Inside Dragon Gorge, a band of monsters gathered like thunderheads, enough to wipe the continent clean. One wrong word, and fists would fall; then life across the land would burn like tinder in a god-war.

“Uh, boss, your chest looks... very avant‑garde. Is that a new kind of art?”

Bartley marched in with a crowd of Demon Kings, and a rattling Skeleton was the one running his mouth. He’d meant to ask if Ouyang was hurt, but he softened it at the last second.

“Art, my ass. Looks to me like someone blew his heart out.” The dark elf, skin pale violet, lounged on a Titan’s shoulder like a cat on a branch, unimpressed with the Skeleton’s tact.

Annoyance hit first; Ouyang wobbled in midair after. Blew his heart out? This kid really had a way of blurting brutal truths.

On the dragon side, even the hot‑tempered golden wyrm shrank like a scorched leaf when the monsters arrived. Once, the dragons had seven Dragon Gods, the Seven Dragon Emperors, but...

All seven were butchered by this very crowd. The biggest of them—the Titan—was the shadow in every golden dragon’s dream, because he’d eaten one Dragon Emperor alive before a clutch of hatchlings. He gnawed a living Dragon God down to clean bones; that savage scene taught two Emperors what fear tasted like.

“So, are we fighting or what? We love a good duel...” The Skeleton pulled out a magic wand. It was nothing like what the two Dragon Emperors remembered. On this continent, wands were jeweled, gilded, and gaudy.

His was a charred stick, black as soot, more firewood than focus.

He gave the “wand” a flick. A crack split the air like ice; skeletons poured from it in a rattling flood.

His favorite thing was dueling—by throwing a sea of bodies at you. Today was no exception: skeletons missing arms and legs, headless warhorses, hellhounds wreathed in black flame...

Strange creatures pressed in like a storm of locusts. In a few breaths, Dragon Gorge became a playground for the dead. Bones danced. Wraiths drifted. The place felt like a mouth of hell.

“No retreat left. Now, will you tell me who’s behind you? I don’t believe you two chose to stand against me without a backer.” As Ouyang spoke, Cataclysm shivered beneath his hooded cloak like a wind‑blown reed. That only nailed Ouyang’s hunch in place—the traitors had someone above them.

“Since that’s how it is...” Ouyang folded the wind‑wings on his back. Bartley blinked, puzzled. Was Ouyang going to take the two down himself?

“Brothers, go. Take those two out.”

Right. With a whole crew here, why waste breath on a duel? If you can dogpile, never single out—that was the Demon Kings’ life creed. Amelie was the lone exception.

The Titan rubbed his knuckles, eyes locked on the two dragons like a hungry bear on honey. Being sealed for years had sharpened his appetite. The dark elf stayed perched on his shoulder, hands spreading as she chanted to the sky. A black barrier rose like a stormcloud, sealing Dragon Gorge.

“Hmph. Don’t think I don’t see you. With me here, you really think you can run?”

Cataclysm and the Sword Demon said nothing. Despair sank first; silence followed. They just hung there in black cloaks, floating, still as two crows on a dead branch.

Wutong, Oil Paper Umbrella resting on her shoulder, drifted close and flipped their hoods aside. Two wooden puppets stared back with painted eyes.

“They actually ran...” The Skeleton stroked a beard he didn’t have and struck a thoughtful pose. A round‑bellied fatty Demon King bounced over and booted him aside. “This is on you, bone‑bag. Always gotta ‘duel,’ and you scared them off!”

“How is that my fault?” the Skeleton snapped, flames guttering in his eye sockets.

Watching his band of walking disasters square up to brawl each other, Ouyang felt a headache bloom like a thistle. He wanted to let it go. But a boss had to rein them in.

“Ahem. Quiet. We’ll deal with that later. First, how do we handle the two dragons? Steamed or braised? Personally, I like a good stew. Cook it till the meat falls apart, then the mouthfeel—”

Silence hit like snowfall. Eyes went green, one by one, a pack of wolves spotting two tender rabbits.

“Hey, you lot, didn’t you notice these two aren’t right?” Wutong stepped to the golden dragon, slid her hand into its skull like water, then pulled it back dry. “They’re projections. The bodies slipped away.”

Ouyang’s drool dried to dust. Slipped away? All of them? The two traitors—fine, they had a master, he hadn’t counted on catching them. But the two dragons, too?

“In that case, we’ll take the lair. Skeleton, strip the Dragon Lair clean, then level it.” His voice went rough; his face went feral.

While Ouyang was ordering the Skeleton, the fatty waddled over, belly first. “Heh, boss, let me tag along. I promise I won’t secretly eat the hatchlings...”

Right. A promise that screamed guilt. Ouyang remembered the Golden and White Dragon hauling things through a spatial gate earlier. The hoard was probably picked clean.

“Go on, then. If you want to, go.”

He’d barely said it before a dozen Demon Kings whooped and charged into the lair, like bandits swarming a village. Two stayed behind: Wutong, and Bartley.

“Wutong... tell me, why does that umbrella work better in your hands?” Ouyang couldn’t get over it. The umbrella was a supreme artifact, sure, but in his hands he barely dared open it, afraid the Supreme Law would notice. In hers, it was a sunshade.

“That? Isn’t it obvious? Mother left it to me.”

“Your mother?”

He felt played, like a fish swallowing a hook. How was something of his now something her mother left her? Wutong huffed, settled the umbrella on her shoulder, pinched her green skirt up with her free hand, and lifted her chin. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Murong Wutong.”

Ouyang lowered his head and went off to find the Rabbit and Valiant. He stopped talking to her, as if she were mist.

“Damn second‑gen gods. The worst kind.” The words slipped out like a bruise. He walked and muttered, knocked off balance. “Thought you were a brother. Who knew the freeloader eating my food was a divine nepo‑baby...”

Wutong folded the umbrella, smoothed the hair on her shoulder, then laced her fingers around the handle behind her back. She swaggered after him, light as a willow leaf.

Bitterness pinched first; her whisper followed. “Couldn’t be helped. Back then... I hadn’t earned Mother’s recognition. I was... just a failed draft...” The last words never left her lips.

“By the way, why’s your chest still bleeding?” She slid the topic aside like a screen. “Don’t tell me that dark elf was right and your heart got blown up.”

He could never admit that. He wore a sage’s face. “You wouldn’t get it... It’s a frightening spell. The price is steep, so my heart hasn’t recovered yet.”

Wutong nodded with a knowing look. Her eyes, though, held doubt like a shadow under water.

He stopped explaining. He lowered his head and counted the drops falling from his chest, timing how many hits the ground each second. Yes, he was that bored. After a bit, Valiant reappeared with the Rabbit in tow.

The Rabbit saw Ouyang and dove into him like a wave.

“Lord Ouyang, thank the heavens, your chest only lost the... the—no, thank the heavens you’re alive. That spectacle half‑killed me with fright. Worse than several great dragons at once.”

He hugged Ouyang’s thigh and bawled like rain on a tin roof.

“Lord Ouyang, you don’t know. That half‑orc was awful. In a moment like that, he tried to ditch me. Good thing I clung to him, or I’d never see you again...”

Understanding clicked, cold as iron. So that mess was why Valiant never came to help. The dead‑weight Rabbit had him by the ankle. “Never see me again?” If Valiant had joined the fight, the Rabbit might truly never have seen him again.

“This damned Rabbit. Toss him in the lake and soak him for a few days.” Ouyang waved at Valiant, the order clean as a blade.

Next up, the Demon Kings’ coffers were deep. It was time to raise a base here in Nightfall Forest.