The green essence poured into Dobroslav like a flood—thick, dense, countless times richer than anything he had tasted before. It burned through his meridians, hot and intoxicating, forcing its way deeper.
His eyes snapped open, glowing cold blue edged in black flame.
Another conduit shattered open inside him.
"So much power!" he exclaimed, voice trembling with ecstasy.
But it didn't stop.
The torrent surged again—second conduit cracking wide.
Then a third.
His body arched, muscles tensing, veins bulging black under pale skin.
A primal roar tore from his throat—raw, triumphant, shaking the air. A visible shockwave of Qi exploded outward, kicking up dust and rattling windows in the block. A semi-transparent black aura flared around him, flickering like living shadow, cold and heavy.
Pajoslav staggered back a step, eyes wide. "Holy shit…"
The flow finally ceased. Dobroslav straightened, breathing hard, the aura settling into a dark haze that clung to his skin.
'Good!' Bhalzar's voice rang with satisfaction. 'Fourth stage of Body Tempering, all in one leap!'
Dobroslav flexed his fingers, feeling strength coil like steel cables. 'Is that good?'
'Good?' Bhalzar laughed, proud and fierce. 'The level itself is early, nothing amazing yet. But breaking through three stages at once—from your first conduit straight to the fourth? Ha! My blood runs thick in you, boy. Very thick.'
On the Holy Domain side, moments before the breach.
The scar hovered low over a remote volcanic plain—a thin shimmer near ground level between two lava rivers, veiled by rising steam.
One imp played nearby, flicking sparks from its burning tail, chittering to itself.
The crack pulsed quietly.
Energy feedback from mortal experiments.
A muffled thud.
The scar split open on the ground—a small, ragged hole at knee height.
Lava hissed softly around it.
The imp froze, head tilting.
It hopped closer, curious.
Cold earthly air seeped through.
The first creature noticed.
The imp giggled, tail flame flaring, and leaped headfirst into the ragged hole.
Moments later, the rift shuddered. Edges tore wider with a low groan, violet light pulsing brighter. Cold air rushed out stronger, carrying faint mortal scents.
Deep in Mount Doom's throne hall, the demon lord lounged on bones—crimson skin, long black horns curling, wings folded, tail idly lashing.
A subtle ripple brushed his senses.
'Void ripple?'
His eyes snapped open, flames within.
He surged to his feet.
"Brother!?"
Guards flinched, weapons clattering.
"Send three scout squads to Fiery Valley! Any unrecognized demon—rescue and bring here alive."
The guards gaped.
"NOW!" he roared, voice shaking the hall.
They scrambled, shouting orders down corridors.
Far north, in the Frozen Palace of Zimogrod, the Elven King sat on crystal throne, silver crown gleaming.
A familiar aura—faint, distant, royal—touched his mind.
His fingers tightened on the armrests.
"Sister…"
He rose.
"Dispatch a legion to Fiery Valley. I sense royal blood."
Royal guards bowed and vanished in flawless motion to relay the command.
The contested Fiery Valley lay far—volatile borderlands scarred by ancient wars.
Whoever reached the widening rift first, it would take at least a month.
Dobroslav entered the apartment with Pajoslav, face etched with false grief.
"Everyone, Pajojo's coming with us. Cysio… I tried to save him, but he was already gone." Crocodile tears welled.
Pajoslav watched silently. 'As always, gaslighting even his own family.'
His mother hugged him tight. "Dobciu, it's not your fault. You did your best."
"Thank you, Mother," he murmured, eyes dry the moment she looked away.
Father glanced through the blinds, face grim.
"Military trucks outside—soldiers spreading out, checking buildings."
He turned to Dobroslav.
"We need to move fast," Dobroslav said. "Hoods up, ears covered. Now."
They descended the staircase quietly.
Dobroslav peeked out the door.
'Fuck. Too many.'
Over thirty soldiers—full gear, rifles ready, spreading out.
'Relax,' Bhalzar said calmly.
'How? I can't take them all.'
'You don't have to fight,' the ancestor replied. 'Your grandmother's blood is stronger for this. Remember the vision—her royal aura. Imitate it. Project cold, ancient authority. They'll feel it in their bones and hesitate… or kneel.'
Dobroslav closed his eyes, recalling the vision: his grandmother's regal presence—cold as eternal frost, ancient authority weighing the air like unseen chains.
He exhaled slowly.
Qi shifted inside him—demonic heat suppressed, Snow Elf essence rising pure and icy.
An invisible pressure radiated outward: chill biting skin, gravity heavier, instinctive urge to bow. Eyes glowed brighter blue, posture straightened to noble hauteur, voice deepening with timeless command.
"Everyone gather! Greet the royal family!" the commander barked, stepping down from the lead truck.
Soldiers snapped to attention, rifles lowering slightly, faces confused but obedient.
Dobroslav stepped forward, aura radiating cold regal authority. Family flanked him—white hair flowing, ears proud, postures noble. Pajoslav just behind.
"Your Highness, we didn't intend to offend," the commander pleaded, voice trembling. "Please grace us with your presence."
Dobroslav emerged fully with his group, hoods down.
He fixed the commander with icy authority. "Explain."
"Yes, my lord." Commander and soldiers bowed low. "We saw the vision upon awakening. We knew our lord was near—searched, gathered brethren on the way."
They removed helmets and hoods. All elves—white hair, glowing eyes, pointed ears.
'Perfect,' Dobroslav thought, evil glint flashing in his eyes.