Sheldon slumped upon a throne pieced together from bleached bones. In the green wobble of lamps, his figure looked carved from obsidian, yet the black mist that poured from him writhed like living tentacles. Those tendrils coiled around the throne’s armrests and hissed, eating through millennial ironwood and behemoth ribs alike until greasy droplets sizzled to the floor.
Below, elders lined up in rigid ranks, heads bowed so low their breath barely stirred. Silence froze the hall solid, as though every heart had been sealed in ancient ice.
“Blackflame Gorge, our resource hub of several centuries, stripped bare. Ten parts of our vault—gone, leaving only scraps. Wraith Herb Garden, the lifeline for refining Abyssal Soul Pills, now a scorched wasteland. Centuries of cultivation, erased! Outposts harassed, squads annihilated, disciples quaking in corners, morale plummeting past the abyss!”
His crimson eyes blazed like twin blood moons as he swept his gaze over the trembling assembly. “In mere days, we have suffered humiliation unthinkable! Do Jared Chance and the Myriad Beast Sect think we have grown weak?!”
With one slap of his palm, the already-rotting armrest exploded, and the entire hall shivered as grit rained from the ceiling.
A shockwave of ebon energy pulsed outward. Elders nearest the throne staggered back, skin leached white, robes snapping like torn sails.
“No more!” The Sect Master surged to his feet, a towering shadow that seemed intent on devouring the chamber. “Carry my order!”
His voice cracked like thunder. “Muster every combat-worthy soul. Leave only skeleton crews to guard the Soul Hall and keep the core arrays alive. Any Elder, Deacon, or Inner-Disciple of Heavenly Immortal Realm or above, assemble at once!”
“I will personally lead the march that razes the Myriad Beast Sect. Jared Chance will watch me chain his spirit beneath Netherworld Ghostfire. Paxton’s very bones will be broken to powder. And the Myriad Beast Mountains will drown in blood and silence, that the Infinite Soul Demon Sect may be reborn in terror and glory!”
In Sheldon’s eyes burned a vengeance so incandescent it promised to consume kingdoms, mountains, even the sky itself.
“Sir, I beg you, think twice!” The oldest elder, his remaining silver wisps plastered to a skull-thin scalp, forced himself out of the line.
Knees shaking, he bowed deep, voice cracked with dread. “If the entire sect marches, our halls will stand hollow. Level Ten is a snake pit of rivals. The moment our backs are bare, some hungry faction will slip inside and gut us… We should plan, probe, and strike only when the moment is ripe…”
“No ifs! No slow little plots!” he snarled, killing intent pressing down like winter ice. The elder’s remaining words froze unheard in his throat.
“The whole Level Ten knows the terror of the Infinite Soul Demon Sect!” Sheldon’s grin gleamed like a butcher’s blade. “Who dares provoke us? They will never dare to cross us!”
“We march with thunder!” he declared, each word a drumbeat. “One strike, and the Myriad Beast Sect is ash. Any tongue that wavers will be sliced from its traitorous mouth, on the spot!”
