Three gay thugs, one pretty boy, and white stains smeared on that pretty boy’s face and backside—the picture spoke like a storm cloud. Everyone shivered, as if a winter draft slipped under their collars.

Rage hit Daphne first, hot as boiled iron, and words jammed in her throat. She hadn’t chosen any of this, like a leaf caught in a gutter. And Clark? He’d been rolling with those three thugs behind her back. She’d been forced by Owisen alone—Clark got taken by three. By any measure, he had no right to spit at her.

“Clark, you—” Despair welled up like dusk, then anger snapped. Under the same roof, she’d hoped they’d think of escape together. Instead, he snapped and snarled, a rabid dog biting at her with words.

“Shut up, you bitch!”

After a whole day of torment under the three gay thugs, Clark’s will had cracked like thin ice. His mind slipped sideways; he foamed, barking like a mangy cur. After that inhuman ordeal, the fact he could still form words was already a miracle scraped from bone.

Watching Clark’s hysterics, Mapleleaf’s patience thinned like frayed rope. He flicked his wrist, shooing flies from his mood, and told the three thugs, “Too noisy. You three—stuff three sausages in his mouth and shut him up.”

The three gay thugs glanced down, measuring with their hands like masons at a quarry. “Uh… sir, three’s too big. Can’t fit that much.”

“Idiots. If three won’t fit, then two. The back can take one. Stuff them all.”

“Mmph—mmph—”

Clark’s muffled groans buzzed like trapped bees. One thug bubbled with glee. “Hey, two really do fit! That kid’s mouth can take two. Haha—now he can’t say a word.”

Mapleleaf frowned, a mountain line creasing his brow at the indecency, then a sly spark jumped like a fox in cold grass. “You three—kill the pretty boy. From today, you’re my direct men. Follow me, and there’ll be sweet-faced young lads for you to pick, like dishes set under moonlight.”

“Awoo—long live the new boss!”

The next day, a thunderclap of news rolled through Qiuya City and Blackwater City. Daphne and Clark were seized by bandits from Blackwater Mountain. To save his skin, Clark abandoned her and ran, vanishing like mist over ravines.

On the edge of despair inside the Blackwater gang’s lair, the Lone Warrior Owisen cut in like a knife through bamboo and pulled Daphne out.

The bandits were wiped out, bodies falling like felled timber. Saved by the Lone Warrior, Daphne declared that the man who dragged her from that den was her white-horse prince. She’d marry no one but Owisen.

The city buzzed, minds turning like waterwheels: where had this Owisen come from?

Yes—that’s the official version of the Blackwater Mountain incident. In the uncut version, aside from Owisen, Daphne, and the three gay thugs Mapleleaf kept for later use, everyone else became feed for Gluttony. The Blackwater gang had around a hundred heads; Ouyang’s wraith army gained another hundred. He now had over two hundred wraiths, still far from the three thousand he wanted, like a river yet short of the sea.

As for Daphne…

Ouyang’s group had seen Owisen force himself on her, the image stark as soot on snow. If she didn’t want the whole world to know, she had to follow Mapleleaf’s script. Same for Owisen; if the truth came out, Qiuya City and Blackwater City would be on him first, like hawks on a rabbit.

So the Blackwater Mountain tale above was penned by Thomason, inked smooth as lacquer.

Under layered threats, and with Daphne speaking to the city lord, Ouyang’s crematorium could finally open its doors. Congratulations like firecrackers in spring.

The city lord gave Ouyang a patch of empty ground, an荒地 on the outskirts, scrubby as a desolate field. That was all Daphne could secure. As for buildings, they’d be self-made, like bread baked from one’s own dough.

For Ouyang, with two hundred wraiths under him, this was nothing more than chopping wood at dawn.

“Squad One, cut timber. Squad Two, find stone. Squad Three, you—” Mapleleaf stood in the center of the lot, voice cracking like a whip. After chewing the plan like tough meat, he decided to split the wraith army into twelve squads. He wouldn’t be the general manager anymore—he’d be the overall captain. As for Ouyang…

Since Mapleleaf took the title of captain, how should Ouyang be called? The thought snagged like a burr. These wraiths were borrowed from Ouyang—Mapleleaf couldn’t rank himself above the source, could he?

He knew Ouyang’s third persona didn’t care for such strings, but conscience is a cricket in the night.

“Ahem—decided. From now on, call that guy the Demon King, and you are the Demon King’s army. We’re split into twelve squads, and I’m the overall captain of the twelve.”

