Paladin of the Dead God

Isaac had braced himself, knowing the Graveyard Lord would not surrender easily.

However, the intensity of his resistance far exceeded expectations.

Crunch.

The moment Isaac’s tendrils pierced the inside of the Graveyard Lord’s skull, an explosion of dense divine energy and power erupted outward. Isaac clenched his grip, determined not to let even a single drop of this overwhelming force escape. But the skull quaked violently, trembling as though it might shatter at any moment.

Had he used a mundane sword or axe, this might not have happened. But Isaac’s tendrils tore deep into the Graveyard Lord’s very soul, leaving raw, jagged wounds in their wake.

It was akin to damaging a pressurized vessel holding countless tons of steam.

Despite recognizing the danger, Isaac tightened his hold on the skull, driven by an insatiable hunger and thirst.

[Aaaaaaaah!]

The Graveyard Lord’s skull convulsed wildly. Isaac transformed his right hand into additional tendrils, embedding them into the skull to siphon the surging power more voraciously.

Yet, even with these measures, Isaac felt his strength waning.

The violent divine energies raged, leaving wounds across Isaac’s body and drying out his tendrils. The battle had become a matter of survival—Isaac needed the energy he absorbed to sustain himself against the Graveyard Lord’s rampaging power.

“Die quietly!”

Isaac shouted, pulling the skull closer to his face. Beyond the empty eye sockets of the Graveyard Lord, their gazes locked.

Isaac activated the Eye of Chaos.

To devour this rampaging energy fully, he needed to delve into the Graveyard Lord’s essence and unravel his history.

Crunch. Crack.

Tendrils emerged from Isaac’s upturned eyelids, writhing outward. Soon, his arms and face merged with the skull in a grotesque union. Bound together, their inner worlds collided and intertwined, sharing agony and scars in equal measure.

Isaac became Sarka Noir.

***

“Long live the king!” freewebnσvel.cøm

Amidst a radiant light that bathed the scene in holiness, Sarka Noir ascended the throne in Lichtheim.

The Pope placed the crown upon his head with composed reverence, offering praises. Yet, the bishops and priests watching the ceremony regarded him with cold disdain.

“A secular king being crowned in Lichtheim? Preposterous.”

“Even during the Unified Empire, such a thing never happened. And he’s not even the Emperor—just one of seven kings dividing the remains of the Empire.”

The murmurs reached his ears, but Sarka Noir dismissed them as the whispers of defeated, envious fools.

It was he who wore the crown, he who now held the power to protect and enforce the Codex of Light.

“Now then…”

Before the Pope could even issue instructions, Sarka rose, surveying the hall with a haughty gaze.

The priests, caught off guard, faltered in their ceremonial duties. Their expressions twisted further in displeasure, and the murmurs grew louder.

But Sarka met their glares with unbridled arrogance, looking down upon them as though they were beneath notice.

What could these priests possibly do to him? He would succeed where others had failed. He would accomplish what the Codex of Light had long desired.

“When the First Dawn Army marched, I was only sixteen. Yet I led our forces to victory. Back then, we didn’t even call it the ‘First.’”

In truth, it had been Bishop Villaer and Saint Arte, later known as the Sword of May, who were the true heroes of the First Dawn Army. Sarka Noir had merely led a contingent of a thousand soldiers. Still, his claim as a war veteran was not a lie.

“The Second Dawn Army, pitifully, failed to protect the Holy Land Lua. All because there was no great leader to guide the flock of foolish sheep.”

The priests’ faces turned red with indignation at being likened to sheep. Yet Sarka’s statement was not entirely wrong. The Second Dawn Army had fallen into disarray due to the internal conflicts of the seven kingdoms, despite being bolstered by the paladins trained by Saint Arte.

This failure was precisely why the Codex of Light, swallowing its pride, had elevated Sarka Noir to kingship.

“Today, I proclaim the Third Dawn Army! We shall punish the usurpers who dare call themselves kings, reclaim our sacred land, and restore the Codex of Light to its former glory!”

“Long live the king!”

The priests offered perfunctory praises, bound by duty.

The Codex of Light, its authority diminished by the Treaty of Lichtheim, sought to borrow strength from a mortal with unparalleled leadership and military genius.

Sarka Noir, a figure reminiscent of the legendary Elil in his martial prowess, was the perfect candidate.

Sarka’s skill matched his arrogance, and he was confident in his destiny. He would reclaim the Holy Land Lua at any cost.

But his true intentions differed from those of the Codex of Light.

***

Sarka Noir and his forces, seemingly blessed by divine favor, advanced toward the Holy Land Lua with unstoppable momentum.

Kings and warlords who attempted to exploit his weaknesses met either bizarre misfortunes or humiliating defeats.

Even the fledgling Immortal Order, still in its infancy, was no match. The recovery of the Holy Land Lua was easier than Sarka Noir’s initial victory with the First Dawn Army.

When the undead forces of the Immortal Order were driven back to the desert, the Codex of Light celebrated Sarka Noir, elevating him as a saint.

His royal peers expected him to return and rebuild the Unified Empire. His enemies cowered in fear, while his subordinates and priests dreamed of a glorious new era.

But the king never returned.

Rumors spread that he had become obsessed, frantically searching for something in the Holy Land Lua.

“My king.”

Sarka Noir gently lifted the woman bowing before him.

Gone was the arrogance and authority in his gaze; his eyes softened with tenderness as he embraced his wife.

“You shouldn’t be here, my queen. I warned you it’s still dangerous—this is a battlefield.”

The queen lowered her sorrowful eyes, her voice a whisper.

“Our son, Siarin, is waiting for you. He’s prepared a gift for your birthday and hopes you’ll come home before his tenth birthday.”

Sarka’s jaw tightened.

