The wind rolled through the Verdant Fang Woods, stirring leaves and rustling branches overhead. Deep within the shelter of a stone outcrop, twelve children huddled together—each between the ages of eleven and twelve. These were not ordinary children; they were survivors, freed slaves, learning to carve out a new life in a world built to break them.
Among them was Derick, the soul of a scientist reborn in a fragile body, now tempered by fire. His words carried weight, his eyes held direction. And the others—once hopeless and afraid—had begun to follow him, not by command, but by trust.
Even now, as the fire crackled low and Master Shen whispered cultivation tips about absorbing Qi from raw herbs, all ears turned to Derick when he quietly proposed the next hunt.
But away from the fire, one boy sat in silence—his knuckles white as they gripped the hilt of a crude blade.
Bran.
He was the one Derick had saved. One of the twelve rescued from the slave cages not long ago.
But instead of gratitude, his heart seethed with envy.
A Bitter Heart
Bran wasn't the strongest among them. He hadn't killed a beast. He didn't understand technique the way Derick did. But he had pride—a dangerous thing in a child who had tasted only fear until now.
And that pride had begun to rot under Derick's shadow.
He remembered the moment clearly—when the Spirit Pulse Realm master passed through the woods and gave only Derick an invitation letter, a rare symbol of recognition. The man hadn't even looked at the others. Just one glance at Derick and the letter was in his hands.
Bran had watched Derick clutch that letter with shaking fingers, while the others whispered excitedly. While Master Shen said nothing—but smiled.
Why him? Bran thought. Why not me?
He clenched his jaw.
And made a decision.
Before dawn, while the others slept, Bran slipped away from the camp.
He moved east, retracing the smuggling paths they had once used to flee demon patrols. He avoided the hunting zones where beast tracks ran thick and headed instead toward darker lands—lands ruled by the demons.
It took two days of grueling travel, but eventually, the towering spires of Black Fang Fortress came into view—like a wound in the land, ringed with obsidian spikes and choked in sulfurous smoke.
Demon sentries found him crawling through the underbrush, unarmed, half-starved. They dragged him through ash fields and bone gates, past the heads of rebels mounted on iron pikes.
Until they brought him before the monster who ruled these lands.
The Crimson Maw
Mal'Zeroth the Crimson Maw, Demon Overseer of the Southern Region, sat upon a jagged throne carved from the bones of ancient cultivators. His massive frame radiated demonic power. His six burning eyes pierced every lie. His crimson maw curled into a grin as he studied the trembling boy thrown before him.
Bran fell to his knees, bruised and gasping.
"I have information," he said, voice hoarse. "Twelve young humans… hiding in the Verdant Fang Woods. One of them—his name is Derick—he's being trained by an old cultivator. He's talented. Gifted. A Spirit Pulse Realm master gave him a letter of passage to a demon-sanctioned city. They're planning something. He could rise."
Mal'Zeroth said nothing.
Bran lowered his head. "I don't want to be a slave again. I don't want to run. I just want… safety. I'll bring them to you. Just let me live."
The air grew thick with Qi pressure.
Then the Overseer stood, towering and terrible.
"Safety?" he said, his voice like two blades grinding together. "You come crawling for safety… and offer me rebels in exchange?"
He turned to his lieutenants.
"Send six hunters. Two Nightfang Hounds. And the Shadow Seeker. Let them follow the rat home. Let the fire burn quiet, but let it burn deep."
He looked down at Bran one last time.
"If your tongue has lied, boy… your skull will scream long after your throat is gone."
Return to Camp
Bran limped back into the camp two nights later.
Clothes torn, eyes sunken, he stumbled into view near the southern brush. Derick was the first to reach him.
"Bran?" Derick asked, helping him sit. "What happened?"
"I went to scout the cliffs to the south," Bran coughed. "Thought I saw some spiritroot growing on the rocks. I—I thought it'd be useful."
Lina narrowed her eyes from the edge of the fire. "You left without telling anyone."
"I just wanted to help," Bran said. "Prove myself. Be useful. Before I could get closer, wolves ambushed me."
"You're lucky to have made it back," Master Shen said, but there was unease in his tone.
Bran looked up at Derick.
"I still remember where I saw it—the herbs. I can take you. You, me, Lina, Aro, and Fen. Five's enough. If we're quick, we can harvest and return before nightfall."
Derick hesitated.
Then he nodded.
"We move at dawn."
Ambush in the Mist
Miles away, cloaked by illusion talismans and natural cover, six demon assassins crouched in a ravine. Their armor was darkened bone and shadow-woven cloth, their blades curved and barbed.
Two Nightfang Hounds, their fur rippling with cursed runes, sniffed the wind, sensing prey drawing near.
And floating above the treetops, cloaked in shifting mist, was the Shadow Seeker—a spectral killer who could phase between realms.
"The traitor returns," it whispered into the mist.
"Soon… the young will scream."
From his throne of bone and fire, Mal'Zeroth waited, already envisioning Derick's head mounted on his wall.