Chapter 1175: The Conqueror’s Decree

In a distant, nameless valley, the air was thick with the cloying scent of wildflowers.

“Kill them,” Orion said, his voice devoid of all warmth.

It was a strange sight. Where ice and snow had dominated, a carpet of vibrant blossoms now stretched across the landscape as if spring had conquered winter in a single, violent burst.

“My lord, are you certain?” Soraya swayed toward him, her hips moving with a liquid grace. “We could enslave them.” She shot a sidelong glance at the phoenix nearby as she relayed the kill order to her warriors.

The war was already over. It had ended the moment the Cretaceous beasts had broken and fled. Their masters, the sentient Cretaceous people who had orchestrated the conflict, were now all captives. They possessed a natural affinity for the beasts, a born right to command them, holding a place of dominance within their species.

“Don’t look at me,” Fenyra, the phoenix archlord, stated, her voice like chimes of ancient glass. Soraya’s subtle maneuvering had not escaped her. “Those creatures are not my kin. They are, at best, a subordinate race. They were before, and so they shall remain.”

Orion’s gaze swept over the prisoners. “Kill them,” he repeated, his decision final. “They’re intelligent beings who have seen the full scope of this war. The seed of hatred has been planted. It doesn’t matter how well they hide it; one day, it will sprout. I’d rather we raise a new generation, one whose loyalty to the Stoneheart Horde is absolute.”

He understood the stakes. He wouldn’t plant a time bomb in the foundation of his new territory. To truly claim this land, its history had to be razed. The Stoneheart Horde would build its own civilization from the ground up, a new and vibrant world forged in their image.

“Besides, Soraya,” Orion said, turning his attention to a scroll spread across a round table before them. “I think you’ll be far more interested in our next target.”

He pointed to the enchanted map of the third Godforsaken Land. At its center, a green island pulsed with a soft light, surrounded entirely by a vast, churning sea of yellow.

“Is that… a desert?” Soraya leaned in closer. “No, wait. That’s a sea of sand. An entire ocean of it.” Her gasp was sharp enough to make Lumi, who had just entered the tent, turn her head.

“Check the notation in the bottom left corner,” Orion said, a faint smile playing on his lips, anticipating her reaction.

Soraya’s eyes drifted downward, a flirtatious glance for Orion already forming before the script captured her full attention. Her gaze locked onto the words, and the world outside them seemed to melt away.

Intel suggests the Kasathian Sea of Sand may have manifested a sliver of the Desert’s Authority.

“The Desert’s Authority?” Her voice trembled. “Is this… could this be real?” She looked up, her eyes burning with a raw, desperate hunger that Orion had never seen before—not even in their most intimate moments.

“The source of that intel is solid,” he said. “We’ll know for sure soon enough. As soon as your scorpion broods have been replenished, we’ll go see for ourselves.”

The Desert’s Authority wasn’t a power created by an individual. It was a fundamental force of existence, a sliver of cosmic dominion that could only form under a unique set of environmental conditions. If Soraya could claim it, if her scorpion tribe could control that entire sea of sand, it would open a direct path for her to one day ascend to the rank of demigod.

The odds of such an ascension were infinitesimal, but the immediate benefits were concrete. With even a fragment of that Authority, Soraya would wield the power of an archlord within the confines of that Godforsaken Land. It was the ultimate power-up.

“Darling, I…”

He raised a hand, gently pressing a single finger to her lips, silencing whatever she was about to say. “The Authority is yours. The sea of sand is yours. Of everyone in the Stoneheart Horde, you are the only one suited to claim it as your fiefdom.”

She was his. He didn’t need her to ask.

“My magnificent lord,” Soraya whispered, her eyes smoldering. “May your glory spread across all worlds.” She darted her tongue out, lightly tracing the tip of his finger. The look she gave him sent a jolt of heat straight through him.

Just then, Lumi reached out and placed her hand on Orion’s arm. A wave of soothing coolness washed over him, dousing the fire Soraya had ignited.

“You little minx,” Orion chuckled, pulling both women into his embrace. He looked at Lumi, his expression shifting to one of command. “My dear Lumi, I’m leaving you in charge here. Hold the line.”

“Understood.”

***

Silverwood Realm, Staghelm City.

“Hahaha! See? This is who I am now! Stronger than any of you could ever dream of being!”

Clown cackled, a massive fist slamming into Arthas and his blade, sending him staggering back. He pressed his advantage, the twin blades on his back merging into a single, massive weapon that scythed upward in a devastating arc.

“Begone!” Arthas roared, raising Alexander’s Blade to meet the attack.

Clown’s eyes burned with a manic, ecstatic energy.

Suddenly, a shadowy hand materialized from the void—the Claw of the Reaper—and clamped down on the War Golem, trapping Clown within its grasp.

“A pathetic trick!” Clown bellowed. With a screech of tortured metal, the spectral claws shattered. He was free.

But he was too late. Arthas’s strike was already upon him.

BOOM!

The impact sent Clown rocketing toward the ground like a meteor. Yet, he landed with impossible stability, his feet planted firmly. He tilted his head back, his gaze locking onto Arthas with a blistering intensity. A deep gash marred the brow of the War Golem, but it was already sealing itself, the metal flowing like liquid to close the wound.

“I’m disappointed, Arthas,” Clown sneered. “Your sword feels a little… dull. Heh. You know, I don’t think you even hit as hard as Alexander did.” He let out a low, mocking chuckle. “You’re weak.”

Arthas’s face was a mask of cold fury. He said nothing, simply shifting his grip on his sword from one hand to two.

But as he prepared to charge, a serene voice echoed through the fractured space.

“Champion, allow me to offer my aid.”

It was the voice of Moonwell Demigod, and with it came a tidal wave of her divine power.

In an instant, pillars of moonlight pierced the gloom. A pale, ethereal glow enveloped Alexander’s Blade, its edges now humming with a chilling frost. A translucent shield of moonlight materialized around Arthas, radiating a holy power that felt solid and unyielding. Strangely, for an undead being, the sacred energy caused him no discomfort.

And then, flanking him on either side, two perfect duplicates of himself coalesced from pure moonlight—silent, glowing Lunar Phantoms ready for battle.