0127 The Scepter of the Demon Race

Lancelot remained expressionless, showing no sign of movement. Instead, the middle-aged beastman standing beside him struggled to contain the fury burning within. If his eyes could spew fire, Andy would have long since been reduced to nothing but smoke by a scorching 2000 degrees Celsius blaze. Seeing his subordinate so easily provoked, Lancelot finally stirred. He stepped forward a couple of paces and signaled with his eyes for the beastman to step back. The previously impassive face slowly twisted into a sly, sinister smile, his red eyes coldly fixed on Andy.

"Since this is your first offense, I shall let it pass this time. But General Andy, do not forget that you represent the lives of all those behind you. Is it worth squandering the lives of your own soldiers just to win a fleeting argument?"

Andy’s smile froze awkwardly, but General Girod quickly recovered his composure. Without a word, he nudged his son with his elbow, bringing Andy back from the brink of his rising anger. Andy bowed his head, striving to steady himself as he replied, "Your Highness, I understand, and I shall keep your words firmly in mind."

Witnessing such a dramatic transformation in Lancelot, the soldiers behind Andy—who had once clung to a faint hope that the Lancelot they knew still existed—now wore faces drained of color and heavy with defeat. They clenched their fists so tightly they could hear the bones creak, burying their heads deep in their chests to suppress the anger and unwillingness burning in their hearts. Yet, the outcome was sealed; no matter how bitter their resentment, it could not alter the reality. At this point, if one still failed to see Lancelot’s ambition and decisiveness, then it could only mean they had been foolish enough to swallow too many delusions and were in need of a complete rebirth.

Lancelot gazed over the scene before him with apparent satisfaction. The mocking smile on his face gradually faded as his eyes casually swept across the people prostrated before him. Among them were beastmen who had followed him loyally for years, warriors who had switched allegiance sensing the shifting tides, talented individuals ostracized after the Crown Prince’s fall, and human soldiers who, through his meticulous planning, had finally handed over Akasia to him.

All of these were the fruits of a century of painstaking effort, cultivated under the relentless suppression and exclusion imposed by his elder half-brother of pureblood heritage.

Never before had the dream of ruling the entire beast clan felt so close. A faint thrill stirred within Lancelot. With a graceful turn, his black cloak billowed beautifully in the wind, and his ebony scepter rose slowly in his hand, pointing directly toward the sun.

“By the name of the Ancient Demon Emperor, I, Lancelot Yigen, swear to dedicate my flesh and bones to the restoration of the demon race. Loyal to the demon clan—I vow that should I ever betray this oath, I shall sever myself from the world, with no refuge in life or death, my soul forever restless and unmoored!”

With these words, Lancelot drove the sharp tip at the base of his scepter deep into the back of his hand. Blood, mingling with a surge of golden electrical magic that erupted around him, flowed into the black scepter. The scepter trembled violently, as if struggling to escape his grasp, emitting waves of dark, offensive energy that lashed at Lancelot’s palm and arm. In an instant, the bright, sunlit plaza transformed into a battlefield of swirling black, red, and gold energies infused with blood—a spectacle worthy of a grand live special effects show.

Yet, Lancelot himself was not without discomfort. The scepter, a symbol of demon royal authority, was not easily mastered—especially for one of mixed human and demon royal blood like himself. Securing the scepter of the beast royal lineage was doubly difficult. But perhaps, with the faith of his loyal warriors and the human soldiers’ surrender fueling his power, success was within reach.

Catching Lancelot’s gaze, the middle-aged beastman understood instantly. He turned toward Andy with a commanding tone: “Humans, do not forget that our lord has no intention to harm you. The purpose of bringing you here has been to offer you a chance to surrender.”

Andy glanced once more at Lancelot, who was still struggling amid the swirling red, yellow, and black energies, then at the beast army glaring at him with predatory eyes. He finally understood why Lancelot had so readily promised them mercy upon surrender. Yet, even knowing that his actions now would aid Lancelot’s strange ritual with the scepter, he had no choice but to capitulate. The beast army had already encircled them. No matter how fiercely they resisted, they could only fight for a few more seconds before being utterly annihilated. At this juncture, it was better to follow Lancelot’s terms—when the stakes were so high, it was wiser to gamble on the future rather than perish in mutual destruction.

Exchanging a helpless glance with his father, General Girod sighed deeply and turned to face the soldiers who had fought alongside them through countless battles. These young faces should not bear expressions so heavy with despair or anger. They deserved brighter futures, yet war had caught them unprepared, forcing them into a corner where resistance was their only option. Their earlier fights had been to shield their kin from suffering; now, their compromise was to preserve as much fighting strength as possible, to avoid meaningless sacrifice.

“Grip your weapons in your right hand!” the old general commanded.

In unison, the human soldiers lifted their weapons, holding them firmly in their right hands at their sides.

“Drop them!” The clang of weapons hitting the ground rang out in perfect synchronization.

“Surrender!” General Girod’s hoarse voice rang clearly as every soldier lowered their heads, clasped their hands before their heads, and shouted in unison with their commander: “Surrender!”

The unified chorus, like a massive bass drum pounding at Lancelot’s ears, carried the reluctant but resigned spirit of the humans. Their collective will power instantly neutralized much of the scepter’s dark offensive energy. The red and yellow lights gradually gained the upper hand in this mystical struggle.

Sensing the turning tide, the beastman swiftly knelt again before Lancelot, pouring all his trust and loyalty into a fervent shout: “May the power of the Beast Emperor protect our lord!”

All the kneeling beastmen bowed their heads deeply and echoed in unison: “Protect our lord!”

Their voices were far more resonant and vibrant than the humans’ earlier cries. The sound waves rolled across the plaza, leaving a lingering echo that hung in the air long after they fell silent. Riding this momentum, Lancelot summoned every ounce of his electrical magic, compressing it into a ball of lightning and forcibly driving it into the black scepter.

Under the dual pressure of these spiritual forces, the scepter weakened considerably. Stimulated by Lancelot’s potent magic, it finally ceased its struggle. The black offensive energy that had wrapped around Lancelot’s arm retreated into the scepter’s core. The wound on his hand stopped bleeding. Golden lightning etched Lancelot’s name onto the scepter in defiance.

A triumphant smile spread across Lancelot’s face. But before he could savor the moment and examine his newly claimed scepter, a surge of powerful, familiar magic energy suddenly assaulted him head-on.

His eyes narrowed sharply as he pinpointed the source of the energy—it came from the direction of the place he once called home, the place he knew as Lancelot’s residence.