Sovereign of the Ashes

Pollock was a 1,600-year-old “native” Rank Two black mage of the Darwell Region.

His early years as an initiate had twisted him into a ruthless black mage with a personality that was both cowardly and bloodthirsty.

His cowardice only showed when facing those stronger than him, like his former mentor, the well-known Rank Three grand mages of the Darwell Region, or now, the Divine Tower of Ashes.

Yes, the Divine Tower of Ashes—an enormous threat hanging like a guillotine over the heads of countless black mages in Darwell.

Ever since that tower was successfully established in the region over a century ago, the black mage population had been shrinking, and their activities had steadily declined.

Pollock had already relocated three times in just the past hundred years. Now, he was preparing to move again.

He simply could not understand why the Rank Three black mages of the Darwell Region had not taken action yet.

If those high-ranking black mages intervened, Pollock was certain that low-ranking black mages like himself, who the divine tower had long oppressed, would leap at the chance to strike, like a pack of starving wolves.

Of course, they would never dream of going after the divine tower master—that would be suicide.

But they would target the outer areas, especially those floating ports still under construction.

Pollock had fantasized more than once about rushing in, pillaging one of those sites, and making a fortune overnight.

Yet every time, those daydreams were smothered by the same deeply buried fear.

Pollock had never admitted he was a coward.

1,471 years ago, he had poisoned his mentor, who had abused him for nearly two centuries. After that, he convinced himself there was nothing in the world left to fear.

But the truth was, even after reaching Rank Two and surpassing that nightmare of a mentor, the fear never left him.

It was simply part of who he was.

That was also why Pollock had never dared set foot in the Western Archipelago.

Everyone knew that Blackhaven was far more competitive than Darwell—and Pollock knew, deep down, that he would not last long in a place like that.

Pollock would rather suffer through a miserable life in Ashenreach than venture somewhere unfamiliar.

Driven by years of pent-up resentment, he took out his frustration by cursing and berating the black magic initiates as usual after returning to the black magic tower today.

There were over a dozen of them, all chosen at random by Pollock to serve as assistants and experimental subjects.

The strongest among them had barely reached the level of senior initiate.

There were never any stronger ones as Pollock would always find some excuse to eliminate any initiate who advanced to Quasi Mage.

As a result, none of the initiates under Pollock had lasted more than fifty years at his side.

Honestly, these black mages were a pitiful lot. They had no family, no friends, and could only cling to the pursuit of truth through constant bloody experiments—all while living under the constant threat of being hunted by the divine towers or the knightly orders.

With that kind of environment and pressure, it was no surprise that so many of them lost their minds.

As Pollock hurled insults, calling the initiates in front of him “cockroaches”, he felt a brief moment of twisted satisfaction.

He then flung a tall, slender senior initiate into a tank of corrosive acid teeming with green Corpse Algae.

The screams that followed were music to Pollock’s ears. They eased the restlessness in his mind like nothing else.

The green algae quickly crept toward the dissolving sludge of flesh and blood. The wet, squelching sounds they made while devouring the remains sent chills down the spines of the other initiates, who could only tremble in silent horror.

None of them dared make a sound. Even a gasp could be dangerous. If they attracted Pollock’s attention, they might be the next to be sacrificed.

Fortunately, once the tall, slender initiate had died, Pollock’s mood finally began to improve. He remembered that he had no time to waste and needed to start his work soon.

A foul-smelling, yellowish liquid suddenly began to spread across the floor.

It came from a young female initiate, who looked to be no more than ten years old. Her oversized magic robe was soaked through.

She was Pollock’s newest “experimental subject”. Once she became an intermediate initiate, he planned to conduct a body modification on her using synthetic chimera parts.

Clearly, the young girl had not yet gotten used to the cruel rules of this place.

After witnessing several of her seniors die gruesomely at Pollock’s hands, she was already on edge. So when Pollock’s eyes turned toward her, she collapsed on the spot.

No one dared to help her. Everyone instinctively backed away, putting distance between themselves and the girl.

Pollock furrowed his brow. Just as he was about to casually fire off a Death Ray to get rid of the annoying pest on the floor, a sharp screech suddenly echoed through the magic tower.

The alarm he had set up in advance had been triggered—the intruders were moving much faster than he had expected!

“Shit!” Pollock cursed, no longer paying attention to the unconscious girl lying in the puddle.

“You guys, come with me. We’ll deal with the intruders directly. The rest of you, activate every magic array on the lower floors of the tower!” he barked, pointing at the group of senior initiates in front of him.

He instantly regretted killing that tall, slender initiate earlier.

A black senior initiate could have been useful in battle, or at the very least, used as bait.

“Activate all the arrays? But what about the specimens locked up down there...?” one of the initiates asked in alarm.

He was Pollock’s current favorite. Though only an intermediate initiate, he had managed to earn Pollock’s favor over the past decade with constant flattery and sycophancy.

Pollock shot him a fierce glare.

That was enough to silence him and everyone else.

Without another word, the initiates rushed to carry out Pollock’s commands.