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The wounds on Griffith's body were all sword marks. Those gray streaks of injury would serve as undeniable proof of "a thousand cuts" on any living being. Even with the high-level undead physiology of the "Dark Eagle," he had already lost the strength to move. Moreover, the peculiar power contained within those sword marks made it impossible for him, who commanded both light and dark powers, to heal the wounds quickly.

Yet, Griffith, in such a dire state, showed not a trace of panic. He merely wore a faint, bitter smile as he gazed at the being who had carved these wounds upon him.

Or rather, the "skeleton" or "undead."

In truth, this "person's" appearance perfectly matched the continent's traditional depictions of the undead: neither the radiant, fair-skinned, rosy-cheeked handsomeness of Griffith, nor the polished, gilded, intricately carved skeletal form of the King of the Undead. This undead resembled a corpse left to rot in the wilderness for years—shriveled flesh clinging to bone, withered strands of hair hanging loosely from the skull. Wrapped in tattered black robes, wreathed in dark mist, and with eerie green flames flickering in sunken eye sockets, he might as well have carried a sign that read, "I am an evil necromancer."

But he was no necromancer.

Because of the sword at his waist—an eerie, slender blade.

It was a sword seemingly twisted from black thorns and white bone fragments, over a meter and a half in length but barely a finger's width. In appearance, it resembled a delicate yet grotesque artifact—black, unknown metal thorns binding together hundreds of narrow, delicate bone shards, forming the blade, hilt, and guard in an intricate, hollowed-out pattern. The guard itself was inlaid with seven bone-carved lilies, some in full bloom, some budding, and some withered.

But Griffith knew all too well that this sword's power surpassed even his own Sword of Light. And yet, far more terrifying was the "person" wielding it. Because, in the span of mere moments earlier, that "person" had effortlessly dismantled him—the undead commander whose combat energy surpassed any human Sword Emperor, renowned as a genius for his unmatched techniques—without even using combat energy or any other power. Just pure swordsmanship. Griffith hadn't stood a chance.

But this was inevitable. Because...

“Cough... Mentor, you've been undead for centuries. Must you still intervene in the continent's wars, risking your existence for humans?” The white-haired undead commander smiled bitterly as he addressed the “person” before him.

Indeed, this undead was Griffith's martial mentor. Their master-disciple bond had even predated his own transformation into an undead, which was why he knew full well that his so-called "genius" title was nothing but a joke in the face of this mentor.

The undead replied in a resonant yet hollow voice, “Every soul that was once human bears chains they cannot cast off. Otherwise, why cling to this world? Just like you—for vengeance, for resurrecting your wife and comrades, you've struggled for two centuries. Have you ever regretted it?”

“But...” Griffith found himself smiling even more bitterly. “Haven't you already done enough? Twice you lent 'Regicide'—first to destroy the Holy Light Empire, then to slay the Beast Emperor—and plunged the continent into chaos. Never mind how crucial the thing you seek is to us. Just your plan alone... If you take that final step, I fear you may never return to this island again.”

"Do not concern yourself. If I seek that object, I will gather it all. Once none remain, there will be no more balance to maintain,” the black-robed, sword-bearing undead declared with cold finality. “As for myself... If this leads to my annihilation, perhaps it is no bad thing. After all, I was revived for this very purpose. Enough. These matters are not for you to concern yourself with. You need only decide: will you hand it over willingly, or must I destroy you and take it myself?”

“Sigh... It seems I have no choice. I hope you remember your promise.” Knowing there was no turning back, Griffith shook his head and reached into his robes, pulling out a small leather pouch. He turned it over, letting its contents spill into his palm before tossing it to the other.

The object gleamed yet deathly translucent, radiating an aura of stillness. Had Chen Xuanfeng been present, he would have been stunned—for this was the supreme embodiment of power on the continent: the "forbidden spell mark crystals."

“I hope one day, you may return here,” Griffith murmured with a sigh as he watched the retreating figure of the undead. “My mentor—the great 'Ancestor of Sword Saints,' Lord Reinhardt.”

PS: Well, I won't say much. It's been so long since the last update, I nearly forgot the password to my writing sanctum. *Cough.* My mentor went to a conference in the U.S., so I sneaked in an update.

Heroic Werewolf Scroll

Chapter 91: Blade Light That Cleanses Mountains

Another ten-plus days passed. From the outside, Qingcheng Fortress appeared unchanged—still heavily guarded, with no news leaking out. This only further diminished the outside world's hopes for the survival of the "Holy War Martial Emperor" Catherine.

Until this day, when everything changed.

At dawn, a piercing wolf's howl tore through the sky. Before long, the fortress's inhabitants saw their lord appear atop the walls. Without a word, he summoned his mount—the now six-winged, single-horned Demon Dragon—and soared into the heavens, flying eastward toward the Sacred Dragon Mountain.

The spies gathered at Fontainebleau naturally relayed this intelligence immediately. Soon, the higher-ups of all factions reached the same conclusion: the life of the last Saint Martial Emperor, Catherine, must have come to an end.

That was why the Snow Wolf Lord, in his grief and fury, was charging toward the Sacred Dragon Mountain. Yet, beneath Qingcheng Fortress, within its secret underground structures, an entirely different scene was unfolding.