War Gorge… for now, it’s just a nameless cleft, wind-scraped and forgotten.

In later ages they’ll call it War Gorge because the first Nether War’s “warriors” fought their final clash here. Six warriors. Their battle heaved the sky like overturned seas, and a small ravine was beaten into a colossal rift. One fight carved an unprecedented canyon like a wound through the earth.

On the field, the six had battered each other to a stalemate. Devila’s team lagged in true strength, but everyone’s power was shackled, iron chains narrowing the gap between squads.

“Bat, just surrender.”

Feges, their captain, smiled like a blade catching sun. However she counted it, her side had no reason to lose.

“Tch. A mere pointy-ear bug…”

As high-born Blood Kin, Devila could stomach Ouyang calling him “bat.” Against Ouyang he had no leverage, so he swallowed it. But a dark elf daring to mouth off? Heat flared like oil on fire. He copied Ouyang and spat “pointy-ear.”

Called that, Feges bristled, fur standing like a startled cat. Same logic: if someone like Ouyang called her “pointy-ear,” she’d endure it—the power gap too stark. But a bat dared?

“Bat, you’re dead.”

“Pointy-ear, you think the noble Blood Kin fear you?”

Thunder rolled. The ground cracked like dried clay; the earth sank hundreds of meters, a giant’s palm pressing down.

They fought so hard they didn’t notice a fresh pile of crap dropping from the sky.

Mid-fight, noses wrinkled. The air’s flavor went wrong, heavy and sour. That stench—what in the abyss was it?

“Wa-ga-ga… Gentlemen, you finally noticed me?” Dufei perched like a crow on the head of that giant turd-man, laughing. Beside him lumbered a giant glazed with oozing boils—pus gleamed like diseased amber.

“Go, Poopman!”

“It’s you, Pus Warrior!”

Dufei and Moqi, twin scoundrels, had watched from the shadows. Both sides were bloodied; harvest time.

Poopman obeyed. It inhaled like a bellows, then spewed at Devila’s group.

“Eat Poopman’s rain!”

Countless clods of steaming dung rocketed out, a swarm heavy as monsoon drops. Worse, each lump wriggled with its own life. The little hot clods hopped and danced, converging like locusts.

Poopman unleashed its finisher, and Pus Warrior refused to be outdone. It scratched a boil, then snapped its arm. A spray of yellow fluid fell like acid rain. Sizzle—sizzle—the dirt frothed, pocked with smoking pits.

Staring at the two revolting monsters, both teams turned green like moss.

Eunice—the eternal loli—clutched belly and mouth, face paper-pale. “Ugh… blergh… I can’t… I’m out…” She withdrew by choice, driven off by pure disgust.

Wutong followed. No nonsense; she reeled her projection back like a yanked net.

Three women on scene; two fled in a hurry. The last, Feges, glanced left and right, stunned. A yellow sticky mass fell like glue and drenched her.

“Sticky… pus…”

The stench stabbed like needles; nausea rolled like a storm. A lump of hot dung leapt—smack, splat—right across Feges’s face.

“Enough… you… I’ve had enough!!!”

Emotion hit first—then power answered. Feges dropped into a blackened trance. Strength surged like a rising tide; heaven and earth flipped, colors inverting to ink and bone. With her at the eye, a colossal storm condensed, the world painting her as an extinction-tier Demon King.

“This game… no one plays anymore.”

Her grin went feral, a crescent under thunderheads. Hearing her, everyone’s hearts sank like stones. Devila’s camp felt no regret. First drenched in pus, then swarmed by steaming dung—who could stay in the mood to play? But Dufei and Moqi? They’d just seized the spotlight, strutting smug beneath clear skies—only for that little witch to decide, “If I quit, you quit with me,” and blow the board.

“Stop! We can talk!”

“Dark-elf sis, don’t be rash…”

They scrambled to patch the damage, but the moment slipped like sand. To withstand what was coming, they’d have to draw on powers beyond mortal—break the rules. If they didn’t, Feges would erase their projections like chalk under rain.

No answer.

Broad daylight folded into absolute night, black poured over the sky like ink, with no star or moon pricking the void.

