Star Shepherd Demilo rode atop a snake-scorpion dragon, commanding his legion as they marched in orderly formation into Composite Resource Point 73: The Grotto.
Arriving at the entrance of the cave, there was still no trace of the dire wolf-dragons; their lair had likely already been raided clean.
Was it a passing sorcerer, or the crystal wyverns prowling nearby?
Either was possible. Regardless, units dispatched to garrison resource points were doomed to end up as consumables on an expense ledger... How many snake-scorpion dragons should he leave behind to guard this place later?
As if sensing an impending personnel reshuffle, the snake-scorpion dragons grew restless and stirred anxiously. The thousand-feather bird-dragons, however, couldn't care less, resting on one leg and even having the leisure to preen each other's feathers—as the only ranged minion unit under Demilo's command, they naturally enjoyed treatment akin to pampering a lover.
Reaching the cavern's main hall, Demilo waved a hand, sending the snake-scorpion dragons off to haul materials.
The clever creatures all sensed that the fruits of their upcoming labor would determine whether they rotted in this cave or continued feasting well alongside the Star Shepherd. Their morale surged in an instant, scorpion tails raised high as they searched the cavern.
Demilo could clearly feel the shifts in his minions' emotions, but he didn't care, gesturing for his mount to sit. The snake-scorpion dragon obediently lowered its body, curving its scorpion tail in an arc worthy of a roller coaster loop so the tip rested right on its back, serving as a pillow for Demilo.
Closing his eyes, Demilo browsed his album of memories for a fragment of diversion. Yet after looking back and forth, his gaze still fell upon that dream—one he had browsed thousands of times, yet seemed destined to view thousands of times more.
That was when Demilo was thirteen—the most miserable moment of his life.
Demilo hailed from the Leba Clan, a surname completely devoid of meaning, because when he was eleven, the clan had been exterminated over his eldest uncle's corruption, dragging his parents down with it. In that era, the nobility and the royal family played a game of cat and mouse, seeing whether "I can embezzle faster or you can catch me faster."
The young Demilo had luckily fled to the house of a maidservant to escape the reach of the law, neatly transitioning from an aristocratic young master to an orphan taken in by a servant, residing in the dirtiest and most cramped utility closet. He had matured quickly: eating less, working more, keeping his head down, packing twice as much hardship into two years as he had missed in his first ten.
Clearly, fate was a ruthless loan shark, and doubling the suffering was merely the interest. The year he turned thirteen, the maidservant claimed she had found him a suitable apprenticeship, handing him over to two burly men who looked like blacksmiths. Their destination was the locally renowned Dove-Fish Cage.
In other words, a place of prostitution.
Male workers were called white doves, and female workers were called grass carp. At the time, Demilo did not know the origin of the terms, but he soon understood.
When the malicious mob boss told Demilo the truth, Demilo felt neither fear nor any other emotion, quietly accepting reality. Perhaps ever since he began hearing the maidservant and her husband's increasingly frequent complaints, seeing the husband's venomous expression, and catching the apologetic look in the maidservant's eyes, he had already anticipated that fate wanted to collect its principal this time.
As a fugitive on the run, he possessed the freedom to consent or die.
The mob boss also informed him of his future scope of duties: an attractive boy like him could do more than sell his body—he could pry for intelligence, assassinate VIPs, plant evidence and frame targets, and if he were lucky, perhaps get bought out by some wealthy patron enamored with his looks... Clearly, taking on extra roles and working overtime were the norm here. Now, even if the police department caught him later, he couldn't claim to be innocent anymore.
Harboring the aspiration of surviving to become someone's bed accessory, the destitute teenager stepped into a room on the top floor of the Dove-Fish Cage—the staff dormitory.
Warm yellow walls, a crackling stove, a few tasteless burgundy sectional sofas, and snacks and drinks strewn haphazardly across a low table. Being on the top floor, the warm light of the radiant stars poured unreservedly through the balcony's floor-to-ceiling windows, providing a stage for the dancing specks of dust.
Yet the floor was very clean; someone must have swept it regularly.
Compared to the utility closet, the living conditions were a quantum leap forward—at least he wouldn't be woken in the middle of the night by rats dropping by for a visit.
"Whoa, your skin is so fair!" A tall, voluptuous girl leaned close to Demilo, reaching out to stroke the precious legacy left by ten years of aristocratic life. "So smooth and tender, mmm..."
"Is there finally a newcomer?" Another cute boy, who seemed even younger than Demilo, bounded up with clenched fists, bursting with excitement. "Am I finally going to be a senior?"
"No, you still appear to be the youngest," a quiet girl seated on the far side of the sofa remarked, setting down the book in her hands. "Drink more milk so you grow up big and fast."
