High above the earth, where the breeze swirled through thin clouds like whispered secrets, a presence watched.
The world below stretched wide: the distant silhouette of a magnificent city of towers and silver roads, glowing faintly beneath the early morning sun. Shrek City. A jewel of the continent, revered, impenetrable, and ancient.
But the watcher wasn't interested in the city itself.
Instead, their sharp gaze followed the lone figure streaking through the plains below—a young man, no older than thirteen, with long purple hair tied up by a pin, muscles cut from discipline and desperation, and eyes that burned like amethyst stars. His stride carried purpose and violence, and his presence painted the morning air with tension.
"That's him," the voice whispered, rasping and breathless. "For our Lady… Get him."
And then, from the shadows of the trees lining the plains, dozens of dark-clad figures began to stir.
Qiang Ming's feet pounded against the dirt, his breath rhythmic, calculated—but strained. He wasn't running from battle.
He was running from wasted time.
The grand white walls of Shrek City glimmered on the horizon like a promise etched in stone, still maddeningly far. If he could keep this pace, he might make it in half a day. A few hours to spare for the entrance examination.
"If only that damn train hadn't been ambushed…" he growled under his breath, purple hair trailing behind him like a comet's tail.
That ambush had cost him two carriages of innocent passengers, all blown to shrapnel by Spirit Explosive arrays. Only he had walked out, and not because he was lucky—but because the bastards had wanted him to survive. They wanted to delay him.
"They're still chasing me," he muttered through clenched teeth. "I should've just slaughtered them when I had the chance."
He didn't stop because he was merciful.
He stopped because every second wasted meant one less second for him to stand on Shrek's sacred stones.
But apparently, the heavens themselves wanted to test him. Again.
Because just ahead, the trees parted into a clearing. And standing there—ten figures cloaked in smoke-like cloaks, black masks pulled up to their eyes, stood waiting for him.
"YOU!" one of them shrieked, pointing a trembling hand at Qiang Ming. "You killed our Great Lady as she offered you paradise! She welcomed you with open arms and you spat in her face! YOU WILL SUFFER!"
The man's Spirit Rings lit up behind him: one white, two yellow. Three-rings, but unimpressive. Behind him, his allies released their Martial Souls as well—most were two-ring Grandmasters, some only one-ring Soul Masters. Not impressive, but…
There were ten.
And then more movement behind the tree line.
Qiang Ming skidded to a stop, his teeth grinding.
"You dregs have cost me too much time! It's time to end all you filthy degenerates!"
He didn't even summon his hammer. They weren't worth it.
As the first wave charged at him, Qiang Ming sprinted toward them, fists raised. He had learned in the Slaughter Barony that weapons were tools—but rage? Rage was an edge all its own.
The first enemy reached him, a skinny youth with a single ring and daggers of bone. Qiang Ming's fist snapped out and crumpled the man's throat with a single, clean punch. The body collapsed before the blood had time to spray.
And then the clearing turned into hell.
He moved like a storm, no wasted steps, no grace—only brutality. One man was thrown into a tree with such force that bark exploded outward like shrapnel. Another had their ribcage caved in by a side kick that lifted them a full meter into the air. The scent of blood thickened, and screams began to melt together in a single choir of agony.
But they kept coming.
Qiang Ming began to pant as more attackers emerged from the woods. Five became ten. Ten became twenty, then forty. Some were barely teenagers, corrupted by Dark Spirit Halls, others older and broken, faces pale and eyes hollow. Cannon fodder, but time-consuming cannon fodder.
He couldn't use his Spirit Rings. That would slow him.
So he fought with flesh and fury.
Hours passed. The sun crept over the heavens, then began its descent once again. The sky turned orange.
By the time the last one fell, Qiang Ming stood alone in a sea of corpses. The field—once green and dotted with stones—was now a butcher's yard. More than a hundred and fifty bodies lay strewn around him.
His clothes—once black—were so caked in blood they had turned deep crimson. His fists were raw, his chest heaving.
And still—he stood.
He looked toward the sky, gauging the time.
"Shit," he muttered. "I'm going to be late…"
Then—
A sudden sharp whistle of wind.
Qiang Ming's eyes snapped wide as his body dropped sideways. A dark spear, slick and oozing yellow fog, crashed into the dirt where he had stood.
He rolled and rose in one motion, pivoting to face the direction it came from.
A single man walked through the trees now, slow and steady. His hair was stringy yellow, clinging to a gaunt face. He looked sick, but his gait betrayed a kind of empty purpose. His Spirit Rings were already lit—two yellow, one purple.
A true Three-Ring Elder, but with the dead eyes of a man who had nothing left.
Qiang Ming recognized that look. He'd seen it dozens of times in the Barony.
Someone who wanted to die, but only after taking someone else with them.
The man didn't speak. He just launched into a charge.
Qiang Ming's lips curled into a savage grin.
He extended his hand, and with a soft shimmer, the Blackstone Abyss Hammer appeared in his palm.
The black spear of the yellow-haired man clashed against it—but stopped, mid-swing, like it had struck a mountain.
Qiang Ming leaned forward.
"I'll send you to your beloved."
The man's eyes widened, rage and madness swirling in tandem. He pulled his spear back, only to be struck in the chin by the hammer's butt, snapping his head backward. As he reeled, a boot collided with his jaw, sending him flying a dozen meters.
His back hit a rock, and he crumpled in a haze of groans and spittle.
Qiang Ming didn't waste time.
He sprinted forward, shadows under his boots, and as the yellow-haired man blinked up, dazed—
CRACK.
The hammer descended like divine judgment.
His head exploded.
"Good. Fucking. Riddance."
Qiang Ming stood there for a moment, blood trailing down the side of his face, chest heaving.
And then—
He looked up at the sky. The sun was rising again.
His roar shattered the morning silence.
"FUUUUUCK!!!"
With one last snarl, he dashed forward again, Lich's Hands emerging from his back to carry him even faster, his movement now blurred by desperation. Shrek City was so close now—so damn close.
Nothing else mattered.
Not the blood.
Not the fatigue.
Not the corpses behind him.
Only the goal ahead.