“An alliance?”

In a shadowed crypt like a well of ink, the dark elf Feges pondered, the word circling her mind like a lantern flame.

Beside her, a man in wizard’s robes held a diamond-shaped shard glowing purple, his gaze a wolf’s hunger stalking prey. “Yes. As you said, twelve warriors remain. We can ally with other teams. We wipe out the rest first, then fight among ourselves later. Our secret pact will strike like a knife from under the table; before they react, they’re out.”

Her human teammate was a wizard—no, a Great Wizard. His skin clung to bone like old parchment in dry wind; rumor said he’d lived nearly five hundred years.

Feges tasted the iron of logic on her tongue; Great Wizard Omalihas’s plan had strategic bite.

“If we do ally…” Her mood settled like frost before words formed.

She ran through the twelve Demon Kings. First, she tossed Ouyang, Dufei, Moqi, and Glenza aside like sparks from a wild fire; those Four Rogue Gods had zero team sense. Ally with them? She could see it: mid-battle, they’d turn and bite their own like rabid dogs.

That left Jue, Amelie, Wutong, Devila, Tangela, Eunice, and Bartley. Tangela was a given; with Feges and Tangela’s Titan bound like mountain and root, alliance was smooth. In the final dash, Tangela would yield like a wave bowing to shore, handing her the crown.

Jue and Amelie, frosty as winter pines, got cut in the second sweep. Devila, Eunice, and Bartley were late joiners; newcomers huddle like fledglings in rain. So all roads pointed to Wutong.

“This works. Me, Tangela, Wutong—one team. Devila’s trio—another team. Jue and Amelie will likely run solo. First, boot the two lone wolves off the board.”

Her analysis clicked like beads; she weighed not just strength but temper. With Devila’s trio likely to cluster, she wouldn’t stir the brush and spook the snake. The aloof pair would hunt alone for sure. As for the Four Rogue Gods, she had no taste for that muddy water; their logic spun like a kite in storm. If she went after them, failing would be the small loss. Getting splashed with a whole bucket of crap with nowhere to complain—that’d be the real wound.

It was only a metaphor, but the reek felt real on the air.

She laid the plan before Great Wizard Omalihas. He didn’t know why she feared the Four Rogue Gods, but he trusted that she had reason carved in granite.

“Two prongs,” the Great Wizard said, eyes glinting like knife-edges. “Those two loners—I can handle half a target. Add any warrior, and we finish it.” He meant: their side had three warriors. Against Jue and Amelie, split two onto one target. He and another warrior would pin the other. If the kill failed, time would carry the first pair back like returning tide.

Feges’s smile was cold as moonlight on steel. “You? Better not. Your strength’s weak in our eyes.”

She kept it soft as rain, but the truth stood like a cliff. In this world, a Great Wizard could tower over many, a near-legend after five centuries of breath.

But in the Origin World, that was only Moon Ring Level, far from Sun Ring Level, nowhere near facing divine projections. Rules banned calling in lackeys, banned power beyond mortal hands. Yet they didn’t ban artifacts—that loophole gleamed like a hidden blade.

Demigod might plus artifacts—under that storm, a Great Wizard wasn’t even worthy as cannon fodder.

She didn’t know if he’d listen; her heart was already racing toward Tangela and Wutong, future allies like twin pillars on a bridge.

Ouyang knew nothing of Feges’s alliance. His sky was filled with a different storm.

A mound of poop…

A dragon-sized mound of poop rampaged through the royal capital of Laisenya like a filthy avalanche.

“Ah-hahaha…” A chair sat nailed to the apex of that mound like a throne on a hill. A fat man lounged there, looking down with hawk-eyed scorn. Dufei had spent half a month gathering filth, then used his “culinary arts” to forge living poop. On its summit rose his throne, and he sat like a peerless Demon King surveying ants.

It would’ve been grand—minus the poop.

“Ouyang, kid—come on! Let’s hurt each other!” Dufei’s laughter rolled like thunder over a cesspit.

On the streets, the mound crushed buildings like wet sand. Many didn’t die under rubble or feet; they simply choked, their faces going blue like frost-bitten plums.

Ouyang refused to dignify Dufei’s bottomless shamelessness; his patience curled like smoke and drifted away.

