth. "I choose Option Two." The system accepted. His current CP dropped to zero. A new, heavier sense of debt settled upon his True Core, a weight that felt both financial and metaphysical. But in his hand, the Blood Chalice pulsed with a dark, inviting light, like it too understood the gravity of the transaction. He turned and offered it to Isabelle. Isabelle Thorne took the Blood Chalice, its shadowy material surprisingly warm against her skin. Her hands trembled,not from fear, but from the irrevocable nature of her choice. She had been the Sword Saint, a beacon of hope, a walking legend among the Hero Guild. The paragon of discipline and honor. The one mothers pointed to when scolding their sons for laziness. Now she was something else entirely. She looked up at Ragnar Vhagar, the Vampire Demon King, who watched her with an unnervingly calm intensity. Arms crossed. Crimson eyes glowing faintly in the purple haze of the throne room. Fangs just barely visible behind a neutral expression that had seen empires fall and found the paperwork annoying. "No second thoughts?" he asked, a hint of mockery in his tone, but also a sliver of genuine curiosity. Even he seemed to grasp the magnitude of this moment,not just a betrayal of one kingdom, but a rewriting of fate. Isabelle shook her head, a bitter smile touching her lips. "My first thoughts led me here. It’s time to try something new." She raised the chalice and drank. The liquid was cold, colder than steel and darker than moonless water. It tasted of iron and old promises, with an undercurrent of something wild, unknowable, and impossibly ancient. It was not a drink. It was a contract. A binding. A death. And a rebirth. As the blood touched her tongue, a shockwave, not of force but of essence, coursed through her body. Her breath caught. Her pulse skipped. She didn’t scream; she had endured worse. But her knees buckled slightly under the weight of what she had just become. It wasn’t agonizing like Ragnar’s own transformation. His had been violent, desperate, forced by circumstance and cruelty. Hers was chosen. And in that choice, the system responded. A bond snapped into place, as real and permanent as any scar. Her soul was now tethered to Ragnar’s, anchored by pacts older than kingdoms and darker than myths. Her old allegiances dimmed. The banners of her past faded. Aethelburg’s proud gold and silver dissolved from her mental landscape, replaced by a new palette—violet, black, and obsidian red. The dungeon’s dim light took on sharper edges. Her wounds ached less. Her vision cleared more. Even the silence around her began to sound like purpose rather than absence. She lowered the chalice and met Ragnar’s gaze. He nodded slowly, approving. "Welcome to the winning team, Isabelle. Or should I say... Isabelle Vhagar?" She blinked. "Vhagar?" "It’s a brand thing," Ragnar said with a lazy wave of his hand. "Chloe Vhagar, my other Bloodkin, seemed to like it. Builds team cohesion. Synergy. Cultish loyalty. You know, the usual." He pulled out his Demon King App, flicking through its neon-red interface until a new profile screen emerged in holographic red glyphs above the chalice. "Let’s see what the system thinks of our little recruitment drive." [Name: Isabelle Vhagar] [Race: Human (Bloodkin-Bound)] [Class: Sword Saint (Evolved)] [Level: 13] [Title: Former Sword Saint of Aethelburg, First Sword of the Night] [Loyalty: Absolute (Pact-Bound)] [Stats: Swordsmanship A, Body B+, Agility B+, Mana D] [Leadership Points (LP): 80] [Subordinate Slots: 0/80] "Swordsmanship A, Body B+. Eighty Leadership Points." Ragnar whistled, genuinely impressed. "Pixia, my dear, we’ve hit the jackpot. She’s even stronger than Chloe in raw combat potential and has a command score that could run a fortress. That Level 13 wasn’t just window dressing." Pixia, who had been hovering like a fascinated historian watching a forbidden ritual, adjusted her spectacles and nodded crisply. "Indeed, my Lord. Converting a high-level, evolved human yields results significantly superior to fabricating Bloodkin from scratch. The long-term potential is exponential." Ragnar groaned, rubbing his temples. "Yes, well, remind me to grumble about the cost later. Ninety days of no CP. No building. No crafting. Just vibes and bloodshed." "Fiscally alarming is my new middle name," he muttered. "Technically," Pixia said helpfully, "you haven’t filed any official designation papers. I believe the system auto-generates middle names based on current status, so yes. You are legally Ragnar ’Fiscally Alarming’ Vhagar." "Gods help me." He exhaled and turned back to Isabelle. "Alright, new life, new duties. First order of business: the cowards who ran. Masakado and the other guy with the forgettable haircut. We can’t have them tattling or regrouping. If they escape, they’ll crawl back to the Hero Guild, crying about corruption and betrayal. We can’t have that." He raised his voice, projecting with a king’s authority. "Grunt. Chloe. Take your best shock troops. Smashy, you too. Hunt them down. I don’t care if you have to track them through fire, jungle, or mid-tier romantic subplots. Eliminate them. I want entrails in trees and scorch marks on the road. We’re making a statement." BOOM Grunt, the Kobold Warlord, slammed his massive obsidian maul onto the floor, sending tremors through the room. His eyes glowed with zealotry. His chest swelled with pride, tongue flicking in anticipation. Chloe simply vanished, a ripple in the air as she melted into the darkness. No words. No hesitation. Smashy the Orc cracked his knuckles, grinning like someone who’d just been told dessert came before dinner. The trio left like a storm given form. Follow current novels on freeweb(n)ovel.co(m)