They moved through the corridor of the Second Space, like a river of dim starlight flowing between worlds. Ouyang led up front, flipping files like moth-wings. They still hadn’t picked a destination, the crossroads fog thick in his chest.

Ouyang was tangled up inside, mood knotted like a fisher’s net. Dragging three thousand from the FFF Brotherhood out for a stroll felt like bringing a war drum to a sparrow fight—these were three thousand gods.

As his thoughts snagged and pulled, a side path spat out a rag-clothed man, his body a map of wounds. He froze at the sight of the marching host, the tide of armor and banners. Then joy cracked his face like sunlight and he sprinted toward them.

“Brothers, which legion are you? Ha! I finally found the organization…”

His eyes caught the banner drifting like a black-feathered hawk—Thirteenth Expeditionary Legion—and he froze again. In his head, the Demon King’s Grand Expedition had only twelve legions. When did a Thirteenth rise like an extra moon?

He steadied himself and studied the trio standing at the front, their silhouettes cutting the march like standing stones. He didn’t know the Void Messenger by any book’s lines. But Lich Glenza blazed like a cold omen, the only black-boned skeleton in the Eternal Sleep Continent.

And Dufei was a walking emblem—big slick belly like a polished cauldron, bald head shining like a lantern. You couldn’t miss him.

“My lords Demon King, you’ve got to stand up for me…” He recognized two Demon Kings, and his grievance spilled like winter rain, the words shaking from his ribs before his hands.

His name was Alfred. He was a vampire—no, Blood Kin—noble under the eighth-seat Demon King, Devila. In the Expedition’s push, he had joined the Third Expeditionary Legion.

Their commander, Lain, let members roam like hawks: alone, in pairs, in packs of a dozen. Alfred chose the lone road. A lower-tier god among mortals felt like thunder walking a wheat field—almost everything bent before him. He barely lifted a hand; he turned mortals into a new brood of Blood Kin, and the new brood rewrote the world like ink across parchment.

Alfred was a success. His vampires conquered a world in the span of a short season, their shadow spreading like frost. Just when he pulled back to hide his name like a blade in a sleeve, a twist cut the air.

Because of his meddling, every race on that continent fell under Blood Kin rule. Because he lacked the crafts of governance, he let his underlings run wild like brushfire. The oppressed finally cracked; they united and opened a gate to another world. That world’s civilization stood higher, its towers like spears, and the Blood Kin lost ground, street by street.

The uproar jolted Alfred. As the “Progenitor of Blood Kin,” he led a pack through that gate, their eyes like knives. Then he realized he’d jabbed a hornet nest. The world was called Koramor, and it had native gods like bright eyes lining a mountain ridge.

Not only that, the world held a complete scaffolding: a Divine Realm above, an Underworld below. The God King and the Underworld King were upper-tier, mountains against the sky. Alfred was only lower-tier, a reed in the wind. But as a “civil servant” out on a mission, he carried artifacts, cold star-iron tucked at his belt.

He yanked a few artifacts from his waist, metal singing like winter water, and went god-slaying. Divine Realm or Underworld, whoever came, he cut—one swing, one fall. He stirred a storm of fury. The human world, the Divine Realm, and the Underworld united, three rivers merging into a flood. Cornered, he knew the God King and Underworld King coveted his artifacts like wolves smelling meat, so he hurled them away like bait into the snow.

Divine and Underworld turned on each other to seize the glittering prizes, and Alfred slipped through the cracks like smoke. Bloody and ragged, he started back to fetch reinforcements—then ran into the Thirteenth Expeditionary Legion on the road, banners like night-tide.

That was Alfred’s story. Hearing it, the Thirteenth pulled out torches, flame roaring like red tongues—their mood blazing, simple as fire.

Dufei rubbed his big belly, eyes half-lidded with scorn. “Kid, lead the way. They dared defy our Expeditionary Army—watch me beat them till they cry to daddy and scream for mama.” His voice hit like a drum.

So Alfred trotted ahead, tail high like a happy dog, guiding the Thirteenth toward the world he had ruled.

Two worlds waited. One was Alfred’s Blood Kin realm, streets veined with night. The other was Koramor, gears meshed in a complete system. Because Alfred lost, the first realm had likely already been freed by Koramor, the old darkness peeled back like paint.

Even so, Alfred had tended it for years; some Blood Kin still lived like coals under ash. More hands meant faster intel, easier land-taking; it was a plan like stacking stones into a wall.

Those were Alfred’s calculations. To Ouyang and his two companions, a fist was clearer than any abacus. But their mission was to conquer and then rule, not to burn for sport. Otherwise, the Thirteenth could torch a world apiece and be done, one flame per person. Because ruling needs pillars, Ouyang wouldn’t act rashly; his patience sat like a quiet lake.