Siarin Noir. His son, not even ten years old.

The blood of the Noir family carried a curse.

A disease that withered muscles and twisted the body into an agonizing death.

Sarka had watched his grandfather shrivel like a sun-dried tortoise, his body reduced to little more than a monkey-like husk. Neither medicine nor miracles could cure this affliction—it was a curse rooted in their blood.

Perhaps his lust for greater glory, war, and power stemmed from witnessing such horror.

Sarka himself did not know when the curse would claim him, but it had already passed him by for his son.

When Sarka joined the Dawn Army, Siarin had already been too weak to rise from his bed.

Holding his wife tightly, Sarka tried to suppress his trembling hands.

“Don’t worry, my queen. Once I’ve driven the vile Immortal Emperor’s army beyond the Outer Boundary, I will return.”

The queen gazed at her husband in silence.

As a noble herself, she had a sharp understanding of politics and military affairs. What was happening in the Holy Land Lua was clearly not preparation for war.

It was a search.

While embracing Sarka Noir, she whispered softly into his ear.

“The Codex is beginning to doubt you.”

Sarka flinched. However, before he could grow angry or look around nervously, his wife tightened her embrace, holding him close.

“Every priest is a pair of eyes. There are even rumors that the Burning Maiden herself has been sent to watch you. It’s because of the whispers… that you’re searching for the secret of immortality.”

“Nonsense.”

A lie.

The queen, having been his partner for many years, saw through it instantly.

Still, she understood why Sarka was desperately chasing immortality and why he would never abandon his pursuit. With a sorrowful smile, she gently stroked his back.

“Please, come back before Siarin’s tenth birthday.”

But Sarka Noir never returned.

***

Sarka plunged headfirst into his frantic search for the secret behind the Immortal Emperor’s ascension to godhood and the power to drag the afterlife into the mortal realm.

But no answers came.

As suspicion from the Codex of Light grew, they repeatedly summoned him for questioning.

He would have preferred an attack from the Immortal Order—it would have given him an excuse to remain in the Holy Land. Yet, the Immortal Emperor was eerily silent. No army came, no declarations of war. Instead, he taunted Sarka in incomprehensible ways.

“Sarka Noir! You are hereby charged with heresy! Murder, conducting heretical rituals, collecting forbidden relics—ugh, what is this?!”

The day everything unraveled finally came.

Driven to desperation, Sarka Noir conducted ancient and forbidden rituals in the crypts beneath the Holy Land Lua. He sacrificed his blood, animals, and even innocents, offering them in dark, blasphemous rites whose origins were long forgotten.

But these disjointed, chaotic rituals were doomed to fail. The ancient gods drawn to them hungered for his soul but were not powerful enough to claim it. Instead, they became victims of their own greed, consumed by the very rites they had sought to exploit.

When inquisitors from the Codex arrived to apprehend him, they were horrified by the unholy scene before them.

Yet Sarka paid them no mind.

He continued muttering in a forgotten tongue, repeating one phrase over and over: “If you believe, it will come true.”

“How dare you abuse the name of the Codex of Light to bask in glory and power, only to commit such atrocities! You will not escape judgment!”

One of the inquisitors roared, igniting the crypt in purging flames.

But the flames never reached Sarka.

An icy chill surged forth, extinguishing the fire in an instant. Corpses littering the crypt stirred, rising to assault the inquisitors.

The inquisitors fought valiantly, but they were hopelessly outnumbered.

“Sarka Noir, you bastard! Your family, your son—they’ve already been burned at the stake!”

One of the dying inquisitors screamed, his voice a mix of agony and triumph. Sarka’s head snapped toward him.

“Your family died because of you! Have some decency and accept your fate! You dragged countless others to their deaths, and now you plan to live forever?!”

The inquisitor, his face twisted in pain, met Sarka’s gaze with a mocking grin.

“Your son—ha!—he burned so pitifully. His body was already so twisted they could barely bind him to the pyre. And even as the flames consumed him, he cried out for you…”

Sarka grabbed a dagger, his hand trembling violently. But before the inquisitor could continue, a zombie tore into his throat, silencing him in a spray of blood.

The crypt fell silent, save for the grotesque sound of flesh being devoured.

Sarka stood motionless, staring into the darkness. Finally, he spoke.

“Was I wrong?”

[I told you repeatedly that you were.]

The Immortal Emperor, who Sarka had believed to be hiding in the desert, now stood before him as though he had always been there.

In truth, the Emperor had never left. He had been here all along, tempting Sarka.

Through dreams, visions, and even the edge of his vision, the Emperor had whispered to him: “I hold the secret you seek.”

“Was it so wrong to want my son to live a long life?”

[Then you should have sought the Red Chalice.]

“To condemn my son to live forever as a slave?”

[And yet, don’t you already see the rest of the world as your slaves?]

The words were not wrong, but Sarka could not accept them.

His son was different. His son had to grow strong, had to rise above the curse of their bloodline, had to become great.

Sarka’s eyes lingered on the swirling blue petals of roses around him.

“Is it too late to submit myself to you?”

The Immortal Emperor’s face remained obscured in shadow, but Sarka felt the weight of his smile.

[Converting now won’t bring back your family.]

“I know.”

Sarka knelt, his legs trembling.

“I no longer care about immortality for myself. But the Codex of Light is fair—they would have sent my wife and son to heaven.”

His voice cracked as he continued.

“But I… I cannot follow them there.”

[That’s true.]

Sarka raised his head weakly, looking up at the towering shadow of the Emperor.

“So if I am to see them again, I must drag heaven down to earth—just as you have. I will serve you for thousands, even tens of thousands of years, until that day comes.”

The Immortal Emperor extended a hand, placing it gently upon Sarka’s bowed head.

[Long live the king.]