And Valacar, the master of Mosela Citadel, had given his response.

Orion sighed quietly. Perhaps he had made his decision the moment he chose not to order the assault. He closed the invitation and looked up, his voice cool and distant.

"Go back. Tell your Progenitor I will visit Mosela Citadel in half a day."

The vampire emissary's face lit up. He had shown enough courage and cunning to complete the task his Progenitor had given him. This was his chance to finally get on the old man's radar. If the clan ever had an opening for an archlord, he might just be the one they'd pick.

The emissary, whose name was Nocthyr, bowed and withdrew. He desperately wanted to introduce himself, but Orion showed no interest, not even bothering to ask his name.

"Bidalun," Orion commanded. "Send word to Holrivus and Thronlis. They will accompany me to Mosela Citadel. Also, have Ashreign dispatch a thousand Wraith Knights to serve as the honor guard for this visit."

Bidalun looked up, a protest on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it. "As you command."

He departed, thinking to himself that the winged Bone-gnawer beasts would have been a far more practical choice for an escort. If things went south, the flyers could at least get a few survivors back with a warning.

But Bidalun didn't understand. To Orion, an honor guard was cavalry—perfectly equipped, with identical mounts, moving in flawless, unified rhythm. The Wraith Knights fit that image perfectly.

Half a day vanished in a blink.

As dusk settled over The Crimson Plain, a column of cavalry emerged from the gloom. The Wraith Knights were clad in exquisite armor, longswords at their hips, lances etched with glowing runes hanging from their saddles. They moved in absolute silence, their gait perfectly synchronized. A palpable aura of solemnity, resolve, and honor washed over the plains as spectral green fire clung to the knights and their steeds, whispering in the wind.

At the head of the formation rode Orion on his abyssal dragon, Xalathar. The beast hadn't been this content in ages; to be chosen as Orion's mount for such a momentous occasion was the highest honor. Xalathar carried himself with a steady, powerful stride, his very presence radiating a terrifying menace.

Yet, no matter how much primal fear Xalathar projected, he couldn't outshine the two figures flanking him, clearing the path ahead: the Scourge Wardens, Holrivus and Thronlis. The massive Wheels of Scourge spinning slowly behind their backs made them look like titans forged in the deepest pits of the Abyss.

In the distance, before the gates of Mosela Citadel, the demigod Valacar stood waiting, leading the welcoming party. He was as still as a statue, his gaze fixed on Orion's approaching column. They had a silent understanding, he and Orion: neither would use their divine power to probe the other.

But as the honor guard drew closer, Valacar's perfectly still expression finally broke. His eyebrows shot up—not a frown of concern, but a sharp arch of profound gravity.

He realized what he was seeing. Scourge Wardens? What in the hells are they doing here? It seems they follow him, then. Of course. Anyone who dares to wage a war of conquest in the Abyss is never simple.

As a demigod who had traveled to the higher planes of the Abyss, Valacar's knowledge and ancient existence made recognizing the Scourge Wardens a trivial matter.

He felt a surge of confidence. It seems my humility has allowed me to avoid a truly nasty fight.

Seeing the Scourge Wardens told Valacar everything he needed to know. The approaching Orion would not be an enemy, nor could he ever be a mere neighbor. He was just a passerby. The higher planes of the Abyss were the only fitting destination for one commanding such followers.

Valacar composed himself. Since they were not enemies, he was certain he and Orion would have a very pleasant conversation.

The ground began to tremble more violently as the procession neared. The sheer scale of Holrivus and Thronlis, hundred-meter-tall giant, drew gasps of awe from the vampires watching from the citadel walls. They were nearly as tall as the ramparts themselves.

The tremors ceased as the two giants halted. From between them, a common low-plane abyssal dragon emerged, and seated upon it was a Death-Soul whose aura was utterly void.

Valacar's mind reeled with fresh surprise as he identified the rider. The Death-Soul race dominated an entire world in the higher planes. At that moment, he couldn't help but suspect Orion was someone of immense, hidden importance.

He had no more time to ponder. Orion's escort was nearly upon them, and Valacar had to step forward to greet his guest. His eyes glinted with appreciation when he saw Orion dismount from the dragon to approach on foot.

Valacar, a demigod, was waiting in person. Orion, the conqueror, was walking to meet him. It was a gesture of mutual respect.

"Orion, welcome to Mosela Citadel," Valacar's voice was smooth and resonant. "Your arrival has caused the mists of blood above the fortress to part, allowing the moonlight to shine through. A phenomenon not seen in a century!"

It was flattery, of course, but Valacar delivered it with genuine sincerity. He had, after all, dispersed the mists himself.

"An invitation from Lord Valacar is an honor I could not refuse," Orion replied easily. "We have come from beyond the known realms, and we heard tales of Mosela Citadel's solemn grandeur from a great distance. Everyone speaks of this place as the heart of The Crimson Plain, a bastion of glory and power."

It was a classic exchange of political compliments. After spending so much time with Leonidas, Orion could now deliver such lines without a second thought.

Valacar smiled.

Orion smiled.

The demigod placed his right hand over his left breast in a peculiar gesture. In response, Orion brought his own right hand up to pat his chest—the formal salute of the giants.

It was this simple greeting that triggered a revelation in Valacar.

Wait. That's not the salute of the Death-Soul. His mind, once a placid lake, was now a maelstrom of chaotic thoughts he couldn't suppress. He isn't one of them. Is this… an avatar? How could he dare… How could he possibly dare… We're talking about the Death-Soul—a race that has an Abyssal Ruler!

His shock caused his gaze to flicker, losing its focus for a fraction of a second. He masked it well, but to someone like Orion, who stood on the very precipice of becoming a demigod himself, the shift was unmistakable.

"Lord Valacar," Orion's voice was light, his face graced with an enigmatic, knowing smile. "Are you perhaps curious about this body of mine?"

"I am, indeed, quite curious," Valacar recovered instantly, letting out a self-deprecating laugh. He didn't press the matter. Even if Orion was willing to explain, this was hardly the time or place.

"Lord Orion, please," Valacar said, stepping half aside to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with him, their conversation flowing easily as they moved toward the gate.

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