Summoned a Hero But Got a Villain Instead-Chapter 105: The Newest Jewel in the Tyrant’s Crown

The thirty seconds were up.

Lucaris Thalric reappeared.

He was no longer the proud, living legend. He was a broken old man.

He stood in the center of the arena, his body trembling. His knuckles raw and bleeding from the hundreds of invisible blows he'd landed on Dante's unyielding flesh. His breath came in ragged, painful gasps.

His eyes, once the sharp, clear blue of a glacier, were now wide with pure, soul-shaking terror.

He looked at his own bloody hands. Then he looked at Dante, who stood before him completely unharmed. A single, healed scratch on his cheek was the only evidence that a fight had even occurred.

The living legend of the north, the hero of the 46th Trial, fell to his knees.

The roar of the crowd which had been a tidal wave of cheers for their champion died. It didn't fade. It was cut off, as if by a blade.

A deep, profound, utterly disbelieving silence fell over the tens of thousands of spectators.

Then the silence shattered.

It was replaced by a wave of insane, confused shouting.

"What is happening?"

"Did he give up?"

"No way! Lord Lucaris would never surrender!"

Lucaris ignored them. His world had shrunk to the single, terrifying figure standing before him.

"What... what are you?" he whispered, his voice raw and broken.

Dante's smile was slow, cold, utterly merciless.

"You wanted to give me an easy death," he said, his voice a low, mocking purr that carried to every corner of the now-silent arena. "You wanted to settle a debt. But you see, old man, the only debt being settled here today is the one this world owes me."

He took a step forward.

"You wanted to see a hero?" he asked, his voice rising. Gaining a theatrical, booming quality. "You wanted to see a blessing from a Goddess?"

He raised his hand to the sky.

"Then let me show you what a real blessing looks like."

The world went dark.

It wasn't the slow fading of a sunset. It was sudden, absolute, completely unnatural extinguishing of the light.

The bright, clear sky above the arena was blotted out. Replaced by a churning, endless ocean of pure, black shadow.

A cold that had nothing to do with Masha's ice settled over the arena. A deep, soul-chilling cold that promised an eternity of nothingness.

The crowd screamed. A single, collective sound of pure, primal terror.

The ground of the arena—the sun-baked sand began to churn. It wasn't an earthquake. The sand itself was turning black, becoming a flowing, bubbling river of shadow.

And from that river, they began to rise.

First came the legion.

Hundreds of them. The skeletal forms of Granite-Hide Minotaurs, their bones now the color of polished obsidian. Their empty eye sockets burning with cold, violet light.

Packs of Phase Spiders, their bodies now made of pure, flickering shadow, scuttled from the darkness.

From the sky, a silent, terrible rain began to fall as the ghostly forms of hundreds of Wyverns descended. Their leathery wings now made of black mist. Their silent screeches a chorus of the damned.

They were an army of nightmares. A legion of every creature the heroes had slain, returned from the grave to serve their new master.

They didn't make a sound. They simply stood—a silent, endless ocean of violet-eyed death. Their collective gaze fixed on the terrified, kneeling form of Lucaris.

But that was just the beginning.

Next came the sentinels.

Four perfect, silent silhouettes of darkness rose from the ground at Dante's back.

The hulking, unbreakable form of Eric. The gentle, healing light—now a cold, sickly green that was Rina. The quiet, analytical presence of Edgar. And the flickering, unstable form of Kael.

They were the ghosts of the heroes who'd fallen. Their loyalty now absolute. Their purpose twisted into a tool for his convenience.

Then came the lieutenants.

A new tier of horror rose from the churning shadows.

The hulking, brutish form of the Orc Champion. The Crimson Juggernaut that was Derek, his spectral form crackling with malevolent, red light. The Guardian, his shield a promise of absolute defense.

They were joined by the ghosts of their most recent, most powerful enemies.

Lucien—'my orphanage rival' his blood-red sword now a blade of pure, solidified shadow. And the others: Veyrion, Draven, Garron, Thorne, and Riven. Each one a perfect, shadowy copy of the monster they'd once been.

They were his royal guard. His collection of the damned.

And finally, the titans.

The ground of the arena split open.

FWOOSH!

Two impossible, god-like beings erupted from the abyss.

Hephaestus, the Infernal Juggernaut. Its thirty-foot form of obsidian and magma now a terrifying monument of violet-tinged fire.

And beside it, a creature of pure, living darkness. A nightmare given form.

Ouroboros, the Abyssal Shadow. Its seven heads a silent, writhing storm of destruction.

The two S-rank titans stood on either side of Dante. Their colossal forms blotting out what little light remained.

The arena was no longer an arena.

It was a throne room.

And Dante was its king.

He stood in the center of his army surrounded by a universe of death.

'He was an aura farmer, and the crop he'd sown was the fear of an entire world.'

In the royal box, the leaders were no longer leaders. They were terrified children in the face of a power they couldn't comprehend.

Lord Rowan of Thalric, the proud, arrogant king of the north, had collapsed back into his seat. His face was a pale, bloodless mask of pure, unadulterated terror.

His kingdom, his power, his living legend of a champion—all of it was nothing. Less than nothing. A joke.

Beside him, the Elf Queen, the Vampire King, and the Arch-Sage were on their feet. Their hands gripping the railing. Their faces a mixture of awe, terror, and dawning, horrified understanding.

"There's no way," the Elf Queen whispered, her voice soft and disbelieving. "That boy... he's not a hero. He's an abyss. A walking, breathing abyss."

"He's a god of death," the Vampire King corrected. His own ancient, predatory arrogance completely gone, replaced by simple, primal fear. "And we... we've just declared war on him."

The headmaster, his face ashen, simply stared. He saw not a villain, but a force of nature. A fundamental, terrifying shift in the balance of their world.

Dante let the silence stretch. He let them see. He let them understand.

Then he gave a single, silent command.

His army didn't attack. They didn't move.

They simply... focused.

The collective, malevolent will of a thousand resurrected monsters, of a dozen powerful heroes and villains, of two S-rank gods—all of it focused into a single, crushing wave of pure, psychic pressure.

And it was all aimed at the single, kneeling figure of Lucaris.

The old hero didn't scream. He didn't cry out.

He simply... broke.

His mind, his spirit, his very soul shattered under the impossible, overwhelming weight of it all.

The light in his glacier-blue eyes flickered and died.

He collapsed onto the sand. A hollow, empty shell.

Dante walked over to him. He stood over the body of the man who'd promised him an easy death.

"You were right," Dante said, his voice a quiet, final judgment. "You did have a debt to settle. But it wasn't to your king. It was to me."

He raised Soul-Drinker.

Shnk!

With a single, clean, utterly emotionless motion, he ended him.

Then he knelt. He placed his hand on the still-warm corpse of the living legend.

And he pulled.

A new shadow—powerful, ancient, full of a warrior's broken pride rose from the body.

It was Lucaris.

And he was now the newest, and most powerful, jewel in the tyrant's crown.