In the scorched halls of the Black Fang Fortress, silence was not peace.
It was pressure—hot and suffocating. The kind of silence that crept along your spine like an invisible claw, ready to sink into the marrow. Even the guards, towering demons with blackened armor and spiked halberds, kept their heads lowered. No one dared speak. Not after the report was delivered.
In the upper chamber, behind a curtain of thick chains and bone-carved glyphs, the Demon Overseer of the Southern Region, Mal'Zeroth the Crimson Maw, sat atop his throne of screaming steel. The blood of two children still dripped from his elongated fingers, their remains strewn at the base of the dais like discarded fruit peels.
His third eye—crimson and ever watching—remained open, burning with a cold rage that seemed to darken the air around him.
The head scout, a shriveled beast with snake-like features, knelt trembling before him.
"They... escaped, my lord," he rasped, voice shaking like brittle parchment. "One of the cages was intercepted... and the humans—"
"Do not insult me with broken facts," Mal'Zeroth growled, voice reverberating like thunder behind stone walls. "Speak clearly, or I will drink your tongue to taste the truth myself."
The scout flinched, the scent of his fear pungent. "The rebels ambushed the caravan. Nearly a dozen human slaves were taken. Our patrols found shredded chains and signs of crude cultivation. Tracks led north, but the trail vanished near the Broken Fang Range."
Mal'Zeroth rose from his throne.
The chains on the ceiling rattled. The temperature in the chamber dropped.
He walked forward, each footstep cracking the blackened tiles beneath him. A clawed hand reached down and gripped the scout by the throat, lifting him as easily as lifting a child's toy.
"You lost children... slaves bred and marked with trace sigils. You allowed humans—filthy rats, bred to kneel and bleed—to humiliate our order?"
The scout tried to speak, but the grip crushed his throat before he could answer. With a sickening crunch, Mal'Zeroth tossed him aside like refuse.
A pool of blood spread silently across the stone.
The Order of Search
"Call the Bloodhounds," Mal'Zeroth ordered, turning toward his captains. "Summon every tracker and flayer in the region. I want every inch of land searched—every hill, every cave, every stream. I want villages turned to ash, and every elder hung from their own bones."
The demon captains saluted with fists to chests. A dozen of them, all seasoned killers, bowed before the Overseer's fury.
"And when you find them…" Mal'Zeroth continued, his third eye gleaming brighter, "I want their rebellion strangled in its cradle. I want their leaders impaled. I want their children to scream so loudly the heavens themselves look away. I will not allow another seed of hope to sprout in my dominion."
He turned his gaze skyward—through the bone lattice in the ceiling where dark clouds swirled unnaturally.
"Let the humans remember what fear tastes like."
The Crimson Maw's Appetite
That night, while search parties scattered across valleys and mountain passes, Mal'Zeroth indulged himself.
A feast of blood and flesh was prepared from fresh sacrifices—children captured from lowland villages suspected of harboring rebellious sentiments. The Overseer dined in the Moonlit Chamber, surrounded by sycophantic demons who bathed him in sweetened oils and lit censers of cursed incense.
The walls of the chamber were painted with ancient murals—depictions of the first demon wars and the rise of their dominion over humankind. The art was not decorative, but ceremonial—a reminder of the old pacts and older cruelties.
As the Overseer tore into a slab of tender thigh, roasted with beast bile and seasoned with spirit ash, one of his priests approached cautiously.
"My lord," the priest said, voice slithering like a whisper between shadows. "Might I suggest we consult the Divine Wellspring for guidance? If the human bloodline is stirring again—"
Mal'Zeroth's eyes flashed.
"You speak of the Umpire Lineage?"
The priest bowed lower. "There are rumors. Whispers in the outer cities. That the bloodline did not die in the last purge. That the soul of the Umpire may have crossed back into the cycle."
The chamber grew still.
Even the dancers stopped moving.
Mal'Zeroth leaned back, licking blood from his clawed fingers.
"If the Umpire Blood stirs again," he murmured, "then we stand upon the edge of a storm not seen in ten thousand years."
He looked toward the great horn hanging above his throne—an artifact taken from the corpse of the last Umpire Vampire after the betrayal.
"I tasted his marrow when we burned his corpse," Mal'Zeroth hissed. "He was arrogant. Powerful. But all things can bleed. All gods can die."
His voice dropped to a cold growl.
"But I will not make the mistake of underestimating the next one."
Scorch the Earth
By the next morning, the entire southern region was in chaos.
Demon patrols scoured the wilderness. Villages were razed, and towns suspected of harboring runaways were subjected to horrific purges. The forests burned in patches, smoked with black flames designed to weaken the cultivation of any rebel who breathed it.
A total of twelve search parties, each led by at least one Awakening Realm Commander, were dispatched.
Each party carried with them Bloodseekers—spirit hounds enhanced with bloodlust sigils and conditioned to trace rare bloodlines.
They moved like predators across the wilderness.
They did not speak.
They only hunted.
Back at Ember Hollow…
Far beyond their reach, hidden deep in the ravine caves of the Broken Fang Range, Derick trained harder than ever before.
He did not know the full extent of the Overseer's rage.
But he felt the pressure rising.
Each breath during meditation felt heavier. The wind carried new scents—ash, blood, something foul and clinging. The animals in the woods had gone quieter. The trees more still.
As if nature itself was holding its breath.
Master Shen warned them. "There will come a time," he said grimly, "when this mountain won't be able to protect us. We must be ready before that day."
And so, they trained.
Derick pushed his limits daily—running formations with weights, practicing blade flows, and circulating his Qi with ruthless focus. Lina practiced archery now, using a bow made from the tendon and bone of a fallen beast. The other students trained in small groups, rotating between techniques, herbology, and spirit awareness.
They were preparing.
Because even if they didn't yet know how close the Overseer's wrath had come…
They could feel it creeping.
And it would not stop.
Not until every spark of rebellion was crushed beneath a crimson maw.