Whether that lizardman scout lived or died didn’t matter much. But to the Demonkin—who had long seen the Empire as an almost unstoppable force—the capture at least weighed heavily on their minds. They weren’t cowed, but worry gnawed at them.
So Lin Jun simply offered up the scout as a sacrifice, using him to rally morale.
The truth was, it wasn’t just one lizardman tribe.
Two days later, Pujis caught another spy—this one from a nearby Half-Demon tribe.
From Hunter, Xīnghuo, and Louisa, Lin Jun learned the details about them.
“Half-Demons” were hybrids: born from unions between demons and other races—or even between different demon races themselves. Their forms varied endlessly, but they were all lumped together under that na.
Unlike the Demonkin or lizardn, who had chosen self-exile out of loyalty to the Demon King in generations past, the Half-Demons were outcasts—pushed aside and driven out.
Once in a while, a gifted hybrid erged. But the vast majority… were weak.
Their diluted bloodlines weakened or erased racial talents. Worse still, possessing multiple bloodlines ant that every ten-level skill roll was a gamble. Pulling mismatched traits from unrelated races often left them with kits that simply didn’t work together.
The higher their level, the more glaring their shortcomings compared to purebloods.
And with interbreeding among Half-Demons continuing unchecked, each generation grew weaker than the last.
The Empire did not keep useless mouths.
Every year, countless Half-Demons were purged and exiled. Even those allowed to remain lived only a notch above slaves.
On rare occasions, a hybrid of extraordinary fortune might unite the strengths of many bloodlines, rising to beco truly formidable. But such cases only changed that one life—not the fate of the Half-Demon race.
As for trying to live among humans, elves, or dwarves? Impossible. They’d be killed on sight as demons.
That path had been ruined long ago, when desperate Half-Demons in history betrayed their descendants’ chances at survival.
Thus, when the Empire dangled promises of autonomous lands, no one leapt at the offer more eagerly than the Half-Demon tribes of the north.
The spies captured now were from the closest Half-Demon tribe to the Demonkin.
Even so, “close” ant at least four to five days’ travel away—the Demonkin lived at the very edge of the northernmost frontier.
It was telling. Even among northern tribes, the extre cold was a wall few could cross.
That was why no other settlents lay near the Demonkin. Few races could push their 【Cold Resistance】 to level 7 or 8.
The Half-Demons lived further south, where tundra mixed soil and ice—slightly warr ground. With resistance of only 5 or 6, they could just manage.
The two captured scouts were among their hardier ones. Even with resistance of 7, they needed fur cloaks to survive here, and fires to last the nights.
Which ant any force sent north could not endure long campaigns. They would aim for swift victory.
And Lin Jun loved opponents who wanted quick battles.
Once he confird the directions of the two tribes, his fungal carpet—once spreading evenly—shifted its growth, stretching in their direction, pushing out its reach to catch their movents at maximum distance.
He wondered: would the two tribes fight separately, or march together?
Either way, this would be his first real large-scale defense. His heart pounded with anticipation.
—
anwhile, in the great tent of the lizardn.
Chief Tock tore into chunks of fatty at, grease dripping down his scaled chin. Across from him sat the Half-Demon chieftain Bastardos, a grotesque mixture of dragon, goblin, serpentfolk, succubus, and more—a walking amalgam.
The two sat on either side of the hall. At the head sat three envoys from the Empire.
Had Hunter been there, he would have recognized one: the haggard-faced mageling, the Demonkin Gray, whom he had once t.
Though Galon’s final words had accused him, their chieftain was not blind.
Gray had rely reported the Demonkin’s existence. The decision to send Galon north had been the chief’s alone.
Anyone could see this was not Gray’s plot.
Even so, once they confird through local tribes that Galon’s last trail passed through lizardman lands toward the Demonkin, the bla sTock: Gray’s faulty report had helped lead to disaster.
This mission was his atonent.
Though he and Galon had been rivals, no one now wished more than Gray that Galon had sohow survived…
With him ca another Demonkin, Paine, and the vampire Uniel.
Originally, the chieftain had sent Gray and Paine simply to drive these two tribes forward—use them as stones to test the mysterious Demonkin stronghold.
Find out what had destroyed Galon, then plan the next move.
But for reasons unknown, His Majesty had parachuted in Uniel, stripping command from them.
And judging by her deanor, Uniel intended to sweep the Demonkin aside in one go and be done with it.
Gray wasn’t inclined to object.
Uniel herself was a level 60 vampire count, equal to Paine.
Among the tribal leaders, Bastardos was supposedly a “Hall-tier” warrior, though as a mongrel, his true strength was questionable.
Combined with the two tribes’ twenty-odd diamond-rank fighters, surely overwhelming a single Demonkin clan should be easy.
After all, Demonkin were known for two things: their ferocity in battle—and their pitifully few numbers.
And this clan was a remnant at that.
Still, Gray dared not relax. If Galon had fallen, it ant traps or sches awaited—enough to threaten even high-level warriors.
At the high seat, Uniel tapped her pale, slender fingers against the thin-iced stone table. Tap, tap.
Her crimson eyes swept the two chiefs with disdain.
“We’ve waited here long enough. Tell , chieftains—when will you march?”
Chief Tock swallowed his last bite, wiped his claws on his cloak. “Envoy, further north the cold worsens. Preparations are needed! And besides… even if my people are ready, what of the Half-Demons? I can’t be the only one sent forward, can I?”
Bastardos gave a strained smile, his reedy voice cutting in: “Brother Tock, what are you saying? If your lizardn march first, I’ll naturally follow. Your scales are tough—no fear of ambush. It’s safest if you lead the way.”
“Bullshit!” Tock slamd the table, eyes blazing. “My scales are thick, not iron! And my life isn’t worth less than yours. If anyone’s fodder, it’s your half-blood whelps!”
“Enough!”
Uniel’s crimson eyes narrowed dangerously, pinning them both. “The Empire’s patience is not infinite.”
“Three days. I’ll give you three days to rest, gather, and bring every last one of your so-called ‘elites’—” her tone dripped with mocking contempt, “—and after that, if you are still wasting ti…”
She let the threat hang.
Bastardos and Tock exchanged a glance, then bowed their heads in unison. “Yes.”
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