My Undead Legion In A Game-Like World (Evolving My Undead Legion In A Game-Like World) - Chapter 721

Chapter 721: Other Races
Varun spoke immediately after.

“Then what should we do now, sir?” he asked directly. “If it is not going to be easy, what is our next move?”

The old man turned away from the window and faced them fully.

“There is no need for us to act alone,” he said.

Varun frowned slightly. “Permit me to request enlightenment, sir?”

The old man nodded, expression emotionless, and spoke.

“Hell does not belong to Aurora,” he continued. “There is no reason the responsibility of defending it should fall on one group’s shoulders.”

Varun’s eyes narrowed as understanding dawned on him. “You want to hear the other races’ positions on the matter.”

“Yes,” the old man said. “What they know. What they intend to do. And whether this demon’s appearance is truly an accident. I do not want to believe it has something to do with the demonic supernaturals, because that would mean their power has reached another level. That would be bad news for everyone, and they would need to be treated with far more caution.”

Michael remained silent, but his gaze sharpened.

He did not have a particularly hostile relationship with the demonic supernatural faction. In fact, he could understand some of their grievances, at least in principle. What he disliked was how they carried out their plans.

From Michael’s perspective, a war against oppression should be directed at those in control, the masterminds and their enforcers. Collateral damage should be the exception, not the rule. Yet from everything he had seen so far, the demonic supernaturals did not seem to understand that distinction.

Instead, those who suffered most were often people who had nothing to do with the conflict at all.

Perhaps among the demonic supernaturals there were some who truly fought for a greater cause, justly and sincerely. But the majority did not give off the impression of victims or righteous rebels. They looked more like a group suffering the consequences of their own actions.

Even though Michael did not agree with everything they did or believed, he could still understand why, from a broader perspective, the general public viewed any increase in their power as bad news.

Varun did not hesitate.

“Sir,” he said politely, though the tension in his voice betrayed him, “when can we move?”

He clearly did not want to sound as if he were rushing his superior, but the urgency slipped through regardless.

The old man did not seem bothered in the slightest.

“There is no reason to delay,” he replied. “We move now.”

Relief flashed across Varun’s face.

The old man turned his head toward the Starborn.

“You will come with us,” he said calmly.

The Starborn stiffened, then swallowed. “Me, sir?”

“Yes,” the old man replied, as if it were obvious. “If I remember correctly, your race maintains a station on the sixth floor of Hell.”

The Starborn nodded slowly. “That is correct.”

“Good,” the old man said. “That is where I intend to go.”

Understanding dawned on the Starborn’s face.

The Starborn race might not excel in direct combat, but they were far from weak. Their value lay elsewhere, in information, support, and preparation. In a situation like this, those things mattered.

“I understand,” the Starborn said after a brief pause. “I believe we will be able to provide whatever support we can.”

The old man gave a short nod.

Michael was taken aback by how quickly the Starborn agreed.

There was no hesitation. No attempt to deflect responsibility. No cautious suggestion to remain behind.

That alone felt wrong.

From everything Michael had seen so far, the Starborn were not reckless. If anything, they were careful to the point of timidity. Always calculating. Always weighing risk.

So why agree so readily?

Michael’s gaze shifted to the Starborn.

For a moment, he wondered if the Starborn had simply been intimidated by the old man’s presence and felt unable to refuse. But the more he thought about it, the less that explanation fit.

The Starborn had grown more timid over time, yes, but his response had not been panicked.

Was it because traveling to the sixth floor was not an inconvenience, or because he had something there he wanted to handle?

Michael narrowed his eyes slightly.

Varun straightened. “I will make the arrangements immediately.”

“There is no need,” the old man said. “I will handle the movement.”

Then his gaze shifted, landing briefly on Michael.

“You are coming as well,” he added.

Michael met his eyes and nodded. “Understood.”

To be honest, although Michael understood the old man’s caution, his recent experiences had left him feeling energized. Part of him believed that with just the two of them, they might be able to resolve the demon issue directly.

Still, he was not reckless. One victory was not enough to erase his sense of caution, and he was comfortable with the plan.

The old man did not waste time once the decision was made.

He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve as if they were about to attend a formal meeting, not walk into Hell.

“Overseer,” he said, “from the second to the sixth floor, are there any notable races stationed there?”

Varun blinked, then quickly understood what he meant.

The old soldier was not asking about minor clans weaker than Aurora. He was referring to races with strength comparable to Aurora’s factions, races with enough influence to know what was moving beneath them.

Varun straightened at once.

“Yes, sir,” he replied. “There are.”

“On the second floor, the Amazari,” he said.

Michael recognized the name immediately.

The Amazari were another humanoid race, a variant of humanity as classified by the wider universe. They were often referred to as the Amazon women due to their culture.

It was a matriarch-led warrior society.

Their original realm was extremely small, perhaps less than a tenth the size of Aurora. Even so, their strength was widely acknowledged and respected.

“Also on the second floor,” Varun continued.

This was another race Michael recognized, which made him realize that perhaps he had spent too much time buried in academy libraries. He might need to spend more time outside, even if that meant doing so alongside his undead.

“The Stonekin,” Varun said.

The Stonekin were a short race with broad, dense bodies. They were often compared to dwarves, though the similarities were mostly superficial.

They were classified as a major race, largely due to their age and accumulated influence rather than sheer numbers.

Michael continued listening as Varun named the next race, and this time, it was one he did not recognize at all.

“Third floor has the Veylari.”

“Fourth floor, the Nightshell Race.”

“Fifth floor, the Iron Humans.”

“And on the sixth floor, aside from the Starborn station, there is the Drakeblood race.”

Michael’s attention sharpened at the last name.

This one, he recognized.

Thousands of years ago, a true dragon had descended upon a human variant world. Not to conquer it. Not to rule it.

But to indulge.

The dragon slaughtered every adult male it encountered and took every viable female for itself. What followed was a catastrophe that should have ended in extinction.

It did not.

Some of the offspring survived.

Against all expectations, those children endured the incompatible blood within them. When they matured, they were able to reproduce among themselves.

That was how the Drakeblood race was born.

Their strength was undeniable.

Each Drakeblood carried diluted dragon blood, granting them terrifying physiques, abnormal vitality, and many other benefits. Unfortunately, as generations passed, that blood grew thinner. To preserve their power, they became one of the many races that practiced internal breeding between related bloodlines.

In the wider universe, this was not generally frowned upon. Dragons, after all, were creatures that did not recognize bloodlines or kinship when it came to reproduction.

The old man’s gaze lingered on Varun for a moment.

“Then we start with the Amazari,” he said.

Varun straightened immediately. “Understood, sir. I will lead the way.”

“There is no need,” the old man replied.

He lifted a hand and made a small beckoning motion. “Get closer.”

Varun stepped forward at once.

“You as well,” the old man added, glancing at Michael.

Michael moved without complaint.

The Starborn hesitated for half a heartbeat, then followed, stopping just close enough that Michael could feel the faint, nervous heat radiating from him.

The old man’s expression did not change.

“Point,” he said to Varun.

Varun blinked. “Sir?”

“Toward the direction of their station,” the old man clarified, his voice calm and impatient at the same time.

Varun swallowed, then raised his arm and pointed toward the far end of the corridor, through layers of reinforced walls, as if his finger could pierce them.

The old man nodded once.

Then the air around them tightened.

Michael felt it like pressure settling over his skin, as if the world itself had decided to squeeze them out.

For a split second, the office, the walls, and the window behind them warped, as though seen through water.

Then everything went black.

No sound.

No wind.

And then they were gone.