Shi Hu was dead.
The tyrant who had terrorized the Yellow Springs Underground Palace for centuries lay vanquished. Demon spirits stared at the fading motes where their nightmare had disintegrated—first in stunned silence, then erupting into ragged cheers. Hugging bloodied comrades, they wept for survival and vengeance both.
Dun Che's laughter curdled into sobs. "Sister... you'd have laughed to see it." His clawed hands trembled around the broken amulet she'd gifted him.
Zhao Rui kept his face carved from ice.
Below the altar, nearly ten thousand undead stirred—skeletons missing limbs, wraiths flickering like candle flames. Their advance had stalled... for now.
Cowards, Zhao Rui thought, but cowards with numbers. His fingers whitened around the Raksha's Bow. Every nerve screamed exhaustion; the artifact's usual azure glow dimmed to sickly turquoise.
A ripple moved through the horde.
There—amidst bone-clicking mages, a robed skeleton gestured urgently. Li Ju.
Zhao Rui descended the blood-slick steps.
The undead sea parted like wheat before scythe. Whispers slithered: "Raksha's Bane... Soulcrusher..."
Li Ju backpedaled, cloak snagging on a rusted halberd. "M-mercy, lord! I'll serve—"
The Nine Heavens Thunder Spear pierced his skull before the plea finished.
"Treachery," Zhao Rui said softly as Li Ju's eye fires guttered out, "deserves no audience."
The remaining undead froze.
He raised the spear, Li Ju's cranium still impaled. "Kneel."
Bones clattered against stone—a kingdom of corpses prostrate before living breath.
Dun Che's choked laugh echoed. "Damn, brother. You are the showman."