Dungeon Corpse Stacker: I Absorb Everything to Become Ominous Monarch

The wind howling through the Gotthard Pass at four in the morning carried no scent of spring.

It brought dry, blinding powder off the granite peaks of the Uri Alps, freezing the runoff water along the asphalt into jagged sheets of black ice.

Near the northern portal of the road tunnel, two miles outside the mountain resort town of Andermatt, a reinforced roadblock made of heavy steel anti-tank caltrops and mobile concrete barriers severed the highway.

Behind the barriers, three hundred elite hunters belonging to the Alpine Sentinels Guild stood in disciplined tactical positions under the glare of high-intensity halogen floodlights.

Clad in insulated white arctic armor, holding enchanted heavy rifles and mana-reinforced broadswords, they were hired directly by the Swiss Banking Consortium for twelve million euros a week to enforce the trade quarantine against Sector Zero.

Guild Master Vance-Vane, a Tier-A veteran with a scarred jaw and heavy pauldrons forged from silver dragon-iron, leaned against the hood of his armored command halftrack.

He held a thermal imaging tablet in his thick leather gauntlets, watching a line of forty heavy diesel tractor-trailers grinding up the steep mountain switchbacks through the swirling snow.

”Convoy in sight, Guild Master,” a scout reported over the tactical frequency, adjusting his optical scope atop a granite crag forty feet above the road. ”Forty commercial refrigeration units carrying French license plates. The lead vehicle matches the registration numbers of Jean-Luc’s Marseilles logistics firm.”

Vance-Vane spat a glob of brown chewing tobacco onto the frozen asphalt, his yellowed eyes narrowing under his fur-lined helmet visor.

”Jean-Luc is an ambitious rat,” Vance-Vane grunted into his throat microphone, his voice crisp and clear over the howling wind. ”He thinks because his drivers use forged customs stamps, the Consortium won’t notice forty tons of resin filters moving north. Signal the lead truck to kill its engine and step out with hands on head.”

The lead eight-wheel Volvo tractor-trailer came to a sliding halt ten yards before the concrete barriers, its air brakes letting out a long, screaming hiss that echoed off the granite walls of the gorge.

Behind it, thirty-nine identical refrigeration trucks locked their rudders in a tight, bumper-to-bumper line along the narrow mountain road.

The French driver, his face pale as fresh snow, rolled down his reinforced cab window, keeping both hands visible on the steering wheel as two Alpine Sentinel scouts approached with raised rifles.

”Cut the engine and step down, driver!” the lead scout barked, his rifle barrel glowing with pale blue mana-light. ”By order of the European Containment Authority, your cargo is under total civil seizure.”

The French driver did not argument. He did not pull out his wallet or offer a bribe.

”The keys are in the ignition, messieurs,” the driver whispered, his voice trembling so violently his teeth clicked together. ”The keys are in the ignition, and the cargo is in the back.”

Vance-Vane stepped forward from his halftrack, his heavy iron boots crunching through the crusted snow as he walked to the side of the lead refrigeration trailer.

He unlatched the heavy brass locking bar on the rear doors, pulling the insulated steel hatch open with a sharp tug.

A cloud of dense, freezing nitrogen vapor poured out of the dark container interior, smelling not of synthetic water resins or industrial lubricants, but of ancient, ozone-laced iron and cold sea mud.

Inside the darkness of the trailer, two pale violet embers ignited in perfect, terrifying alignment.

”What is this?” Vance-Vane muttered, his hand darting toward the hilt of his broadsword.

Before his fingers could close around the grip, a slender, gauntleted arm forged from seamless black star-iron reached out from the nitrogen mist, closing around the Guild Master’s throat with the force of a hydraulic vice.

BANG!

Vance-Vane’s six-foot, three-hundred-pound armored frame was dragged clean off the snow, his iron boots kicking uselessly as he was yanked face-first into the interior of the dark trailer.

The heavy rear doors slammed shut behind him with a dull, metallic thud that cut his frantic radio screams to absolute silence.

Three seconds passed.

The three hundred guild hunters standing along the roadblock froze, their rifle barrels trembling as the heavy refrigeration trailer began to shudder on its air suspension.