“So, First Warrior, you’ll just watch that disgusting thing wreck the capital?” In the palace, ministers sweated rivers, faces pale as paper. The Underworld’s First Warrior was turtling in his shell.

“Quit yapping. This is a tactical retreat.” Ouyang’s glare cut like a razor. “Hmph. You shallow bunch—if you’re so brave, go fight that mound. Who was shouting loudest? You? You? You?”

Every head he faced ducked like quail under arrows. They couldn’t even get close; the stink knocked you out from half a street away.

Seeing the silence settle like dust, Ouyang finally conjured a fan, waving cool air like a lake breeze. “Calm down, listen. Nothing’s truly invincible. One thing beats another. Think—what’s poop’s natural enemy?”

Natural enemy?

Everyone scrunched brows like stone Buddhas; even the king held his chin like a sage in a painting.

A minute bled away like dripping wax. Ten minutes thudded past like slow drums.

Ouyang shook his head, a look of “beyond saving” drying on his face like sun-cracked clay.

“So simple. To deal with that mound, we bring every dog in the realm into the capital. The dogs will gnaw it clean. Poopman might be fierce, but with doggos around, will Poopman still swagger?”

They didn’t know what “Poopman” or “doggos” meant, but the picture came bright as dawn.

Dogs. Release the dogs. Let the pack chew the mountain down to dust.

The king’s order flew like an arrow. Gather every dog in the capital; if it’s not enough, haul more from nearby cities. Hurry. Every extra minute of stink felt like a curse from a swamp god.

Poopman kept bulldozing buildings like rotting trees falling. On his throne, Dufei waved a megaphone, voice buzzing like hornets. “Ouyang, you coward! Come out!”

“Ouyang, you trash—come hurt each other!”

Ouyang stayed calm as a pond in winter, sunbathing in the palace while he watched the farce like a street play. On any normal day, he’d sip juice through a straw; today, one glance at Poopman killed his appetite like frost on fruit, and the smell was already blooming through the city like a nightshade.

The danger pressed like storm clouds, so the ministers moved fast, faster than the king had ever seen. Their efficiency cut like a bright blade, shocking even him.

In a side street corner like a pocket of shade, Ouyang eyed a chorus of barking dogs. He nodded, then touched a black dog’s forehead with a finger light as a falling leaf.

“Little Blackie, Poopman’s yours.”

“Woof! At your command!” The black dog rose on two legs like a soldier, spoke human words, and threw a crisp salute.

“Woof—brothers, forward! Eat that Poopman!”

The big black dog charged like a comet. Behind him, the doggos surged, streets filling with woof-woof like rain on tiles.

At first sight of the pack, Dufei waved a hand, dismissive as a lord flicking dust. In his eyes, doggos were fleas under a giant.

“Poopman, smash them. Clean the world.”

Poopman flexed a fist the color of bad earth, then swung down like a falling boulder.

Woof-woof…

Woof…

Woof-woof-woof…

Under the big black dog’s barked orders, the pack scattered like swallows, each darting to a side. Poopman’s mind stalled like a cart in mud; he couldn’t pick a target.

In that heartbeat of stupefaction, the pack swarmed like ants onto honey. Teeth sank in. Flesh—not flesh—crumbled. The chewing sounded like dry reeds snapping.

“Woof… bliss…” The big black dog bit hard, eyes dreamy like a drunk monk, murmuring with pure happiness.

Dog after dog piled on. Poopman’s body shrank at a speed you could see, his bulk melting like snow in spring sun.

Dufei gaped, his plan unraveling like bad rope. He’d schemed for ages, a disgust-till-you-die stratagem—and Ouyang waved it away like smoke.

With doggos still pouring like a river, Dufei knew Poopman was doomed. He hissed a last order, voice cold as a knife tip. “Self-destruct.”

The word left his lips, and Dufei vanished like a cut thread. In the palace, Ouyang’s eyes flashed; he grabbed Bai’s wrist, and both slipped away like swallows into shadow.

Seconds later, Laisenya’s royal capital fell into poop-rain. Each drop hit and puffed into a warm, living lump, little mounds hopping down the streets like frogs in a sewer spring.

“Creator God above… what sin have I sown… why must Laisenya suffer such a calamity…” The king stared at the raining filth and the city crawling with lively turds, tears trembling like shattered pearls.