Demilo cast a glance over. There were no words in the quiet girl's book, only page after page of blood-pumping illustrations... Still diligently studying off the clock?
The cute boy made a pained face. "But milk smells so gamey..."
"Ah, I completely forgot!"
The balcony glass door slid open, and a breathtaking figure as exquisite as a sculpture stepped into the room. Wearing a loose shirt and tiny shorts, they carried a basin of freshly dried laundry—radiating a domestic warmth, yet intensely alluring.
The warm orange light clung greedily to his body, refusing to leave, coating him in a sacred glow.
Was he a boy? Or a girl? At this moment, gender seemed to lose all meaning.
"The boss only told us this morning that a newcomer was joining the dorm. None of us were awake back then, so there wasn't time to prepare food. But work doesn't start until evening—how about we throw a welcome party this afternoon?"
"Is this really something worth celebrating?" the quiet girl asked, voicing what Demilo was thinking.
"Yay, party!" the tall girl and cute boy cheered in unison.
"Is this co-ed?" Demilo asked, speaking his first question since entering.
"Yep! The boss said an all-male or all-female dorm is always a hassle, but putting boys and girls together keeps everyone checking on each other, so there's less bullshit... He even claimed it's his secret to management!"
Yet the risk of cohabitation was... Right, here, nobody cared about that risk.
"Now then, on to the next step!" The beautiful youth casually set down the laundry basin. "Allow me to give you a nice new name that fits a newcomer!"
"Here we go again..." the other three groaned helplessly.
"It really is time for a new name to cut ties with the past," Demilo agreed with a nod. "After all—"
The gorgeous youth smiled and shook his head. "Not at all! A new name isn't for discarding the past, but for embracing the future. Think about it: none of us chose our original names, yet a name is something meant to stick with us for an entire lifetime. How absurd is that? Choosing a new name means seizing our future with our own hands, telling the fate that hates us goodbye!"
Had he not heard those words in the staff dormitory of the Dove-Fish Cage, Demilo might have nodded in agreement.
"So you'll let me name you, right?"
"Suit yourself."
"Great!" The youth pulled a book with crumbling pages from the bookcase, looking well-thumbed.
Demilo asked, "What book is that?"
"Anthology of the Stars," the youth said. "A poet once named every single star in the sky and gave each one a meaning. Using it for inspiration couldn't be more perfect!"
"Every single one... Wouldn't that be tens of thousands?"
"Even more than that! That's why you can find all sorts of wonderful names. Like Anlilian—it means the ink fragrance of a page."
The quiet girl tilted her head.
"Like Roya, which means joyous sunlight."
The cute boy lifted his chin. Though outside the reach of the sunlight, his whole person still exuded a toasty warmth.
"Like Shilianna, which means rainbow butterfly."
The tall girl pirouetted on tiptoe, her skirt twirling, fitting her name.
"And... ah, I've decided on this one: Demilo! From now on, you'll be called Demilo!" The youth hastily settled on a moniker meant to last a lifetime.
"Does it have a meaning?"
"Demilo means a reef in a raging torrent," the youth said with a smile. "It means fate will never knock you down."
"What about you? What's your name?"
Anlilian, Roya, and Shilianna wore expressions that said, Here it comes.
"Mine is truly magnificent!"
The breathtaking youth hopped straight onto the sofa, striking a haughty pose as if preparing to transform. "'Vos' for dominance, and 'loda' for conquest. My name is Vosloda, which means dominating fate and conquering all!"
Inexpressibly stupid. Demilo exchanged glances with the other three; strangers meeting for the first time had arrived at a unanimous consensus.
"In any case,"
the youth came over and wrapped Demilo in an intimate embrace, giggling, "Demilo, welcome."
After two years, Demilo experienced a warm embrace once more. The face worn completely numb by fate's torments softened slightly for the very first time.
Fate had stripped him of all his principal, yet had approved a loan for someone whose credit was in the negatives.
This was Demilo's first meeting with Vosloda, and the most important moment of Demilo's life.
Hiss, hiss, hiss—
The sound of snake-scorpion dragons scraping against the ground broke Demilo's sweet reverie. Opening his eyes, he saw that his right hand had somehow risen into the air, as if trying to hold on to something intangible.
Soon, he thought. Soon he would know how he had felt back then.
Soon he would reclaim his heartbeat.
Demilo touched his chest. It was hollow; nothing was there.
This was the toll exacted to cross the six hells. Every soul had all emotion washed away in hell; only pure memory could reach the Void Realm. And departed souls like them, "activated" by the god, were merely crippled life born of memory.
Having never possessed a physical body, they naturally had no heartbeat, let alone emotions.