A single, muffled crunch echoed from inside the truck, followed by the sound of tearing metal and dripping liquid.

Then, forty rear trailer hatches across the entire two-mile line of trucks swung open simultaneously with forty synchronized, deafening slams.

Renan stepped out from the rear of the lead truck, his dark woolen coat snapping against the arctic gale, his pale hands resting loosely inside his coat pockets.

Beside him, Shadow Knight Arthur leaped down onto the frozen road, his silver-black claymore already drawn, its six-foot blade trailing silver ribbons of dragon-flame across the snow.

Behind them, rising thirty feet above the roofs of the refrigeration trailers, five Iron Colossus Giants stepped out into the night, their double-articulated steel legs crushing the asphalt beneath their heels, their pneumatic hammer fists hissing with high-pressure steam as they lowered their twelve-foot tower shields.

”Sovereign on the pass!” a scout shrieked into his radio before a dark needle-blade thrown by Sylas pierced his throat from the crags above.

”Fire! Open fire on the center!” the deputy guild commander screamed, waving his sword toward the road.

A storm of three hundred enchanted mana rounds, armor-piercing artillery shells, and fireballs erupted from the roadblock, lighting the mountain pass in a blinding flash of yellow and red explosions.

The three hundred heavy rounds did not strike Renan.

The five Iron Colossus Giants stepped forward in a synchronized wall of polished uranium armor, raising their tower shields to form an impenetrable iron barrier across the entire width of the highway.

The enchanted rounds slammed against the dark shields with deafening metallic cracks, their explosive charges dissipating harmlessly against the kinetic absorption runes woven into the metal.

Through the smoke and flying snow, Renan walked forward at an unhurried, calm pace, his boots making no sound against the ice.

”Arthur,” Renan commanded softly.

”Your will, Sovereign,” Arthur answered.

The silver knight lunged forward in a single, blinding flash of argent light.

His claymore swung in a horizontal three-hundred-sixty-degree arc, releasing a sixty-foot wave of silver dragon-flame that swept across the concrete barriers. The heavy caltrops, sandbags, and front axles of three armored halftracks were sliced in two like warm wax, sending thirty guild hunters tumbling into the snow as their armor melted against their skin.

From the shadows of the granite cliffs, four hundred shadow skirmishers descended like dark mist, their void daggers finding the unprotected throat seams of the fleeing mercenaries with silent, surgical efficiency.

The battle of Gotthard Pass did not last ten minutes.

It was not a military engagement; it was a methodical, disciplined harvesting of an ambush force that had underestimated the reach of a monarch.

When the howling arctic wind cleared the smoke twenty minutes later, three hundred white arctic suits lay motionless upon the red-stained snow along the highway.

Renan stood at the edge of the ruined roadblock, looking down at the broken body of Guild Master Vance-Vane resting beside his melted halftrack.

Renan raised his right hand, spreading his fingers over the frozen road.

”Arise,” Renan decreed.

[Skill Activated: Mass Abyssal Extraction] [Extracted Units: 300 Alpine Sentinel Guild Hunters] [Unit Class: Tier-A Mountain Skirmishers & Heavy Vanguard] [Total Sovereign Legion Active Strength: 15,300 Units]

Three hundred dark, fluid threads erupted from the snow, wrapping around the dead hunters.

Their white arctic suits dissolved into dark, light-devouring obsidian armor, their eyes igniting with steady, subordinate argent embers as they rose to their feet in perfect, disciplined rank-and-file formation.

The newly extracted Alpine Sentinels knelt upon the red ice, their gauntlets striking their breastplates in a single, thunderous salute that echoed off the granite peaks of Andermatt.

Jean-Luc’s forty French truck drivers slowly poked their heads out from their cab windows, staring with wide, terrified eyes at the three hundred shadow soldiers now standing guard over their convoy.

Renan turned toward the lead truck, sliding his hands back into his coat pockets.

”Clear the barriers,” Renan commanded his new shadow vanguard. ”We have sixty miles of highway remaining before Zurich, and the bank does not open late.”

Behind them, far below the mountain pass in the valley of Altdorf, a high-frequency emergency sensor inside the Swiss military district headquarters began to sound a continuous, red-level alarm as the complete telemetry feed from Gotthard Pass went dark.