Fang Hong raised the Scepter of Regret and maintained the posture for a long time.

The Messenger heard a deep sound emanating from the surrounding walls, at first like the distant, deep waves of the ocean, mournful and plaintive, then the sound gradually became more powerful, like thousands of horses thundering, incessant and resounding, the ground trembling, sand and gravel falling from the ceiling.

The Dragon Worshippers all turned pale; they felt as though some colossal entity was struggling to break free from its chains, reviving from beneath the ground.

Everyone tensely stood back to back in a circle, "Lord Nikopolas, what on earth is that?" the Messenger shouted, turning his head.

Dragon's Golden Eyes stood stock-still with a ghastly pallor, not uttering a word.

In the darkness, a faint bluish light blinked into existence.

It was a ghost, so pale all over, flames of vengeance flickering in its eyes, materializing behind Fang Hong and passing by him.

"Ghosts!" Realizing something, the Dragon Worshippers suddenly felt as if they had fallen into an ice cave.

"Run—!" The Messenger had no idea what was happening, but how could they leave this place? The Dragon Worshippers quickly realized—there was only one exit.

"This is a good place, as the final resting place for you all," Fang Hong suddenly spoke.

The Messenger screamed in anger, "What nonsense are you spouting, the outcome is not yet known!"

"I am saying," Fang Hong looked coldly at these people: "Good and evil will eventually be repaid."

But the second, the third ghost had already emerged behind Fang Hong.

Their gazes were pale, lost, and hollow, next to each other, like a wall of light. Countless Undead surged forth from the darkness like a tide.

Like a deluge, they flowed past Fang Hong, sweeping toward the Dragon Worshippers' position. And amidst the innumerable ghosts, Fang Hong continued to hold the Scepter of Authority high, his gaze resolutely watching the scene unfold.

Thirty years ago, these people brought about all the disasters of Dolifen.

Thirty years later, they returned here.

But what awaited them was not to finish the final chapter of this broken game.

It was the echo from upon the chessboard.

The souls of countless lowly beings had long been waiting for this moment, to tear their foes to shreds.

In vain, a Dragon Worshipper swung forward with a sword cursed with malice, cutting through the semi-transparent bodies, as the ghosts wailed and passed through him, petrifying the terror on his face.

The face of the dead was frosted over as if encased in thick ice, still maintaining the same posture as when they swung their swords, with hanging icicles still attached to the blades.

With a single touch, they broke apart like fragile ice sculptures, scattering everywhere.

A sea of ghosts poured out from the walls on all sides, with Fang Hong amidst them, raising the Scepter of Authority, like a rock amidst the rapids.

An invisible aura seemed to wrap around the Scepter in his hand.

The aura made every spirit instinctively avoid him, and avoid any non-Dragon Worshipper present, as the Messenger observed this scene, one thought dominated his mind.

Dominion over vast armies—

The oath taken at the moment of the Praetor's inauguration.

'I hold this Scepter to govern the territory and people of the Kingdom, as if commanding vast armies. And this duty in my hands, henceforth, I shall only be loyal to my mission—'

I am faithful to them.

They, in turn, give me Strength.

The deepest Regret.

Is understanding the source of one's weakness.

The Scepter of Regret bore the entire confession of Rockland Grossel, eventually igniting into the fury of revenge, sweeping toward every foe present.

It was an invincible torrent, through Fang Hong's hand, the trust of Dolifen's dead souls in his wake, executed against their former enemies.

One after another, the Dragon Worshippers fell with utter terror, not even knowing how to resist their plight until their dying breath.

For within the Phantom Realm, hatred gave form to the existence of ghosts.

As long as the obsession for revenge persists, the Phantom Realm remains eternal.

Yet now, that anguish was transferred onto those who once inflicted it. The Dragon Worshippers faced a horde of enemies they simply could not kill; as long as they had a breath left, the fire of hatred would continue to burn fiercely.

Like the chains of resentment.

Tightly linking the fates of both sides.

"How could this be!" A Dragon Worshipper screamed in despair, but soon, replacing his scream was a deep, chilling moan.

Like the cracking sound of ice, it engulfed everything.

A glimmering host of Phantoms, buzzing as they passed through his body.

And amidst the vast army, only Dragon's Golden Eyes was unaffected, her golden pupils somberly watching the youth not far away: "That is my ghost army!"

"Indeed, as a part of this Phantom Realm, the chains of hatred from thirty years ago do not bind you."

"Dragon's Golden Eyes, this is your greatest advantage, possessing the Strength to potentially dominate this realm."

"What a pity, in the end, you have done everything wrong."

"But your greatest mistake, just like Sir Declan Rogsel, was to consider everything here as pawns, not understanding the source of your own power?"

"Do you think, within this Phantom Realm, you are still the powerful Dark Giant Dragon? You should have realized that your power has long been suppressed within this Sealing."

"In fact, you always had the chance to leave this realm, to allow everyone to return to peace."

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