“Your Majesty! The Daemon assault just broke like a storm over black water!”

As herald, he spoke the instant thunder rolled, and King Alex’s easy brow folded like a closing fan.

“Proceed as planned,” his voice struck like a war drum. “Tell every soldier there’s no road back—behind us stands the Ink-Black Empire.”

“Yes, sir! I’ll carry it like a drumbeat through the ranks!”

His outline flickered like heat above stone, then thinned like morning mist; no teleport—just a simple projection cut off.

Weariness rose like winter fog; he opened his mouth to sigh, then swallowed the smoke and held the throne’s steel.

Lately… I keep sighing.

—

“General Wang, His Majesty says stick to the plan,” the echo flew like an arrow across the camps.

The one called General Wang looked twenty-something, hair black as ink and eyes like dark glass catching sparks.

That plain face was a quiet pond, yet his gaze held colors like fish flashing beneath.

His hair, just long enough to tie, was a small black brush; his beard, rough as filed iron; his smile, a ronin’s wandering moon.

So stood the man the herald named General—always the brightest lantern in a crowd of shadows.

He was barely past twenty, yet his presence hit like iron rain; unkempt, yet his charm ran wild like a river in spring.

They called him general, yet he laughed with the ranks like a brother warming hands by the same fire.

A man like that earns a name fit for strength, a name that makes a hall fall silent—Wang Xiaoming.

“No more time to hesitate,” he said, voice like a blade tapping its scabbard.

Steel sang as he drew; sunlight poured down the edge like liquid gold, and his eyes sharpened like a whetstone’s kiss.

“Listen up! No way back—behind us is the Ink-Black Empire!” His shout rolled like thunder over a plain.

“Bring the strength you use to argue, like slamming doors in a barracks brawl; bring the speed you use to storm the mess hall, like wolves to meat.

“Bring the courage you had chasing your first girl, like spring lightning on a dark street. Remember, I stand with you.”

The rally ran hot like fire through wheat; he’d toggled the world broadcast, so even Daemons heard his thunder.

The quicker Daemons flared with black force and leapt, bodies dropping like falling boulders from a cliff.

Wang Xiaoming showed no fear; his hand rolled the hilt like grinding a millstone, and a feral grin split like a hunting cat’s.

“Alright, folks,” he rasped, voice like gravel under boots. “Now—hunt till you’re full.”

A general’s strength bloomed like a banner in wind; he stamped, and with a whoosh he shot skyward like an arrow loosed.

The Daemons loomed like walking towers, a dozen men to a limb, their shadows falling like night.

But size isn’t strength; big trees still snap in a gale, and mountains aren’t always iron.

He landed on a Daemon’s arm like a hawk to a branch, and his sword bit into black flesh like frost into earth.

Daemonic hide was tough as boiled leather, yet it couldn’t hold against him; the blade sank halfway like a nail through pine.

Soulless, they felt no pain; they swung on instinct like puppets tugged by one brutal string.

He glanced at the oncoming palm, lips curling like a knife; he yanked the buried blade and sprinted up the arm like a ramp.

The edge was uncanny sharp, slicing like tofu under a kitchen wire; blood geysered up, boiled in air, and steamed away like breath in winter.

Bound to Rafi’s decree like gears to a shaft, the Daemon roared and grabbed its own limb, tearing it free like rotten bark.

He kicked again and rose like a spark; the torn limb fell, and he reached the shadow under its jaw like a hunter at the throat.

“Don’t you think it’s a little late to pull that arm now?” His taunt rang like a bell over steel.

“Lukar Scissor Kick!”

He arched back, both legs carving a perfect arc in air like twin crescents.

No blades on his boots, yet, true to the name, his strike closed like shears; in one blink it parted the skull with a butcher’s clean cut.

“Th-That’s the general’s power?” A fresh face stared, world cracking like thin ice.

For a heartbeat he felt he could do it too, like a moth thinking it’s a firebird, but the veteran beside him tugged him down like a hand on a kite string.

“Don’t think you can match General Wang; Daemons aren’t weak, kid. They’re only weak compared to him.”

Unaware he’d gained another fan, Wang Xiaoming dropped like a leaf; wind magic caught him and set him down like a feather on a drum.

He planted beside the torn arm; his sword slid free with a hiss, blood dripping like red rain from the edge.

The blade was like Murasame from old tales, a rain-slick edge that refused to hold blood, shining white enough to throw back the sun.

He flashed that wanderer’s smile, back to his men like a banner turned to the wind, sword lifted high like a lighthouse.

“Brothers! You feel me?”

“Kill!” The answer crashed like surf against iron cliffs.