Edlyn was still sighing when a pair of hands shot from the portal, like iron hooks from a black throat, yanking everyone back inside.

The jolt hit her like cold water on hot stone; she stood there stunned, breath snagging like a snagged thread.

Moments later, someone stepped out again from the first portal, like a looped reel replaying the same scene.

It was the same group, faces unchanged, as if time had skimmed past like a stone over water.

Edlyn’s mouth twitched; what kind of trick was this, a mirage in a box of mirrors?

“Where is this?” Pandora clenched his fist, feeling his body misaligned like a bent bowstring.

When he first stepped through, a strange pull yanked him back, a weight like a net cinched tight.

Then something scanned him from head to toe, cold needles gliding under the skin, and the binding faded like mist at dawn.

He stood upon a vast platform like an altar, while seven more portals opened at once, like seven eyes flicking awake.

Across the way, a small girl glared at him, anger bright as a brazier under night wind.

“Who knows what I am right now?” Pandora’s nails slid longer, like black thorns growing in silence.

His gut tightened like a drumhead; this place didn’t feel clean, and some lurking blade might be aimed at him.

He had just unified the Demon Race, yet some invisible line dragged him here; coincidence felt like a lie carved in stone.

Caution first, like stepping on thin ice over dark water.

“Hey! You!” The girl pointed at Pandora’s nose, her voice a spark catching dry tinder.

“Hm?” Pandora frowned, the line between his brows sharp as a cut.

He blinked, and in that blink the girl hopped up before him, swift as a cat over a wall.

He looked her over; the purity of her demonic miasma matched his, black glass polished to a mirror’s gleam.

If she were in the Demon Race, her status would be rare metal; yet he’d heard no tale of a girl with such pure blood.

He asked, “Miss? How should I address you?” His tone smoothed like a blade laid flat.

Edlyn lifted a brow. “Ha? Miss?” The word felt crooked in her mouth, like a hat worn backward.

Fine. Judging by his blank face, he didn’t know what this trial wanted, a stag lost in a labyrinth.

Which meant opportunity, like a door left unlocked.

“Hey, how old are you?” Edlyn’s question landed like a pebble into still water.

Pandora frowned deeper. “You ask my age? Little girl, you don’t know demons don’t toss words at the Demon King’s years?”

Edlyn shrugged, her eyes cool as glass. “So what?”

If they fought, his style would tell her exactly where he was in his own storm.

Pandora’s gaze cooled to iron. “I don’t have time to play. Get lost. As far as you can.”

She knew nothing, a lamb chewing on thunder. He shouldn’t waste his breath; better to drag her to the Abyss and tally her sins like stones.

He flicked his hand and turned toward the other seven portals, attention sliding like a shadow across the floor.

Edlyn felt the slap of being ignored, heat rising like steam from a kettle, and she ran to cut him off.

“Hey, you dare hit me?” Her chin tipped up like a hilt braced for impact.

Pandora froze, surprise cracking across his face like a hammer on ice.

Was this kid brainless, a sparrow trying to peck a dragon?

“The battle’s about to flare,” Albert said, smiling with a stiffness like frozen wax. “Let’s see how the Elf Race reacts.”

“Yes,” the man in full plate answered, his greatsword quiet as a sleeping beast. “After this, leave it to Holy Paris.”

Albert smiled thinly. “Your nation… or rather, your church… does love cutting corners, like a scythe in short grass.”

He held out his hand; metal met flesh, the greeting brief as a spark.

“Heh. With shared interests and goals, our Holy Sanctuary and your New Era Sect will always be friends, even if you’re barely above ants.”

The heavy knight smiled back, gauntlet cold as moonlight, and clasped Albert’s hand with a measured grip.

“Heh. Let’s hope.” A vein jumped at Albert’s temple like a taut string, but the smile stayed pinned like a mask.

“By the way, how’s your collecting?” The knight hesitated, then asked, words placed like stones in a path.

Albert chuckled. “Not bad. The Hero’s crystals aren’t hard to find. Any unusual energy in this world is usually the Hero’s crystals causing trouble.”

“Oh? How many did you gather?” The knight’s curiosity gleamed like a blade edge.

“Mm. Not many. Two.” Albert’s smile was light, like ash drifting.

“Oh. Only two. Pity.” The knight shook his head. “We’ve already gathered four.”

“Oh? Your church is impressive.” Albert’s lips curved like the rim of a cup.

“According to prophecy, the last crystal marks our head‑on battle with the Hero’s reincarnation,” the knight said, amusement twining like smoke.

“With a full set, it’s time to tread carefully, like walking a cliff’s edge.”

“We’re always ready,” Albert said with a shrug, indifference like a loose cloak.

