Chapter 143: This Is No-Man’s Land.

This is also the battlefield.

Endless deadwood frames the parched, cracked earth.
An boundless desolate plain stretches toward the distant black forest.
No rivers flow here. No creatures stir. Only dead silence reigns.

Sandy hills link to loose, rolling plains that rise and fall in waves.
From a wide vantage, layers of soil form natural terraces.
This is a basin encircled by towering mountains — like a fortress.

But at this moment, the place is better described as a Roman coliseum.
Because here stand two armies of opposing forces,
divided by a nearly hundred-meter-deep chasm running through the center.

On this side of the abyss: the human Exterminator forces stationed at the border.
On the other: the Bloodkin legion arrayed in perfect formation, all wearing the same uniform.

This place fears the arrival of night most of all.
When the sun sinks behind the mountains,
endless dangers rise like the black abyss itself — unfathomable and bottomless.

Behind the chasm,
a girl in a black-and-red formal gown gently swirled the red wine in her glass,
revealing a wicked, confident smile.

Her long hair was tied into a neat bun atop her head,
adorned with a black floral hair ornament.
A red crown sat tilted to one side.
A gleaming ring shone on the finger of her left hand —
not a wedding band, but a symbol of her status.

She crossed her legs high, the black fishnet stockings clinging tightly to her skin,
and reclined on the seat of an elegant black phantom carriage.
As night fell, she gazed into the distance —
as though admiring this bleak, darkened landscape as nothing more than a beautiful vista.

Dolores, Queen of the Waltz Theater Legion.
A legion commander whose combat power was unmatched,
yet whose beauty was equally peerless.
Her personality was supremely arrogant,
and her methods of tormenting enemies were exceptionally cruel and humiliating.

Undeniably an archetypal black-bellied queen.
But no one ever dared speak that name to her face.
In her presence, all could only bow in utmost deference and obedience.

Yet regrettably —
the fearsome Queen Dolores
possessed a face that was unexpectedly cute for a girl.
Though her gaze was fierce,
it somehow failed to inspire true terror —
more like a Snow White who wielded black magic,
yet still carried an accidental seductive charm.

But there would always be one self-proclaimed gentleman
who arrived without a sound
and dared to tease her with insolent familiarity.

“Queen, the Third Legion’s Commander — Duke Augustine —
has personally arrived at the Black Abyss Valley.
It seems he has matters he wishes to discuss with you.”

Dolores swirled her wineglass once more.
Her long lashes fluttered lightly.
A playful smile curved her lips.
Without even turning her head, she asked:

“The leader of the Seraphim Legion
comes to the front lines of my Waltz Theater Legion.
To what do I owe the honor?”

Augustine wore a black suit with a white inner shirt
and a red tie.
A feathered top hat rested on his head.
In his hand he held a single vivid red rose —
which he let fall lightly to the ground like a feather.

The cluster of Bloodkin nobles standing beside Dolores
immediately parted to form a path for him,
lowering their heads in respectful salute.

“I offer the highest reverence to Queen Dolores,
and humbly hope to win the favor of one so noble and exalted.”

“Heh.
This must be the thirteenth time you’ve proposed to me, Duke?
Thirteen is not exactly an auspicious number.
So I believe the answer is already clear in your heart, isn’t it?”

“Ahh, how heartbreaking.
Queen remains as cold and merciless as ever.
Do you truly prefer girls and have no interest in men at all?”

“At the very least —
I have no interest in you.”

Dolores raised her glass and took an elegant sip.
In the blink of an eye,
Augustine appeared as though by teleportation
right in front of her black phantom carriage.
He tucked the rose into the breast pocket of his suit.

Dolores narrowed her eyes.
A glint of amusement passed through her gaze.
With an air of casual indifference, she said:

“Then — apart from that —
what could possibly bring the Duke himself
all the way to the battlefield border?
I admit I’m a little curious.”

Augustine offered a smile that lost none of its courtesy.
He bowed slightly toward Dolores.

“Then I shall speak plainly and beg your pardon in advance.”

“Go ahead.
But if your request is insolent,
I cannot guarantee I won’t kick you off the cliff.
That abyss over there is quite deep —
even if you fall and break a few legs,
climbing back up would be quite the ordeal, wouldn’t it?”

“I am a gentleman.
Of course I would never make an insolent request of the Queen.
I merely have one small wish —
and I hope you might grant it.”

Dolores crossed her legs again.
A spark of genuine interest appeared in her eyes.
There were not many things that could trouble Augustine enough
to require him to ask someone else for help.

After all, he was the ruler of the Third Legion —
a grand duke among Bloodkin nobility,
once the guardian deity who defended the royal capital,
trusted and favored by the highest authority.

“Very well.
But you should know —
when asking someone for help,
there is naturally a price to pay.
Fortunately, I am not a stingy person.
If you agree to one small request of mine,
I will be willing to assist you.”

“Please speak, Your Majesty.”

“Would the elegant gentleman
be willing to kneel before me,
personally remove my shoe,
and kiss the tip of my foot
to express your utmost respect?”

Such an act of etiquette would normally only involve
half-kneeling respectfully and kissing the back of her hand.

But personally helping her remove her high heel
and kissing the tip of her foot —
that was practically an act of worship reserved for deities.

The haughty queen had made an extraordinarily haughty demand.

The moment the words left her mouth,
the nobles standing to either side stared in wide-eyed shock,
holding their breath,
their hearts thrown into turmoil.

Augustine was a duke — high in rank and authority,
with countless military achievements.
In terms of status, he could stand on equal footing with Dolores.

People of such high position usually possessed immense pride.
To suffer such humiliation by lowering oneself —
no one would willingly accept it.
And if he flew into a rage over it,
a very unfavorable confrontation might erupt.

Yet not a flicker of hesitation passed through Augustine’s eyes.
It was as though he had anticipated exactly this scenario.
He showed his usual impeccable smile
and, with graceful movements, dropped to one knee before Dolores.

Dolores’s crystalline red pupils flashed for a moment.
She had expected some other reaction from him.

Augustine took the foot Dolores extended.
His palm supported the delicate little foot.
He gently grasped the heel of the black high-heeled shoe
and slipped it off.
A jade-white foot wrapped in silk stockings slid free.

That foot was even colder than he had imagined —
yet also smaller and more exquisitely perfect,
like a flawless work of art.

Dolores propped her head on one hand,
tilted her head slightly,
and watched Augustine’s actions with calm composure.
Her expression remained unreadable,
but the corner of her mouth curved with a trace of sly delight.

Augustine lifted the foot so the tip rested in his palm.
He lowered his head
and gently kissed the tip of her toe.

“I offer all the love and reverence in my heart
to Your exalted Majesty.”