The journey to the great black fortification the rangers called "Castle Black" was silent. The three men in black cloaks—the Night's Watch—kept their distance, casting terrified glances at Philips and his six "retainers." They didn't understand how a group of high-born travelers could walk through the haunted forest without a single shiver, nor why the massive, scarred man named Beelzebub carried no weapon yet looked capable of snapping a horse's spine.
When they reached the gates, the air was thick with the smell of old wood, cold stone, and the desperation of men forgotten by the world.
"Lord Commander!" one of the rangers shouted. "We found them in the woods! They... they killed a Wight. Without fire!"
A tall, stern man with grey hair and eyes like flint stepped onto the wooden balcony. This was Jeor Mormont, the Lord Commander. Beside him stood a younger man with a heavy brow—Alliser Thorne—and several other grizzled veterans.
"Bring them to the Common Hall," Mormont commanded, his voice a low growl. "I want to know who brings silk and steel to the edge of the world."
The Common Hall was dim, lit only by a sputtering hearth. Philips stood in the center of the room, surrounded by dozens of "Crows" who gripped their sword hilts. To them, he was a strange boy in a foreign tunic.
"Speak," Mormont said, leaning over a heavy oak table. "Who are you? A Lannister spy? A sellsword from Essos?"
Philips looked at the Lord Commander, then at the System screen hovering in his peripheral vision.
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[QUEST OBJECTIVE: ESTABLISH DOMINANCE. REVEAL THE TRUTH.]
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Philips sighed. "My name is Philips Lancaster. And I'm not a spy. I'm the person who is going to save your lives, though you probably won't like how I do it."
"Bold words for a boy," Thorne sneered. "Throw him in a cell until he learns some respect."
"Lucifer," Philips said quietly. "Show them."
The temperature in the room plummeted, then skyrocketed. The hearth fire turned a violent, abyssal violet.
Philips didn't just toggle; he unleashed. His skin hardened into obsidian scales, and two massive, curved horns erupted from his brow, glowing with the heat of a dying star. Behind him, the six "travelers" dissolved into their true, monstrous forms.
Lucifer expanded, his golden wings filling the rafters, radiating a light so holy it hurt to look at. Beelzebub grew into a three-meter-tall titan of spiked plate and gore. Leviathan hovered off the ground, blue lightning dancing between his many eyes.
The Night's Watch fell back in a wave of clattering armor and choked screams. Some fell to their knees; others fainted outright. Jeor Mormont froze, his face pale as death, his hand frozen on the hilt of his sword.
"Listen well, Mortals," Philips spoke, his voice no longer a boy's, but a tectonic rumble that shook the foundations of the Wall.
"We are the Rulers of the Abyss," Philips continued, his demonic eyes burning like embers. "I am the Infernal King, and these are my Pillars. We did not come to conquer your frozen dirt. We came because the veil between our worlds is tearing."
Lucifer stepped forward, his voice echoing with divine authority. "Do not mistake us for the 'Others' you fear in the woods. They are but a cold breeze. The Tearing will unleash the Wild Demons—primal, starving horrors that recognize no king and no god. They will devour your souls, and they will hunt our kind just as fiercely. They are the enemy of all that lives and all that dreams."
Mormont's voice shook. "Why... why tell us?"
"Because if you die, the Wild Ones grow stronger," Philips growled. "A common enemy requires a common front."
With a sharp mental flick, Philips toggled back. The heat vanished. The monstrous shadows shrank. In an instant, seven normal-looking humans stood in the middle of the hall once more.
Philips adjusted his wool tunic, looking back at the trembling Lord Commander.
"I mean you no harm," Philips said, his voice returning to its calm, modern tone. "As a human, I want to protect people. As a King, I want to protect my domain. We want to help you 'fight fire with fire.' Now... do you have any ale? This transformation takes a lot out of me."
The Hall remained deathly silent. Jeor Mormont looked at the boy, then at the empty space where a golden-winged god had just stood.
"I think," Mormont whispered, "we had best send a raven."
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[QUEST COMPLETE: THE BLACK GATE]
[REWARD: 500 Essence awarded.]
[NEW FEATURE UNLOCKED: HELL-STEEL SMITHING. You can now transmute ordinary iron into demon-slaying weapons.]
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While the Lord Commander's ravens flew south, carrying messages that sounded like the fever dreams of a madman, Philips Lancaster didn't sit idle. He had a System to grind and a world to arm before the countdown reached zero.