“Let’s hope your church doesn’t blunder and let the reincarnate slip the net.” His glance was a needle under cloth.

“Albert, at this point you still won’t share the data on the Hero’s reincarnation?” The knight’s eyes narrowed, a shutter cutting light.

“Heh, why rush?” Albert flicked his hand, disdain a flicked speck of dust. “Yulanka, don’t think we don’t know what your Holy Sanctuary has done.”

“Our New Era Sect’s roots aren’t as shallow as a roadside ditch.” His stare snapped like a bowstring.

“Try us, and even if you’re a tiger, you’ll break your teeth biting stone. And we won’t bleed at the root.”

Albert shot Yulanka a hard look and vanished like a gust through a door.

“Just shed the Sacred Rank and already barking?” Yulanka’s fist tightened, his grin cruel as a wolf’s.

“An outfit that makes a man of that level a deputy leader—what is there to be proud of?” His scoff cut like a wire.

“When our iron cavalry grinds your home to gravel, you’ll see the world clearly.”

He spat the words like hot coals and turned away, steps heavy as drums.

Words were wind; he kept some caution coiled like a snake.

The New Era Sect had crouched under the Sanctuary’s eyelids, a shadow no light touched.

They surfaced flashing an intelligence net wide as the sea, far beyond the Sanctuary’s reach.

They wouldn’t lack escape routes; Albert was likely a piece on a larger board, a horse moved by an unseen hand.

Yulanka wasn’t a fool; as Vice‑Commander of the Sanctum Guard, dull minds die fast like candles in rain.

But the New Era Sect’s threat loomed like a mountain leaning over a village.

Their sudden appearance was a struck bell, the sound warning through bone and air.

No matter what, the New Era Sect had to be erased, wiped like chalk under rain.

The timing was easy: on the day the Hero returns, the Sect dies, a verdict stamped in wax.

Neither the Hero’s reincarnation nor the Sect will slip the Holy Sanctuary’s grip, a falcon’s claws set on prey.

Yulanka’s smile cooled into iron; under Pope Manstein and the labors of past popes, their expansion rolled like an endless tide.

Holy Paris and the Hero alike would fall into the Sanctuary’s hands, and into the Celestial God’s palm, like stars netted in silk.

“I don’t care who you are,” Pandora said, feeling heat brand his left cheek like a coal. “Offend me, and pay with your life.”

Edlyn held the sludge she’d collected earlier, black as tar and heavy as wet earth, and met him with a cold stare.

He had a temper; she did too, her patience worn thin like frayed rope.

Ignored this long, and she still called herself Demon King? Though lately she hadn’t done much to fit that crown.

“Begone. Don’t let me see that hateful face again.” Pandora’s right hand beckoned like a whip.

A cyclone of demonic miasma roared at Edlyn, black wind howling like wolves in a canyon.

Edlyn drew the Demon Sword Ashill, its edge a crescent of night, and with a light swing cut the miasma apart like silk.

Then her aura burst from within, pressure rolling out like storm surf, no less than Pandora’s.

Match her in the use of miasma? She’d never feared anyone, least of all him at this point in his climb.

“What!” Pandora’s chest tightened, the sword’s presence pressing like a mountain on his sternum.

A thought howled through him like winter hounds: take that sword—make it mine.

With it, he would sweep the continent in one stroke, the world dropping into his hands like ripe fruit.

“Girl! Give me that sword, and I’ll spare your life!” Pandora’s smile crooked like a hooked blade, his right hand reaching.

Edlyn looked at her past self and smiled, warmth like sunlight on old scars.

Right. Confirmed. This was her just after unifying the Demon Race, troops brewing like storm clouds before the march.

That face was familiar yet strange, like seeing an old portrait by firelight.

She laughed. “So I was that dumb.” The admission tasted bitter and sweet, like strong tea.

“Do you not hear me?” Pandora’s voice boomed like a drum, his Fiend’s Shout shaking the air.

It washed over her like wind over stone; Deep‑Abyss Edlyn ignored it, eyes steady as still water.

She measured herself across the gap—so green then, all bull‑rush and hard head, a sapling creaking under wind.

She looked for a long moment, and Pandora’s face darkened until it could drip ink.

Edlyn finally sighed. “Why is it… I really look like a girl. A change of clothes would do.” Her murmur floated like a reed’s whisper.

“You must die!” Pandora snarled, rage flaring like a torch whipped by storm.

A magic circle bloomed on his left hand, runes swirling like fireflies in black air.

“Yo. Dominion Fiendclaw. Kiddie tricks,” Edlyn said, amused, and surged forward with Ashill, her step a streak like lightning over slate.