I Can Summon Legendary Figuress

"These will be your immediate subordinates."

Inside an underground hall carved from dense, reinforced basalt, Ulric introduced the group of five to a team of thirty individuals wearing matching dark-gray trench coats and steel-reinforced greaves, lined up in rigid formation beside a looming void-class battleship.

The Bastion did not lack men. However, its core elders and high-ranking vanguards couldn’t be everywhere at once, so they frequently contracted auxiliary forces across the four kingdoms to handle minor skirmishes, border pacification, and disputed stronghold seizures.

"These are seasoned regulars from the West Wall Brigade of the Cryptic Empire. They will assist you in commandeering the Thousand Beast Citadel from the Ascendant faction," Ulric said, gesturing toward the silent ranks.

Every faction within the Bastion held ties with dozens of premier mortal organizations spread across the human territories. In exchange for manpower, external factions received access to high-grade cultivation scriptures, scarce alchemical resources, and the coveted pathway for their exceptional officers to eventually test for full Bastion induction.

For an external military wing like the West Wall Brigade, this assignment was a monumental opportunity to earn direct favor with the Dawn Faction.

For the Bastion, it was an expendable, cost-effective way to project force without redeploying internal garrison legions.

"These are children."

Before Ulric could outline the operational parameters, an officer standing near the front of the formation cut in, his flat tone echoing off the stone walls.

*Children.*

The single word hung heavy in the damp subterranean air.

Ethan had matured drastically since the fall of the Wilderness Stronghold. His sharp jawline and hardened demeanor bore none of the softness of a sheltered youth; his posture carried the cold, calculating weight of someone who had survived divine massacres, butchered Demi-god beasts, and waded through oceans of corrupted blood.

The comment was a blatant, calculated probe for weakness.

"What’s your name?"

Ethan didn’t wait for Ulric to intervene. He stepped smoothly past the Angel, his fitted, two-piece martial attire shifting silently as he closed the distance between himself and the front rank.

Ethan had never been a pushover.

Not when he was hunted through the border forests by the Algar clan’s enforcers. Not when he was taken hostage by Davos and dragged into a Demi-human war zone. And certainly not now, standing atop the supreme summit of human authority.

He had conquered the Under Mountain on pure merit. Anyone attempting to dismiss his group as ceremonial figureheads would learn the cost immediately.

"Vincent Karg," the officer answered, crossing his arms over his armored chest. A smug, faintly mocking smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at Ethan.

Vincent knew the type. Every year, aristocratic brats breezed through early trials, secured a faction crest through ancestral connections, and immediately deluded themselves into believing they were the apex of humanity. Perhaps after a decade of bleeding on the frontier borders, they might earn the right to issue orders to frontline veterans.

But right now? They were unblooded novices playing soldier.

Vincent had survived twenty-seven subterranean border campaigns along the Cryptic Empire’s perimeter; he had no intention of taking tactical commands from a fresh-faced recruit who had only passed his entrance trial an hour ago.

Vincent inhaled, opening his mouth to drive the point home—

"Vincent, kneel."

An absolute, crushing psychic weight dropped onto his consciousness.

The cavern seemed to tilt violently.

In Vincent’s vision, Ethan’s mortal silhouette fractured. The calm young man vanished, replaced by an overwhelming, monstrous shadow that blotted out the hall. An aura soaked in primordial slaughter, ancient divine blood, and the oppressive horror of *Fear Monger* crashed down onto his nervous system like a falling fortress.

Although Ethan had not yet triggered his full class evolution, his soul had absorbed the essence of fallen gods and sovereign beasts. Against an ordinary mortal mind lacking divine protection, the sheer density of his killing intent induced instant psychic paralysis and raw, primal terror.

*Crack.*

Vincent’s knees slammed violently into the stone floor.

His teeth chattered wildly, and cold sweat drenched his collar within seconds. His entire frame convulsed in violent spasms as his lungs seized, his hands clutching desperately at the flagstones just to keep his face from smashing into the rock.

The remaining twenty-nine soldiers of the West Wall Brigade did not flinch.

Their discipline held absolute. Their eyes remained locked forward, staring into empty space while deliberately avoiding Ethan’s silhouette. They felt the cold aura hovering an inch above their scalps like an unsheathed executioner’s blade, but not a single man reached for a weapon or broke formation.

They recognized a predator when one stood before them.

"Good," Ethan said, his voice dropping back to its normal, composed pitch. "These are disciplined men."

He swept his gaze across the rigid ranks. Nobody had stepped forward to protest, nobody had panicked, and nobody had attempted a foolish defense of their fallen captain. They understood chain of command, and more importantly, they understood when an absolute gulf in power made defiance suicidal.

"Please refrain from antagonizing our guests," Ulric finally spoke up, tapping the ash from his cigarette with a lazy chuckle. "I can assure you with complete certainty that every single one of these so-called children is a verified Tier 5 combatant."

The atmosphere in the hall shifted instantly.

*Tier 5. All of them.*

Vincent was an experienced Tier 6 company commander who had earned a solid reputation in the regular armies, but Tier 5 was the threshold of elite high-order warfare—a realm where single combatants could level defensive bastions.

Ulric understood the psychology of these military brigades well. Vincent was simply ignorant of how the Dawn Faction operated.

In other factions, aristocratic blood, family lineage, and royal letters of recommendation dictated command authority.

In the House of Dawn, those things were completely worthless.

Only lethal capability mattered.

Ethan withdrew the suffocating pressure, letting his aura recede back into his meridians.

Vincent collapsed forward onto his palms, gasping frantically for air like a drowning man dragged from the deep, his trembling muscles soaked in sweat.

Ethan didn’t spare him another look. The lesson was complete.

"Time to move out," Ulric said, nodding toward the boarding ramp of the battleship. "If you drag your feet any longer, those entitled brats from the Ascendant faction will strip the citadel bare before you even cross the perimeter."

As Ulric’s voice faded, the battleship’s runic propulsion array flared to life.

Intricate pale-blue glyphs ignited across the dark adamantine hull, casting an ethereal glow over the hangar as the massive engines produced a deep, low-frequency hum that vibrated through the bedrock beneath their boots.

The soldiers snapped to attention and began filing up the ramp in rapid, mechanical synchronization, with a pale, silent Vincent falling in behind his men without daring to raise his head.

Ethan, Ella, Hela, Meng, and Adam boarded the vessel right behind them.

Before the heavy cargo hatch could fully seal shut, the space directly ahead of the vessel’s prow fractured.

*Screeech—*

The air tore open like parchment, uncoiling a massive dimensional rift that hovered silently in the center of the underground dock.

Beyond the spatial tear lay an endless expanse of churning violet mist, floating obsidian landmasses, and dead, starless skies.

The Nether Realm.

The vessel surged forward into the tear, setting a direct course for the contested Thousand Beast Citadel.

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