In the drafty, snow-dusted courtyard of Castle Black, the Night's Watch stood in a wide, trembling circle. In the center stood Philips, looking like an ordinary boy in coarse wool, flanked by the massive, silent figure of Beelzebub and the unsettlingly graceful Baal.
"I told you," Philips said, his voice carrying over the whistling wind. "If you want to survive what's coming, common steel and prayer won't be enough. Hand them over."
One by one, the terrified rangers stepped forward. They laid their pitted iron daggers, notched short swords, and splintered guard lances on a heavy stone slab. Donal Noye, the one-armed smith of the Watch, watched with narrowed eyes, his hammer hanging limp in his hand.
"You're going to 'upgrade' them?" Noye grunted, skeptical despite the demonic display in the hall. "That's common iron, lad. It snaps against the cold. What could a boy know of the forge?"
Philips didn't answer. He closed his eyes, and a translucent blue screen flickered in his mind, scrolling through the ancient, gore-stained recipes of Simeon the Botcher, the legendary smith of Hellslave.
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[RECIPE SELECTED: NIVLATTH SERIES]
[Ingredients: Common Weapon + Iron Ore + Silver]
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"I need raw iron ore," Philips commanded, "and I need silver. Coins, chains, plate—it doesn't matter. Bring it all."
Mormont, standing on the balcony above, gestured to his stewards. Sacks of raw ore were dragged from the smithy, and a small pouch of silver stags and stars was dumped onto the pile.
Philips stepped forward and placed his hand atop the cold metal. He toggled a fraction of his power—not the full transformation, but a surge of Satan's chaotic heat and Leviathan's transmutative lightning.
"By the silver of the stars and the iron of the earth," Philips whispered.
A blinding flash of violet light erupted from the stone slab. The silver coins didn't melt; they dissolved into a shimmering mist that swirled around the iron weapons. The raw ore cracked open, its minerals bleeding into the steel like ink in water. Under Philips's palm, the metal twisted and flowed as if it were alive.
When the light faded, the pile of junk was gone. In its place lay weapons of terrifying beauty.
The daggers were now Daggers of Nivlatth, their blades etched with silver-violet runes that pulsed with a faint, rhythmic glow. The short swords had become Blades of Nivlatth, their balance perfect, carrying a "Sweep" enchantment that felt as though the wind itself aided the strike. The lances were now Lances of Nivlatth, tipped with obsidian-like heads that carried a heavy "Critical" weight.
"Pick them up," Philips said, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. [System: -150 Essence. Crafting Successful.]
A young ranger named Grenn reached out. The moment his fingers closed around the hilt of a Nivlatth Blade, he gasped. He didn't just feel the weight; he felt the potency of the weapon. He swung it at a practice dummy; the blade passed through the wood and iron bands as if they were made of parchment.
The sound of a hundred hooves thundered against the frozen ground. The gates of Castle Black swung open as a column of riders in heavy grey furs rode in, led by a man with a face as grim as winter itself.
Lord Eddard Stark—the young, fierce Warden of the North—leaped from his horse before it had even fully stopped. Beside him was a contingent of his elite guards, their hands already on their sword hilts.
"Mormont!" Ned Stark shouted, his breath misting in the air. "Where is he? Where is this 'Lancaster'?"
Philips stepped out from the shadows of the armory, casually tossing a Nivlatth dagger between his hands. Behind him, the Six Demon Kings—in their human forms—stood like a wall of living shadow. Lucifer stood closest, his human form radiating an aura of such absolute perfection that the Stark horses began to rear in terror.
Ned Stark froze. He looked at the boy, then at the glowing, purple-tinted steel in the hands of the rangers. He felt the weight in the air—the "Dread" that no mortal man should possess.
"Lord Stark," Philips said, his modern casualness clashing with Ned's stiff nobility. "You're just in time. Because those 'dead men' you're worried about? They're just the appetizer."
Ned drew Ice, the massive Valyrian steel greatsword of his House. The blade shimmered, but as it came near the Nivlatth Blades, the demonic silver flared in a defensive hiss.
"You speak of demons," Ned said, his voice cold. "If you are a monster, I will take your head. If you are a man... explain why my horses are screaming in your presence."
Philips didn't flinch. He looked at the massive greatsword. "Nice sword, Lord Stark. But unless you want to see your kingdom turned into a buffet for the Wild Demons, you'll put that away. We have work to do."
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[QUEST UPDATED: THE WARDEN'S PACT]
[Objective: Convince Eddard Stark to allow the construction of an 'Infernal Bastion' at Winterfell.]
[Reward: 1,000 Essence, Unlock: 'Hellfire Trebuchets'.]