“Next, I’ll name the squad leaders. Vice-captains are picked by the leaders.”

Two hundred heads, twelve squads—ten-plus per squad, lean as wolf packs. With ranks clear, the wraiths worked like a river in flood. Tireless, eager, they raised a small forest of wooden houses in a single day.

Even Mapleleaf hadn’t expected this speed; it moved like wind across prairie.

“Squad One, I’m giving you a key job. Go to the busiest streets and spread the word.” Mapleleaf tossed the crucial pitch to Thomason. Normally, a crematorium’s promotion stomps toes—folk take it like a curse flung at their household, a crow on the eaves. That thorny mess belonged to clever Thomason; that sharp lad would smooth it like oil on hinges.

At the No-Trace Crematorium—yes, that’s the name: “No-Trace” Crematorium—an old wraith stood by Ouyang, reverent as a temple keeper. He was the white-haired elder Ouyang had slain in the Chiba clan, their final trump card, a peak Earth Warrior—Chiba Fenghai.

In theory, the Eastern Empire’s Earth Warriors matched the Western Empire’s wizards, arcanists, and mages, like twin mountains on a skyline. But an Earth Warrior’s power mostly rode on tech. Without a laser sword, without a power scanner, without a levitation system—strip those away, and their might drops like leaves after frost. Even so, as a peak Earth Warrior, Chiba Fenghai’s discounted strength still made him a notable expert in the Western Empire, a spire among roofs.

That’s why Ouyang kept him: a right-hand hammer saves trouble like shortcuts through hills. Whether Chiba Fenghai stayed willingly was not Ouyang’s concern. Under absolute power, resistance is a candle in rain.

Another day passed, and the city lord’s daughter Daphne arrived with the Lone Warrior Owisen, faces taut as bowstrings. Because Clark had “abandoned Daphne at the critical moment,” the city lord was furious. Under Daphne’s stubborn push, he finally agreed to her betrothal to Owisen. He set one condition: since Owisen could rescue Daphne alone, he’d be given a hundred men. With that, he should sweep the bandits around Qiuya City clean, like a broom on a dusty floor.

Owisen knew his weight, like a craftsman who knows his tools. So he came to the mysterious group for help.

Mapleleaf was sorting trifles like pebbles, so he tossed the matter to Ouyang. Ouyang didn’t hesitate; feeding Gluttony, who howled hunger day and night, was chance and harvest, a mill grinding ever on.

For ease, Ouyang took Squad One along.

“Demon King,” Thomason said, thinking like rain under eaves, “if we bring those three gay thugs, they might be useful in ways we don’t expect.”

Ouyang weighed it, calm as slate. Thomason had a point. Some men would die rather than bend; lock the door and let the three gay thugs in, and pride might fold like wet paper.

Owisen and Daphne eyed the man who never removed his white mask. A chill rose from him, close to death’s breath, like a night wind over graves.

Demon King—that was what Thomason called him. The name fell like a shadow over their thoughts.

Thomason looked at Owisen. “Tomorrow, come alone. Don’t bring the city lord’s soldiers. Remember, you’re the Lone Warrior—one man is enough to crack every bandit like shells.”

After sending the couple off like boats into fog, Ouyang finished carving his magic array. Space tore like silk; a doorway the size of a common doorframe opened. On the other side lay the eerie borderland where the Eastern Empire touched the Western Empire.

It was Ouyang’s back road. If the Faith Gods swarmed like hornets, they’d slip through that fixed rift to the cursed land. There, Ouyang’s strength would swell like a tide, and the Faith Gods would be bound by thorns. Most of all, he could drag mutated creatures through the tear to fight, beasts born of storm and shadow.

When the crack yawned, a sparrow wreathed in black lightning tried to dart through, a coal with wings. Ouyang flicked a finger and bounced it back, neat as snapping a seed.

He’d cursed that region; there, all life fades like autumn grass, gets assimilated, and becomes monsters. If a Faith God stepped into that land, their godhood would erode, corroded like iron in salt—neither god nor ghost. That’s with a long stay; a brief stroll is drizzle, not deluge.

Also, a Faith God’s might thins when they leave their domain, like incense without smoke. A local minor god, worshipped in one city, can be nameless outside it. It’s like a village chief stepping into a far-off village; unless it’s the next valley over, few know who he is.

The farther a Faith God strays from their believers’ cradle, the heavier the discount—power peeling away like bark off old wood.