"These strange trees of yours, sister Dark Shadow... they’re absorbing ambient mana from the surroundings to grow stronger..."
Forty-Two squatted low, her delicate fingers gently brushing the tender sprouts breaking through the rich, dark soil. Her eyes shimred with childlike curiosity—yet behind them glimred the sharp edge of intellect far beyond her youthful fra.
Mana-fueled growth was nothing new to her. In fact, she had witnessed and studied countless spiritual flora over her years—across battlefields, dead realms, and forgotten gardens—but sothing about these trees made her pause.
Her gaze narrowed.
The saplings weren’t consuming all mana indiscriminately. No—they were choosing.
Discerning. Selective.
She leaned closer, pressing her ear against the bark of a nearby shoot as if listening to its pulse. The mana flow whispered against her skin.
"...Quite the picky eaters, are we?" she murmured with a strange glint in her eyes, her lips curling into a thoughtful smirk. "Just like their mistress."
She stroked the tiny green leaves with surprising tenderness, as if offering reverence to the will of nature itself. But before she could examine the next cluster, her nose twitched slightly.
A breeze passed—carrying more than the scent of soil and sap.
An aura.
Familiar.
Unmistakable.
In one swift motion, her head snapped up. Her body froze. Her pupils dilated.
The air was heavy now, as if dipped in blood and silence. The forest around her fell into eerie stillness. Even the trees held their breath.
"...Why is she here?" Forty-Two whispered, the color draining from her cheeks.
That presence—it didn’t belong in this place. It belonged sowhere far worse.
Number 35.
The Crimson-Eyed Witch.
Her mind reeled.
Why now? Why here? Is she here to... catch ?
She couldn’t stop the chill that crept down her spine. Her rebellious façade began to crumble beneath the weight of dread.
She wasn’t afraid of most undead. She could play, trick, and even manipulate them to an extent.
But not her.
Not Number Thirty-Five.
Every princess below the rank of forty had stepped into the dreaded Stage 3, leaving behind mortality and conventional limits. Compared to them, Forty-Two—despite her status—was still little more than a rebellious spark flickering beneath the shadow of a sun.
If that woman was truly coming for her, then...
Her fists clenched.
There was nothing she could do.
No tricks. No escape.
Just... fate.
Her voice trembled, a whisper carried only by the trees, "Oh no... Did she really find ?"
And as if to confirm her fears, the oppressive aura shifted—growing stronger, closer.
Rushing directly toward her like a crimson cot across the sky.
Forty-Two’s eyes widened in disbelief. Her instincts scread.
She’s coming. She’s really coming for .
However, just as the suffocating aura of the Crimson-Eyed Witch was about to close the distance—re monts away from pinpointing her exact location—it suddenly halted mid-air, like a predator catching the scent of a more tempting prey.
Forty-Two remained frozen, her mind racing, her breath caught in her throat.
Then, like a dam breaking, she exhaled sharply, shoulders sagging ever so slightly.
Relief.
For now.
She found sothing else... sothing more interesting?
Whatever it was, it bought her ti—sothing she knew better than to waste.
"No," Forty-Two muttered, already turning, the playful sparkle in her eyes gone. "I can’t stay here anymore. I need to leave—fast."
She didn’t trust coincidences. Not with her.
The Crimson-Eyed Witch was tenacious to the core. Once she set her eyes on sothing, she’d chase it across worlds, overturn the heavens if she had to. Delay was not safety—only illusion.
Even though Forty-Two had kept her panic mostly in check, she couldn’t escape the sharp eyes that watched her from behind the shadows.
Dark Shadow and Alexandria had long noticed her unease.
With their recent bloodline awakenings and leaps in cultivation, their senses had evolved far beyond re sight or sound. Even the most minute flicker of tension in Forty-Two’s fra—the twitch of a shoulder blade, the shallow intake of breath—was like a flare to them.
And more than that, Dark Shadow had already been watching her.
So when Forty-Two tried to sneak off—her steps light, pace casual but deliberate—two pairs of eyes imdiately snapped to her.
She tried to salvage the situation.
A sheepish smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She turned her head slightly, tilting it in mock innocence as she tried to sidle away at a less suspicious pace.
But it was already too late.