Even after turning those memories over and over countless times, he could never experience what "Demilo" had truly felt. It was like picking someone else's nose with your finger—you couldn't feel the real pleasure.
Between him and those memories hung the curtain of death.
The only solution was to reclaim the fragments stranded in hell, mend the soul's deficiencies, and set a rotted heart beating again.
Such a miracle was undoubtedly something only the god could accomplish, which was why from the moment of his inception, he had campaigned across the realm in the god's name.
Six hells, six fragments. The merits he had amassed were nearly enough to redeem the first fragment. When that happened, he guessed he would finally begin to understand why Demilo held that first encounter with Vosloda in such high regard.
Soon. Very soon. A few more decades would do it. After all, over a thousand years had already passed...
Demilo turned his head, only to find the snake-scorpion dragons seemingly attempting a rebellion—they hadn't brought back a single ordinary resource. What insolence.
Wait, no.
Only now did the Star Shepherd focus his attention on his surroundings. He discovered a thin dusting of powder carpeting the ground, and not a single material was in sight throughout the cavern. Coupled with the neat disappearance of the dire wolf-dragons' entire family, this pointed to only one possibility: the materials had all been hauled away.
Had a hostile legion snuck in and scavenged everything? But this was the hinterland of their Star Hall. Weren't other legions afraid of being wiped out after making such a long raid? Or was this the prelude to a massive invasion?
And the closest hostile power to this place was... Blood Tomb!
Could it be those annoying lunatics from Blood Tomb? Demilo had dealt with the Blood Tomb's gravekeepers in the previous two Six Nations Wars. Everyone was a crippled soul, yet for some reason the gravekeepers all seemed to lack brains. Add to that Blood Tomb's ghoul troop types, which smelled as if they had fermented in a sewer...
Vroom, vroom, vroom!
Suddenly, an unprecedented roar of steel echoed from the cavern mouth. Demilo turned to see a steel monster storm through the entrance like a tempest. The sharp blades at its front sliced through the armor of the snake-scorpion dragons like a hot knife through butter, crushing through their rudimentary defensive line in an instant as it barreled toward Demilo!
Thousand Feather Volley!
With a thought from Demilo, the thousand-feather bird-dragons took flight at once, raining a dense volley of razor-sharp feather arrows predictively into the open ground ahead of him. Nurturing the "Pierce" sorcery spirit within their bodies, every volley they unleashed could annihilate hordes of knowledge creatures!
Yet the steel monster slammed on its brakes, its brake pads whining with a squeal as they gave off a tar-like aroma. Tremendous inertia whipped it around in a donut-shaped arc, stopping it just shy of the rain of arrows.
Only a few scattered feather arrows struck it, but even those were repelled by a transparent barrier, protecting the operators inside the monster.
The snake-scorpion dragons quickly formed a defensive wall in front of Demilo; in legion warfare, protecting the commander was paramount.
The Star Shepherd looked at the three people inside the steel monster. The instant their eyes met, both sides grasped each other's identities.
Sorcerers...? So this steel monster is the product of a miracle? Mechanical faction? Alchemy faction? It could also be the biological faction—maybe a mount modified from a Fishcleaver Dragon...
Many thoughts raced through Demilo's mind, but none hindered his command. With a single thought, the snake-scorpion dragons and thousand-feather bird-dragons formed a pincer attack from above, below, front, and behind, surging like a tidal wave toward these three sorcerers who had lost their way.
He possessed zero desire to chat with juniors.
Even if they were seekers of the Void Realm just like him, and even if the god had placed no restrictions on his communication, Demilo still had no interest in speaking a single word to people from the future born more than a millennium later—even knowing that revealing the slightest secret about Heroic Spirits could set off massive waves in reality.
A Heroic Spirit's sole desire was to mend their own deficiencies. Beyond that, they sought nothing.
As for the reality above hell, Heroic Spirits treated it like lovers who had broken up and deleted each other from their contacts, begrudging every stray thought. No expectations, no hatred, only cold indifference. They did not care what had become of the world where they once lived.
Return to where you belong, the living.
Facing the surging monster army, the steel monster roared once more. Five pipes extended from its rear with explosive pops, spewing dark green gas. The virulent fumes threatened to engulf the entire cavern in an instant!
Demilo, directly facing the sports car's exhaust pipes, took the blast full in the face, his hair blowing wild!
Vroooom—vroooom—vroooom—
Amid the heavy roars of the steel monster, a sentence in textbook Sorcerer Common rang out: "Ah, nothing beats farting and hauling ass~"
After waking from an eternal dream that had lasted a thousand years, those were the first human words Demilo heard.
Chapter 240