Snehwal stood in the dark—every word, every sound ringing in his ears like a faint but sharp refrain. The city buzzed as if a whirlwind had risen; soldiers were running, the gate bells kept ringing, and on every tongue the same command rang out—"Find him… he must be in the city… he killed our prince."
In a corner two soldiers were whispering in panic—"This is the right chance, let's get out of here."
"No—we can't run from the city. We can't disobey orders."
Snehwal watched the chaos with empty eyes. A slow light kindled inside him—cold and cutting. He straightened his mask and stepped forward. There was no more impulse, no heavy burden of feeling; there was only one task now—a true, simple duty that remained to be done.
He slipped into the alleys. The shadows of the walls became his companions and his breaths were slow and determined. At every turn he read the guards' placements, the soldiers' patrols, and the shape of the panicked crowd. Around him was a mixed noise of curiosity and fear—but Snehwal's feet moved in only one direction—toward the city lord's chamber.
Light spilled from the palace windows, but inside that inner room a deep silence still held. Snehwal knocked softly at the door; there was no answer. He turned the lock of silence and entered quietly—the torches on the stands inside now barely flickered. The city lord sat there—eyes open but unresponsive; his face was tired and inwardly clenched, as if some hope still clung.
Snehwal sat beside him and spoke in a low voice, "He is a monster. This city is completely bound—he will not spare you."
The city lord looked at him; in his eyes was the heavy terror of the night, but also a small spark of hope. Nervously he asked, "What will you do? That monster—he is a fourth-stage cultivator—I was only a puppet…" Snehwal gave a small smile, though his eyes remained grave. "I will erase him before morning."
Snehwal realized that coins had been placed on the scales; here even a king could become a slave.
The city lord slowly nodded—and then gave up his life. Snehwal peered out the window; the streets were full of soldiers, but his face was steady—an unshakable reflection of his decision.
He knew now that he was surrounded on all sides. There was only one path left,
"Fight."
Surrounded from all sides, Snehwal stood with his sword drawn.
The army roared in unison — it felt as if the entire ground itself had erupted with a single, thunderous cry.
Every warrior had a glowing red sigil shimmering on their forehead.
They raised their spears and swords, striking their shields together in rhythm.
The air trembled; the whole city shuddered.
Fear spread like wildfire through the night.
Then, from amidst the crowd, an old cultivator stepped forward — his eyes burned with a crimson light, and within them flickered the same red sigil.
The old man shouted, "Come out!"
Snehwal stood atop a building, then leapt down into the midst of the army and said,
"Good — you've finally come out, demon."
The old man laughed coldly and advanced slowly, the glow in his eyes flaring brighter.
The light on the soldiers' foreheads intensified — and in the next instant, they all lunged at Snehwal.
Snehwal swung his sword around — in one powerful motion, the clash of weapons stopped, and the first group of soldiers staggered half a step back. But there was no sign of fear; their faces were filled with madness, and one single roar echoed — "Blood!"
Snehwal realized that the old demon had turned them into his slaves. He must be the first one to fall. Suddenly, a massive ball of red spiritual energy rushed toward him through the air. Snehwal covered his sword with his light green spiritual energy and slashed — cutting the red sphere in half. But as he struck, he let out a painful gasp. In that instant, he understood — the old man standing before him was a fourth-stage high-level demon.
The soldiers charged again. Snehwal began cutting them down — one wave fell, and another rose. Yet every strike he made carried a calm, steady determination. His breathing grew heavier, but it wasn't exhaustion — it was the heat of battle. Deep inside, a firm resolve burned — "No matter who this demon is, he must die."
The old demon let out a cold laugh and raised his hand. The wind swirled silently, and the red marks on the soldiers' foreheads began to glow even brighter. Their attacks became sharp and perfectly synchronized, like machines. Snehwal took blow after blow — his body wounded, but he refused to step back. Every cut he received only strengthened his will.
Snehwal was growing tired. The demon shouted, "Catch him alive! Then I will make him my slave!"
Hundreds of ropes were thrown, and the soldiers bound Snehwal tightly.