Crystalglow World. In this realm, beings drew a force called crystalglow from heaven and earth, like dew from leaves, then released it as arts, the luminous craft they called Crystalglow Arts.

Ten years ago, a strange “illness” spread like cold mist. No one remembered the first spark; they only knew all infected shared one trait—blood hunger.

The weakest infected lost wits, staggering like beasts in fog. The stronger stayed clear-eyed, but their power turned sharp and terrible; they named themselves Blood Kin, tongues proud as banners.

In a single year, Blood Kin ruled the world, their shadow a lid over the sky. After eight long years of oppression, rescue came like thunder over dry fields. A higher world, Koramor, crashed into Crystalglow World with armies, then freed it, cutting chains like ropes.

Ten years into the Blood Kin era, one year beyond liberation.

Inside a gloomy castle, the great hall’s floor lit up with runes, tangled and profound, forming a circle like a moon of ink. The sigils flickered, and a man stepped onto the pattern, a ghost walking out of light.

“I’m back!!!” His shout flew up like a flock of crows.

Alfred didn’t return alone; he carried the wind of the Thirteenth Expeditionary Legion behind him, a storm held in a sleeve. He remembered how a no-name pawn from the Expedition had turned Koramor into rain and knives. Now a whole legion came, plus three Demon Kings—three mountains moving.

He sighed with easy contempt, breath like a snake. He had meant to treat Koramor as an enemy, to gather a few brothers and roll back in, to fight that world straight and hard. He hadn’t expected a full legion to drop like nightfall.

To Alfred now, Koramor wasn’t a rival. It was a roasted drumstick, skin blistered gold, waiting for the Expedition’s crowd to strip it clean.

“Let me carve the rune array and pull the Thirteenth over. Hmph. Then you’ll learn what a proper group beatdown looks like.” His grin flashed like a crescent blade.

For years, the three realms had him wanted; he’d scrambled high and low, living by his heels. Now he finally flipped the script; joy rose like warm wine.

Back home, his first act wasn’t to carve the rune array to summon the Thirteenth. He bathed, washed the road’s dust like old ash. He changed into sharp clothes, buttons shining like small stars. He tidied every line—then still didn’t touch the array.

“Servants, out—all of you. Clean the castle. Prepare the food. Leadership’s coming down to inspect.” His voice cracked like a whip.

His call startled the bats roosting in the rafters; they burst and whirled like black snow. A coffin in the hall creaked open; a man climbed out, pale as chalk. Far bats swarmed and braided into bodies, figures knitting out of wings. One by one, they came from wall, floor, shadow—everyone showing off their little tricks.

It said something about their survival skills, like weeds finding light in stone.

Soon a cluster of servants formed in the hall, like a nest around a fire. Alfred gave the orders to the butler. Housework and provisions belonged to professionals; the right craft makes the blade clean.

He looked stern, palm heavy on the shoulder of a white-haired butler. “Kormir, you’ve always been curious about where I’m from…” He let his identity roll out slow, like smoke—about the Expeditionary Army, about his place in it. He picked his words like fruit; what wasn’t for the table, he didn’t bring.

Kormir left the talk stunned, eyes wide as coins. The Blood Kin Progenitor before him was only a member of the Expedition. Soon, a whole legion would descend like a storm.

“My lord, leave these matters to me!” As a butler, cleaning and feasting were his battlefield; he ran to arrange, and the bleak castle erupted into clamor, chickens and dogs flying in proverb if not in sight.

Watching the bustle swell, Alfred nodded, satisfied, the approval soft as a cat’s tail.

“Next, it’s time to go talk over there…” He frowned and flew out, cutting the night like a dark arrow. He hadn’t delayed the rune array for cleanliness; that was cover, a mask worn for himself.

There were people here he couldn’t let go, faces tied to him like red strings. But their ideas ran cross to his. He feared the legion would drop and kill the dissenters like chopping weeds. He had to talk them down before the legion arrived, had to pull his old companions toward surrender, away from the blade.

Cold moonlight poured like blue water, and the color felt bleak in his eyes. The palace beneath his boots shone with the victor’s glory, gold like noon. But before the Expeditionary Army, such glory would fade like paint in rain.

If it were a different legion, Alfred might beg the commander to take prisoners, to give time for persuasion—a breathing space like a tent in storm. But this was the Thirteenth. Three Demon Kings had come at once, three thunderheads. Alfred didn’t have the nerve to ask those three to spare captives.

No, there might be no captives at all. The power of three Demon Kings could turn defiance into dust, bodies into bright particles on the wind.

Worst of all, one of the three remained masked to him. From how the legion reacted, from his own threads of guesswork, it was likely that Demon King—the one whose name made halls go quiet.

He had to convince the handful he cared about to surrender. If not, there’d be no room for talk, only the blade and the bright, final silence.