A violet flash cut through the air—silent, elegant, decisive.
In the blink of an eye, Dark Shadow appeared beside her, erging from the void like a phantom. Her purple, pupil-less eyes glowed with quiet power, peering straight into the depths of Forty-Two’s soul.
There was no warmth in those eyes—only cold judgnt.
Before Forty-Two could react, Alexandria joined the scene, descending from the treetops with feline grace and silent fury. Her sleek blade glead in her hand, its sharp edge reflecting the filtered sunlight through the canopy above. Golden ears twitched. A soft growl rumbled in her throat.
The cat-eared warrior’s gaze landed on Forty-Two as if she were already condemned.
For a mont, the air seed to tremble between the three of them.
Tense. Still. Volatile.
Caught between the two fierce won, Forty-Two blinked, her expression morphing into one of exaggerated innocence.
She clasped her hands in front of her chest, tilted her head with practiced charm, and said in the sweetest voice she could muster:
"W-What do you want, big sisters? Please tell —I’m in a hurry, you see... Father’s looking for ."
She even threw in a soft pout, wide eyes shimring.
And of course, she didn’t forget to drop the bomb—Father. As in Ricky.
The words lingered in the air like bait dipped in venom.
As expected, the ntion of Ricky made Dark Shadow’s stoic mask crack, if only for a fleeting second. A faint tremor passed through her expression, a twitch of the lips—but almost imdiately, her cool indifference returned.
But Forty-Two had seen it.
And now, she had one hope.
So distance away from the rising tension between Forty-Two and the others, Felicia stood in serene silence atop a softly swaying tree branch, her gaze distant yet focused. The wind gently played with the edges of her flowing white gown, the fabric fluttering like moonlight woven into silk. Her long silver hair was neatly tied into a simple bun, a few loose strands framing her sculpted face.
Even without a trace of makeup or ornantation, she radiated an ethereal grace—like a goddess who had descended from the celestial realm to walk among mortals.
Her golden eyes calmly swept across the scene below, landing on the bustling training camp where Boar was barking orders with commanding authority. The air rang with the clashing of weapons, the strained grunts of fresh recruits, and the sharp discipline imposed by the towering, muscular beastman.
Boar moved through the lines like a tempest—aggressive yet controlled—his massive fra commanding obedience, his booming voice instilling discipline. Every strike he demonstrated, every correction he made, radiated battlefield experience.
Felicia tilted her head, her voice a soft murmur carried by the wind.
"He looks like a natural-born general..."
Beside her, Prince Darius stood with his arms crossed, silent and observant. His sharp eyes had not missed the subtleties either. Boar wasn’t just training soldiers—he was shaping warriors, instilling in them a primal fire few could evoke.
Darius gave a silent nod, his expression unreadable. Indeed, the way Boar carried himself—the way he adapted, commanded, and inspired—felt eerily reminiscent of the legendary generals of the Eldros Kingdom, n whose nas were etched into history and whose conquests shaped continents.
And yet, Boar had never led armies across thousands of battlefields. He had no royal backing, no ancient bloodline, no strategic education.
Still... he possessed it.
That intangible presence.
Darius’s gaze lingered a little longer, then he shook his head slightly, brushing the thought aside. Now was not the ti to be dwelling on prophecy or potential. There were more pressing matters at hand.
His brow furrowed, and a sharp glint appeared in his eyes.
Just as he turned to speak to Felicia, his entire body froze mid-motion.
A pulse.
A chill, not physical but spiritual, brushed against his skin like skeletal fingers creeping from the void.
His eyes darkened instantly.
Without another word, his body flashed and blurred—ascending into the sky like a cot breaking through clouds.
Felicia’s calm composure vanished in an instant. Her golden eyes narrowed, and she extended her hand to the wind, feeling it tremble.
The pressure in the air shifted.
A dense, heavy aura of death had spilled into the world—not just any undead, but one born from ancient hatred and unnatural evolution.
A Princess of the Undead.
Felicia whispered, her voice cold and resolute:
"So another one finally shown herself..."
And then she, too, disappeared—a streak of white vanishing into the treetops, chasing after the approaching storm.
Forty might have slipped out of her grasp but she is wasn’t going to let another slip by.
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