Chapter 383: Host or Death

The Midnight King sat motionless upon his throne, as if time itself had frozen around him. His body, half flesh and half stone, each patch of sculpted rock filling the void left by decay. He was something caught between the living and the dead, a king sustained only by the sheer stubbornness of existing. The cracks in his stone skin looked like withered veins, and the uneven texture of his face resembled that of an ancient corpse preserved against its will.

The great hall around him was carved from a deep, cold gray. The ceiling rose high enough to vanish into darkness, and the massive pillars seemed to bear not just the structure but the weight of ages. The floor reflected the cold gleam of torches burning along the corridors, flames of spectral blue that flickered with a dry, metallic hiss. Their light danced across the stone walls and caught on the throne, pulling every gaze toward it. It was impossible not to look.

That throne wasn’t just a symbol. It was the monster’s prison, and, ironically, the key that would send them home. The portal that would return them to their own world depended on that very artifact. So when the king finally spoke, the tension that already thickened the air seemed to crystallize.

“I need to take one of your bodies as a host,” said the Midnight King.

Silence fell like a shroud. Even the sound of the torches seemed to fade, as if the hall had drawn in a collective breath and refused to exhale.

The archangel’s gaze passed over them one by one, studying each face as if weighing the worth of every soul before him. But his eyes did not turn to Luke. The king watched the others only to gauge their reactions, to see who would be the first to waver beneath the sentence.

“H-h-host?” Jack stammered, breaking the silence.

“I assume the system is translating our conversation into the universal tongue correctly,” the creature said, its voice echoing through the hall. “Did you not understand, or shall I repeat myself?”

They understood. All too well. But their minds refused to accept it. The meaning of his words spread slowly, like poison in the blood. The Midnight King wanted one of their bodies, to crawl inside a living shell and use it as his vessel. There was only one way that could happen.

Someone here was going to die.

The thought hovered among them like a blade suspended in air. No one dared to move. Every sound, the faint hiss of the flames, the whisper of wind through the pillars, even the rustle of fabric, seemed unnaturally loud. The very air of the chamber felt aware, bracing for what was about to unfold.

Yet it wasn’t the proposal itself that crushed them; it was his presence. Just looking at him was enough to trigger an instinctive dread, something the system itself confirmed in stark letters that floated before their eyes:

[Fallen Stone Archangel (Midnight King) – Lvl 137]

A Rank D creature, far beyond anything they could hope to face. The number itself, cold and impersonal, said it all. Even together, eight people each at level 50, the gulf was impassable. The difference between 50 and 137 was not merely strength; it was a difference in kind, in being.

It was like an ant trying to bite a wolf.

That was why the silence. That was why the measured fear. Each of them understood there was no easy way out, no peaceful ending. A fight would come. Worse, they felt in their bones that victory was impossible.

“Your Highness,” Evangeline said, stepping forward. Her voice was steady, threaded with forced deference. “Do you really need to take one of our bodies?”

Every head turned. No one could say if her boldness was brave or a last gasp of desperation.

Luke already had his bow in hand. The motion was so natural it might have been a reflex. His fingers closed on the wood with firm intent, an arrow drawn taut against the string. His heart hammered, a muffled drum that filled the quiet. He wanted to fire, to shatter the creature and end it all. To him, negotiation had ended the moment the king said “host.”

But the problem was the throne. The damned throne. He could not risk it. The throne was the key, the only link between them and the portal home. Destroy the throne and the way back would die with it.

Get off the throne, get off the throne.

The thought pulsed through his mind like a mantra. He kept his eyes on Evangeline. Her hands were empty, fingers relaxed, yet there was a faint glow in her palms, the promise of a spell waiting to break free. Shadow Prison. He knew what she was preparing.

Love what you’re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

The Midnight King drew a long, almost human sigh. “I have explained my situation,” he said with a calm that felt like contempt, “but I continue to be the fool for not accounting for the limited intelligence of creatures beneath me.”

For a moment he averted his gaze, as if searching for patience. Fine cracks spidered across his stony face, and when he spoke again his voice had the tone of someone who had lost temper and settled before.

“My body is sick,” he went on, “consumed by a curse. A kind of spiritual rot that devours the soul from within. It begins with the flesh, but the true target is the soul. I am a scholar, however, much like that woman who withered and became a statue.”

He laughed under his breath, a sound like rock rubbing against rock.