No one knew how long it lasted. When light returned and heaven and earth settled, War Gorge lay quiet as ash. That war ended; eight Demon Kings were knocked straight out. Only three remained: Void Messenger Ouyang, the Undying Jue, and Lich Glenza.

Realizing it, Glenza’s bones tightened; awareness flickered like blue fire in his skull. With only three left, the next clash would be ruthless. Ouyang—entangled with the First Cult—would be a calamity if he dropped scruples. And Jue? That one had lived through ages like mountains weathering storms. Who knew what medicine the old fox kept in his gourd? Both were wolves to watch.

“Lord Lich, the magic crystal shards! We can hunt them!” Aflei, a member of Glenza’s team, couldn’t let it go. With only three “warriors” left, either you won head‑on, or you won by collecting magic crystals.

“Magic crystals?” Glenza did his usual trick: he’d forgotten that shabby god‑shard entirely.

“Lord Lich, the shards that grant wishes! Also… you never let me see one. If I knew what they looked like, I could help you gather them…”

Aflei bowed, head low, back bent like a reed in wind.

“Fair point, kid. You guard it. And make sure you collect the set.”

Glenza tossed the shard in his hand to Aflei without a ripple, as if throwing a pebble into a pond.

Aflei’s lips curled into a thin, strange smile. “Rest easy, Lord Lich. I promise I’ll complete the set.” He withdrew step by step, shadow trailing like smoke.

Busy chewing on how to face Ouyang and Jue, Glenza missed the wrongness simmering in Aflei’s eyes.

Elsewhere, with the shard in hand, black vapor bled from Aflei’s palm. The purple fragment darkened bit by bit, wine staining cloth.

Aflei never trusted Glenza. He believed Glenza meant to hog the magic crystal. Possessiveness grew like vines around his heart. But he had no special power—only a mortal frame.

So he prayed to the sky every day. He begged fate for a magic crystal.

Maybe the Creator God heard that burning plea. A black rhombus crystal fell like a star and hung before him. He saw countless little crystals built it, seams obvious where they met. And even this black rhombus was incomplete—pieces missing like teeth.

With that broken gem, Aflei finally understood: it was the fabled magic crystal—more precisely, a damaged crystal condensed from ten shards. Gather five more, and he could summon the Divine Dragon and make his wish.

He lay low in secret, learning the crystal’s wonders. It could increase his strength, a slow river becoming a flood. At first he swelled with pride, but inside the shards, images of the previous host—General Balua—flashed like old film. Aflei’s inflated heart shrank at once.

He chose to keep his head down and wait—to gather all shards, then astonish the world with one cry.

Now, counting the piece he’d taken from Glenza, he held fourteen shards. Only one remained.

“Heh… Nether warriors? So what. When I’ve got them all, I’ll be the one laughing last.”

With one shard missing, arrogance stirred like steam in his chest. It was hard to cage.

“Low‑key… stay low‑key…” He chanted to himself like a mantra. Calm settled, ripples smoothing on a pond.

Glenza knew none of this. He’d noticed a new and eerie problem—Ouyang and Jue had vanished. The two biggest rivals—the only rivals—were simply gone.

No channel brought news. No whisper showed their tracks.

“Those two aren’t hiding to ambush me, are they?” He couldn’t confirm, but he wouldn’t relax. Ouyang had ties to the First Cult—if he tossed “principles,” disaster would walk. And Jue, with a lifespan like ancient trees—who could read that fox? Both required guard.

Days slid like leaves on water. Glenza still received nothing. Where did those two go? As he puzzled himself into knots, Dongze and Agas delivered word. Only one Demon King remained in this world: him. Which meant—he’d won.

Yes, the rules said collect all shards to win. But with no other Demon Kings, this world was Glenza’s back garden. Victory was a matter of time.

“Ouyang? Jue?”

Glenza stood baffled, thoughts scattering like feathers. What happened to those two? Did they bite each other and both fall? But no—he hadn’t sensed any grand tremor.

Soon, something else shoved them aside.

“Hahahaha… Fifteen shards… Come out, Divine Dragon—grant me three wishes!”