Chapter 434

Thanks to the glowing Lightbringer lodged in the shoulder blade of a wight, the Night King, with his exceptional night vision, spotted the two airborne dragonsteel bombs clearly. He sneered, unconcerned. With a slight expenditure of magic, he reinforced the ice armor that encased his body and dismissed the threat. Instead, he continued orchestrating the wight army’s assault, directing them to cross the fiery barricades. Simultaneously, he attempted to coordinate with the eight—no, now seven—Others trapped within Crown’s Rest, ordering them to use the distraction he was creating to attempt an escape.

At the same time, he picked up another stone. Even if he couldn’t land a precise kill, rattling the enemy’s key figures and diverting their focus was still within his ability.
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Limited by the era’s technology and the inherent inaccuracies of trebuchets, it was unrealistic to expect the bombs to detonate precisely above the Night King. One of the bombs, slightly underpowered, landed within the wight horde, bounced on the frozen ground, and exploded a hundred feet away from the Night King. The other sailed overhead, exploding a fraction of a second too late.

Despite the imperfect strike, the bombs’ payloads—crafted from the melted remains of twenty Lightbringer arrowheads—unleashed hundreds of jagged dragonsteel shards. Propelled outward in a thirty-meter sphere, the shrapnel rained down indiscriminately. Even with the poor accuracy, a few fragments found their mark, hurtling toward the Night King.

A sharp, splintering sound echoed as one of the shards pierced through the ice armor of one of the Others standing behind the Night King, killing them instantly. For a moment, he assumed it was another of the seven trapped in the town, struck by human weapons. Then he realized—the Other who had just "disconnected" was one of his closest subordinates, standing mere steps behind him.

Before he could fully register the danger, a small, razor-sharp shard punctured his back, slightly left of center, and embedded itself deep within his body.
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Dragonsteel shards didn’t physically explode, but the Night King felt as though his insides had detonated. The shard’s dense, highly purified fire-aligned magic clashed violently with his cold magic. The resulting magical reaction sent a shockwave rippling outward, disrupting the vast reserves of magic that constituted his body.

One moment, the Night King was the calculating general of an overwhelming army. The next, he was dying.

Like toxins in the human world, the effectiveness of weapons like dragonglass and dragonsteel depended on “dosage.” Against wights, whose bodies contained only the faintest trace of cold magic, even the smallest piece of dragonglass was sufficient to destroy them. But the Others were different. Their bodies were nearly entirely composed of magic, making them highly resistant to physical harm but exceptionally vulnerable to magical disruption. If fire-aligned magic equal to even a small percentage of their total energy invaded their bodies, it could destabilize and destroy them.

The Night King, with his immense reserves of cold magic, might have survived lesser attacks. But the dragonsteel shard that struck him contained enough concentrated fire magic to surpass even his limits.

With a sound like shattering ice, the Night King let out a piercing scream as his connection to the wight army abruptly severed. Thousands of wights, mid-attack, collapsed instantly. Desperately, he clawed at his chest, using his hand as a blade to carve out the offending shard. With immense effort, he pulled the dragonsteel fragment from his body and flung it to the ground.

Though the self-inflicted wound stopped the immediate spread of destruction, the damage was done. The massive hole in his chest hissed and steamed as cold magic leaked out uncontrollably. His once-impenetrable ice armor cracked like a spiderweb, and his entire form began to destabilize.

The four surviving Others rushed to his side, channeling their remaining magic into his failing body in a desperate attempt to stabilize him. They knew that if the Night King perished, their entire network of magic would collapse, dooming them all.

In theory, a magical being could survive critical injuries as long as they weren’t outright destroyed. By infusing magic, they could prolong their existence until their self-repair mechanisms activated. But this was no ordinary battle. The Others who might have saved him were either dead or trapped within the town. The few at his side were already weakened from earlier battles, unable to muster enough power to save their leader.

Faced with his impending demise, the Night King made a grim decision. He grasped the arm of one of the Others, stopping them from sacrificing themselves. He knew his injuries were too severe to recover fully, even with their help. Instead, he used his remaining strength to transfer his knowledge, power, and control of the wight network to the strongest of his remaining subordinates.

In a torrent of magic and memory, the mantle of the Night King passed to another. His once-majestic form shrank and melted away, consumed by the power transfer. With a final hiss, the original Night King was no more.

The new Night King, now bearing the burden of leadership, wasted no time. Their first command was clear: abandon the assault on Crown’s Rest and retreat into the darkness of the Gift. The surviving wights, leaderless but still functional, followed their master’s final directive and faded into the shadows, leaving Crown’s Rest battered but victorious.