Deep in the camp, Bastardos scratched at the sparse, dull scales on his body, his irritation growing.

These patchy scales, a mark of his chaotic bloodline, offered barely any defense—a common trait among half-demons.

Days passed with no word from the scout teams sent to the demonkin tribe. His initial excitement had soured into worry.

Just then, a clansman stumbled into his beast-hide tent, bringing grim news: “Chief, some of our people vanished by the Luo River! Likely attacked while fetching water. We found blood but no bodies. No traces of the usual local beasts.”

The Luo River, that seasonal stream south of the camp, nearly frozen over—someone was attacked there?

Bastardos’s nerves tightened. His first thought: demonkin infiltrators?

But he dismissed it. Sneaking in just to kill a few nobodies, causing minor panic? Pointless.

“Unknown beasts, then…” he muttered.

The danger ahead and now threats behind pushed Bastardos to keep more warriors in the rear.

It secured the camp and gave a fallback if the demonkin assault failed.

But when the mustered force fell short of expectations, the Empire’s envoy, Payne, noticed immediately.

The demonkin Payne, face dark as storm clouds, demanded answers. Bastardos hurriedly explained his concerns and the rear attacks, stressing the need to split forces.

“Fool!” Payne’s rebuke cut like an ice spike, dripping with scorn. “A few worthless grunts go missing, and you cower? Probably fed some dumb beast! What’s the point of holding back? You think the Empire’s promised fertile lands come free?”

He stepped closer. “Send your full strength. March now! Stall again, and you’ll get nothing!”

Both Hall-tier, but Payne’s insults were unrestrained, fueled by his demonkin pride, disdain for half-demon blood, and the Empire’s backing.

Even Bastardos found nothing odd in Payne’s high-handed tone.

“Yes… sir. The whole army moves out now!” Facing the Empire’s unyielding command, Bastardos gave in, leaving only a handful of warriors to handle wild beasts.

Urged by the envoys, the lizardmen and half-demons set out.

Fifteen hundred half-demons and over nine hundred lizardmen—two thousand four hundred in all. They called it…

No grand title. None of their envoys to the demonkin had returned.

No alliance formed. Each tribe marched separately toward the demonkin.

They weren’t “brother tribes.” Their warriors, not disciplined soldiers, had personal strength but lacked cohesion.

Merging would mean endless squabbles. Better to march apart.

The demonkin had only three hundred. Either tribe could crush them.

For supplies, besides food, they hauled piles of firewood for warmth.

In their tundra, wood was scarce but manageable with effort.

In the demonkin’s icefield, trees were rarer. Gathering enough for two thousand was near impossible, so firewood became baggage.

On the third day, they entered the Mycelial Network’s range.

Most didn’t notice the snow-white mycelium blending with the flakes. The few who did shrugged it off.

The march went smoothly, no obstacles.

Skilled scouts among them found no enemies—because there were none. Lin Jun hadn’t even sent invisible Puffshrooms to harass them.

Clad in thick furs and warmed by nightly fires, the half-demons and lizardmen closed in on the demonkin’s old tribe, just a day’s march away.

The ease unsettled Bastardos. He’d braced for a dragon’s den after no scouts returned.

Even with low numbers, the demonkin should’ve set traps to slow them. This smoothness felt unreal.

“Chief, they’re scared!” a senior warrior whispered by the crackling campfire. “Either hiding in their tribe, waiting to die, or…” he lowered his voice, “they’ve fled north!”

Another voiced concern: “With so few, they can’t fight us. But if they run, it’s trouble. We can’t chase forever, right? What’ll the Empire envoys say?”

The group grew anxious.

Chasing a day or two was fine, but a week or more? Their supplies wouldn’t hold.

The Empire demanded the demonkin wiped out, their Magic Cores taken…

Bastardos spoke up: “Don’t worry. The demonkin’s supplies are as bad as ours. Outside their half-ruined dungeon, they’d struggle a week. Their only shot is a stand-up fight!”

Calming the group, he cautioned, “Still, don’t get cocky. They’re not sitting ducks. We’re close to their tribe—they’ll pull their tricks soon. Split the supplies into four stashes, hidden. Double the night watch!”

“Yes, sir!”

Bastardos assigned four senior warriors to guard the night, ready for any sneak attack.

The next morning, he woke to a warrior’s panicked shouts.

“Chief! The supplies are gone!”

Bastardos shot up, but his eyes held no panic. “Oh? The demonkin finally moved! Targeting our supplies, huh?”

He felt relieved. Their move was predictable. If he were the demonkin, facing an unbeatable army, he’d hit their supplies too.

He eyed the ashen-faced warrior kneeling before him, voice steady with control. “Calm down. Stand up and explain!”

“Y-Yes, sir!” Bastardos’s composure steadied the warrior, who rose.

“So, which stash did they hit? Any losses among our night guards?” Bastardos asked, adjusting his clothes.

“Hit?” The warrior’s face blanked in confusion. “No attack, Chief! No fighting, no enemies… but… all four stashes—gone overnight!”

Silence gripped the tent for half a minute. The warrior glanced at Bastardos, puzzled.

The chief’s calm cracked, bit by bit. He lunged forward, hands like iron clamps gripping the warrior’s shoulders, nails digging into flesh. His bloodshot eyes bulged, voice a hoarse, warped roar: “All of them?! What the hell are you saying?!”

(End of Chapter)