The Soul Devourer led his people to the foot of Roaring Storm Church. He stopped, tilting his face toward the sheer peak that pierced the clouds, and a slow breath leaked through the centuries of bitterness locked inside him.
For ten thousand suffocating years, had Iain imprisoned beneath this mountain. Midway up the slope, a dense crowd had already gathered. They were experts from every corner of level six. Their chatter died the instant they spotted the black tide below.
One hundred thousand demonic souls and tens of thousands of Demonic Cultivators silenced all bravado. Most suffocating of all was the phalanx of ten thousand demonic souls clustered behind the Soul Devourer, each radiating a crushing, predatory aura.
If demonic souls alone carried such weight, what unimaginable realm of power had each of them commanded before their physical bodies withered?
Every face on the mountainside tightened, dread settling like frost in their veins. These demonic souls were far stronger than any tale had warned. Even Aurelius and his allies felt their shoulders knot.
Their gazes stuck to the Soul Devourer, as though merely remembering that this being had endured millennia of confinement made the air harder to breathe.
Among the onlookers, the sect leader of Rose Cloud Sect narrowed his eyes. When noticed two sword-bearing elders standing behind the Soul Devourer, his heartbeat stumbled.
The elders were swordsmen. Their powers were unfathomable. Ten thousand years ago, the famous swordsmen among the demons in level six were two brothers. One was called Anepan, and the other was Spathe.
The sect leader did not know their faces, yet every instinct screamed that the two gray-haired swordsmen before had to be those legends.
Tens of thousands of cultivators and the Demonic Soul Army faced one another across a few kilometers, neither side advancing, neither side retreating. At last, Aurelius motioned, and his group began a cautious descent toward the valley floor. Retreat was no longer an option. The moment had come to stand their ground.
“You have broken free of the restriction,” Aurelius called out, his voice echoing. “With your legion, you could seek a quiet land, restore your bodies, reclaim a life. A battle here serves no one. Force our hands, and we both bleed. Persist, and you might find yourself in chains yet again.”
“Pathetic rabble,” the Soul Devourer sneered. “It’s not a lose-lose situation. You want to suppress me, yet none of you are fit to cage me, let alone survive.”
The insult cracked across the plateau like thunder. Ten thousand cultivators lowered their heads, faces burning with collective shame. For all their numbers, not one could claim a higher realm than the Soul Devourer.
“Enough talk!” Aurelius growled. “If that is how it stands, let the blades speak!”
He sank into the opening stance of an attack. The other cultivators all drew out their weapons. There was no use in avoiding a fight.
“I will grant you a single mercy,” the Soul Devourer said, a thin smile carving Its way across his face. “Let the younger generation amuse us first, so no one may claim I bullied you. If you lose, surrender the Ritual Manual and vanish from level six.”
His smile hardened. “Remember, there is only one chance.”
“What if you lose?” Aurelius asked, his tone flat.
“Then I leave with my people and never set foot in level six again.” the Soul Devourer answered, brimming with icy certainty. Aurelius glanced behind him. A decision this heavy required the will of all who might die by it.
“No objections. I’ll take the first bout,” someone called, voice ringing with eagerness. A man wrapped in a green robe vaulted forward to stand before Aurelius.
“King Aurelius, allow my Iron Fists to educate these demon scum,” declared. Aurelius offered a single nod, eyes fixed on the Overlord. “Very well…”
The Soul Devourer’s grin widened-predatory and triumphant, as though the outcome had already been etched into stone.
“Soul Devourer, I’ll fight with him,” a white-robed man volunteered from the shadows. His bearing was so pristine it seemed impossible belonged to the Demonic Cultivators.
“You?” the Soul Devourer murmured, eyes narrowing to slits. “I’m Atom Morales, Young Sect Master of the Celestial Delacroix Sect,” the white-robed man introduced himself.
The man in green answered with a low, contemptuous laugh. “Kid, you’re signing your own death warrant.”
