Inside the stone house, Xinghuo bent over to inspect the array carved into the floor.
The intricate lines etched on the slabs interlocked seamlessly, the newly added charging formation nested within it perfectly, the structure flawless.
Three Mana Pool Pujis, acting as backup power sources, lay firmly on the designated nodes.
By now, fungal threads had spread along the markings on Xinghuo’s body, making him one with the fungal network.
In the great tent, Shou had already explained to him the tribe’s situation—how they truly had no choice left.
Whether he wanted to or not, whether he still had doubts or not, unless he abandoned the tribe and fled south alone, assimilation was the only path.
Once linked to the fungal network, Xinghuo too could hear the voice of the one they called “Boss.” It wasn’t as unfathomable or inscrutable as he had imagined. In fact… it felt oddly lively?
A strange word to use, but that was his genuine impression.
“Boss” brimmed with curiosity about the secrets of the cradle, the details of the birth ceremony, even the lost history of the tribe.
On that last matter, no one in the clan was old enough to remember the days before they settled in the far north. All Xinghuo could offer were fragmented stories passed down by the elders.But on the cradle and the ritual, he was well-versed. And since he had chosen submission, he held nothing back, explaining everything in detail: the structure of the array, the flow of energy between nodes, every step of the ritual.
Unfortunately, Lin Jun only understood about a third before being completely lost. Too embarrassed to interrupt, he could only keep answering “Mm, mm, mm,” pretending to understand.
When the charade finally ended, Lin Jun posed his question: What if, in the ritual, the Demonborn were granted a skill first, and then had that same skill inscribed afterward?
Lin Jun had already tested that he couldn’t grant a Demonborn a skill they’d already had inscribed. But reversed—would it work?
That was why Xinghuo was now conducting this trial.
Truth be told, Xinghuo felt strong resistance to such an act, seeing it as bordering on sacrilege—using a sacred birth ceremony for an experiment. Even if, in theory, there was no danger.
But he suppressed his personal feelings.
This time, the process went unusually smoothly. The Mana Pool Pujis provided an endless flow of power, and could even be swapped out as needed, completely eliminating the problem of mana shortage.
From what Xinghuo knew, being drained of mana was supposed to be painful. Yet the Pujis didn’t seem to mind at all.
They even performed some strange “blessing ritual” in front of him.
A few Pujis stomped furiously on the newborn Demonborn, filling the room with “puff puff” sounds, then sprinkled spores on him, and once he touched the Mycelium Carpet, it was done.
Overall, indeed simple and convenient.
After that came the inscription of the magic pattern.
Once again it was [Cold Resistance LV8], taken from a Fat Worm slaughtered outside by the Pujis.
When Xinghuo carved the last line onto the youth’s face, the dark blue patterns lit up, blazing brilliantly, their depth and clarity surpassing even the markings on Xinghuo himself!
There was no time to dwell on the difference. He exhaled deeply, relieved—his first complete success in inscribing a magic pattern.
And Lin Jun, too, had his answer.
【Cold Resistance LV9】
The newborn’s status now displayed a level even Lin Jun himself had never reached!
The proficiency… had stacked!
This—this, this, this, this!
The Demonborn were practically made for him!
The Demon King of old—well done!
Lin Jun almost wanted to break open the Dungeon’s seal just to properly thank that one-sixth Demon King.
At the same time, a thought came unbidden.
If… two LV10 skills were stacked together… what would happen?
Just imagining the limitless possibilities made him itch with impatience, desperate to test it at once.
Unfortunately, Demonborn could only inscribe passive skills, and the LV10 skills Lin Jun had mastered were very few. Monsters carrying LV10 skills were rarer still.
He had even tried substituting Pujis as sacrificial offerings, but failed. Other than extracting a bit of their weak life energy, nothing else could be drawn.
If only suitable material would fall from the sky…
——
The Empire, Demonborn territory, Galbatay.
Gray walked down the colonnade, his gaze sweeping over the familiar faces of his kin. After months of strain, his nerves finally eased somewhat in this well-known place.
He had just finished a long journey, trekking across the far north’s glaciers and tundras, delivering the Empire’s recruitment decree to every settlement. Only recently had he returned, weary and travel-worn.
Viscount Hao, who had accompanied him, would report to His Majesty. Gray, however, was to give his account directly to the clan leader.
Passing the training grounds, the roar of shouts and the thud of impacts caught his attention.
Inside, a lopsided battle was underway. An unusually tall Demonborn, his body covered in pitch-black markings, was being assailed by twenty others.
He didn’t dodge or block, simply endured the rain of blows with brute force. Each swing of his arm or kick of his leg sent attackers flying like ragdolls.
Bang!
The last one was seized by the throat and slammed into the stone wall, instantly unconscious.
After dispatching them all, the giant turned, grinning at Gray above—not warmly, but with provocation.
“Gray? Done with your miserable errand in the far north?” His booming voice carried raw challenge. “Since you’re back, why not stretch those bones? Let’s see if you’ve improved!”
He crooked a finger mockingly.
Gray’s expression darkened.
This Demonborn’s name was Garon. His strength had already reached LV60. Back when they were both at Diamond rank, Gray had won less and lost more. To fight now would only invite humiliation.
Ignoring the taunt, Gray shot him a cold look and walked away, Garon’s raucous laughter echoing behind him.
Gray made his way to the castle’s central hall, where he knelt and began his report to the Demonborn clan leader seated ahead, posture relaxed.
He had barely begun when the leader raised a hand to cut him off: “Skip the rest. Tell me only of the Demonborn.”
“Yes.” Gray gave a concise account of the far north tribe’s situation, and of the three-month deadline he had issued.
“In your judgment, will they accept the Empire’s hand?” the leader asked, his tone unreadable.
Gray paused before answering: “They clearly refuse to surrender the cradle. I believe, pressed by their environment, migration south is highly likely. But outright allegiance… unlikely.”
The hall fell silent, save for the soft tapping of the leader’s fingers on the armrest. After a moment, his command came: “Send Garon to the far north. Gray, fetch him at once.”
Gray lifted his head slightly, asking: “Clan leader, do you mean…?”
“A tribe with only two Diamond-rank left, one of them crippled—so feeble they could vanish overnight without notice. Their survival matters little. But should all their magic cores be lost, the blow to our people would be unacceptable. Garon is to go. If they yield, bring them back. If they still refuse to see the truth…” The leader’s voice chilled, “…then recover as many magic cores as possible.”