Almost every kind of alien race was present. Large numbers of elite alien warriors had appeared on the Thorn Plains, herding batches of human civilians. They also dragged along ferocious beasts and a multitude of captured poisonous creatures, clearing paths through the dense brambles.
"Move! Stop dawdling! Once you reach the destination, your suffering will be over. In your next life, pray you don't come back as humans."
"Exactly. You'd be better off being born into our Serpent Demon Clan. Then you'd know how laughable the human race is—clowns compared to us. Even in death, you're fulfilling your worthless existence."
"Move! Faster!"
Crack! Crack!
Alien warriors lashed out with long whips, striking the humans relentlessly. Their clothes were tattered, their bodies covered in shocking wounds. Malnourished and yellow-faced, their eyes were hollow with apathy and despair. As they walked across the Thorn Plains, the surrounding brambles scratched their skin.
The luminous thorns contained a toxic property. Any wound inflicted brought searing pain. Yet many of the humans, despite being pricked, did not even cry out or grimace in pain.
What did this mean?
It meant their bodies had grown numb, their souls and spirits completely dulled, even their minds had shut down. If the soul was deadened, what pain could the flesh still feel? All sensation had been suppressed to the barest minimum.
These human civilians were no different from those long imprisoned—perhaps even more desolate. The longer they were confined, the more their fighting spirit was eroded, until they were nothing more than walking corpses.
There were simply too many like this.
Millions—at least several million human civilians—were being herded across the Thorn Plains, leaving behind a trail of blood.
It wasn't only humans. Massive numbers of ferocious beasts, poisonous creatures, and toxic plants had been captured and gathered by the aliens. Towering centipedes dozens of meters long, vividly colored venomous snakes, and terrifying flora filled the landscape.
Seeing this, Huang Chengyan and the others were filled with burning rage.
These were millions of human lives.
Whatever else might be said, they were still living members of the human race. No one could watch such hollow, broken expressions without feeling anger rise within them.
"These aliens... deserve death. If there are millions here, then over the years, the number of humans who've died in alien camps must be ten times, even a hundred times more."
"Indeed. That's why we, the human race, must grow stronger. Only then can we prevent tragedies like this from ever happening again. If civilians fall into danger, they must at least fear our retribution."
Zhuge Liang spoke solemnly.
Some problems needed to be solved at the root. Everything else was just temporary.
High in the air, looking down, they could easily spot a black altar rising from the Thorn Plains—clearly the destination of the forced march.
The altar was entirely jet black. The moment one laid eyes upon it, a heavy, oppressive pressure descended upon the heart, as if one faced an unchallengeable god or demon.
It stood three zhang tall and occupied a space nine zhang in radius. The surface was covered in mysterious engravings—runes that interwove like arcane symbols and sinister glyphs. Some even resembled ancient curse-worms, wriggling and coalescing into the image of a primordial being.
The altar was not just placed—it was merged with the earth itself, inseparable, fused as one with the land.
Around the altar, alien warriors stood in ranks, guarding human captives. Each alien looked upon the altar with reverence and fear, not daring to show the slightest disrespect. Every alien race knew this: to offend a sacrificial altar was to invite catastrophe. Each altar represented an unfathomable power.
They all stood at least five to six zhang from the altar, no closer.
And now, a number of particularly powerful aliens—clearly tribal leaders—had gathered in a circle outside the altar.
Among them was Fan Wencheng, draped in a long black robe, exuding a strange elegance. In his hand was a crystal goblet—filled with fresh human blood. Blood that came, specifically, from human infants.
He sipped the blood delicately as though enjoying a rare, intoxicating vintage, all while watching more humans being driven forward.
"The Dayi Dynasty… I, Fan Wencheng, want nothing more than to see you burn. I made the right choice—humans are weak. The Blood Clan is eternal!"
He muttered to himself, his expression cold and arrogant. He no longer considered himself human, despite his origins—despite once being a scholar of human history. Now, he viewed other humans with disdain, as nothing more than vermin.
"Your Majesty, that's Fan Wencheng," said Tong Huang. "According to our intel, he's created a new Blood Clan Tribe, converting humans into bloodspawn. Every drop he drinks is from an infant. He claims only the blood of babies is pure and delicious."
"We in the Calamity Palace have long tried to assassinate him. But he's extremely cunning. His base is unknown, and he can transform into bats, vanishing into the night."
Yi Tianxing's gaze turned cold as he stared at Fan Wencheng.
"I don't care how. I only want Fan Wencheng's head. Let it be your contribution to the Calamity Palace."
"Yes, Your Majesty. He won't escape. His head will be ours," said Tong Huang, killing intent gleaming in her eyes.
In truth, the Calamity Palace had already attempted several assassinations. But Fan Wencheng's survival abilities were monstrous. Even under fatal attack, he could split into countless bats. If even one escaped, he survived. Even once, when all bats were destroyed, he somehow still lived.
Now, though, Tong Huang said nothing more. She had received the order.
Fan Wencheng must die.
Suddenly, black runes began to pulse on the altar.
A lava giant stepped forward, lifting a massive corpse onto the altar.
It was the body of a massive insectoid beast—an Ironclad Beetle, famed for its nigh-unbreakable black carapace. Normally hard to kill. Yet here, its corpse was nothing special. Dozens more followed—ferocious beasts and monstrosities towering tens of meters high.
Shush, shush, shush!
Beast corpses were continuously thrown onto the black altar. Each one was absorbed by the runes and glyphs, as if devoured by a swirling vortex.
Despite its size, the altar devoured everything without overflowing, like a bottomless pit.
This was a sacrificial ritual.
The more sacrifices were thrown in, the darker and more ominous the glow of the altar became. The black script on its surface spread wider, more intricate and terrifying.
Faintly, a chant of ancient ritual began to emanate from the altar, spreading its ancient and eerie aura across the land.
"The ritual has begun," Yi Tianxing said calmly. "They're sacrificing beasts and poisonous creatures first—then, the humans. They plan to use live humans for the final sacrifice."
His voice was steady, but his eyes burned with fury.
Still, he did not yet give the order to act.
Let them use up their beasts first.
Then he would strike.