The soft mushroom bed beneath him rippled slightly, enough to stir Norris from half-sleep into wakefulness.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” Qiong was tiptoeing at the door, pulling it open just a crack. On seeing him stir, he gave a slightly apologetic smile.
“Ah… it’s fine. I should be up anyway.” Norris rubbed his sleepy eyes and instinctively reached toward the bedside, searching for the little tool he used to file his claws—only to find nothing.
Then he remembered—it was still in his old mushroom hut, the one Gray had “taken over.” For now, he was bunking with Qiong.
Outside sat an empty barrel—the remains of the drinks.
Half of it had gone into Gray’s belly, soothing her temper and sparing Norris from the dreaded “scale-plucking crisis.” The rest he’d shared with Louisa and a few Demonkin friends, making for a cheerful evening.
Norris stretched his stiff muscles from sleeping curled up, just in time to see Louisa’s tall figure emerge leisurely from the dungeon passage.
Fresh blood stained the corner of her lips—she’d clearly just finished her “breakfast.”
Noticing his gaze, Louisa wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then gave him a radiant smile—blood still glistening on her teeth.
Norris didn’t flinch. He greeted her casually.After all, he’d been bitten more than once already. He was used to it.
And if it came down to choosing between being drained by Louisa’s fangs or having his scales ripped out by Gray… he would choose the vampire, without hesitation.
The sharp bite carried a numbing sting, and the strange sensation of blood being drawn out held a subtle, indescribable comfort when savored closely.
Meanwhile, Qiong was busy controlling a Jida, loading various herbs into a wooden cart.
【Mental Integration】was a required prerequisite for controlling Jidas, and the Boss had already passed it down to most Demonkin.
But the way the skill manifested varied greatly between people.
Norris could finely control multiple Pujis to perform different tasks in sync—enough to meet the standard for piloting a Jida. But such talent was rare.
Most people just got a larger Puji control limit, ranging anywhere from a handful to a few dozen.
Among them, Xīnghuo’s talent was the most astonishing—he could simultaneously command over one hundred and fifty Pujis!
And sometimes, there were those for whom the skill made no difference at all. Whenever that happened, the Boss would mutter something about “waste spiritual roots, can’t cultivate” … words none of them understood.
Once the herbs were loaded, Qiong tied several ox-Pujis to the cart with strong fungal cords.
“I’m heading to the tribe,” he told Norris. “These few days, just keep sleeping here in my hut.”
Norris had already been granted a new mushroom house of his own, but without accelerated growth, it still needed about a week to mature. Until then, he had to stay with others.
Still, he wanted to be where the action was.
“I’ll come too—at least I can help out!” Norris said, summoning his Jida to his side.
—
After the last battle, the tribe had been almost completely destroyed. The Boss had said it was all Garon’s fault—he just wouldn’t stay put and die properly when he should’ve.
Fortunately, they’d been prepared, and no one was killed.
Hunter had suggested abandoning the area entirely, moving the whole tribe into the safety of the Third Mushroom Garden.
But the Boss had vetoed that.
The cradle and the magic core would be transferred to the gardens, yes—but the tribe site itself was to be rebuilt, turned into a forward fortress.
His words were: “This way, we gain strategic depth!”
Norris didn’t know what “strategic depth” meant, but the Boss was usually right.
So now Qiong was hauling supplies there.
When they arrived, Norris almost didn’t recognize the place.
This was no longer a rough encampment—it was the beginnings of a fortress.
The crude walls of ice and timber had been dismantled, replaced by thick ramparts made of armored Pujis fused together like living stone.
The walls were lumpy and uneven, with that signature “clod-like” texture of Puji construction—ugly, but solid beyond belief.
Inside, warehouses for supplies and mushroom houses for resting had already been built.
A tunnel was being dug to connect the fortress to the dungeon, allowing Demonkin to move swiftly between.
Garon had been a level 60 warrior—a figure of weight in any faction, and even more so in the small Demonkin race.
Retaliation was certain. The only question was when.
The Demonkin who had thrown in their lot with the Mushroom Garden had no choice but to fight to the end, and they poured everything into preparing for war.
The Boss was busy too, planting invisible suicide Pujis and insisting on digging extra trap tunnels. He seemed very invested in the defenses.
Yet to Norris, it felt less like worry and more like anticipation.
Perhaps he was imagining things.
He was just about to help move stone and ice when a commotion broke out nearby.
Two Demonkin warriors dragged in a figure, tightly bound with fungal cords, struggling violently.
It was a lizardman—his limbs scaled in sandy yellow, a reptilian head and tail jutting from his fur cloak.
“Caught sneaking around!” one warrior growled, shoving him into the circle of onlookers.
The lizardman hit the ground hard, grunted, and tried to get up, but the bindings held him down. His vertical pupils darted nervously across the hostile faces surrounding him.
Hunter pushed through the crowd, spear in hand. He didn’t even raise it—just rested it casually against the ground, but the weight of his presence pressed heavily on the prisoner.
“Name. Tribe. Purpose.” Hunter’s voice was low and cold.
The lizardman’s eyes flicked nervously, and he forced a stiff smile, baring small teeth. “H-hey, brothers, it’s a misunderstanding! I’m Tock, from the Earthscale Tribe! I was just sent here to… to say hello, that’s all! No malice!”
“Say hello?” Hunter narrowed his eyes, his voice icier. “By hiding on a snowhill three hundred meters away, spying on us all morning with your pathetic lizard heat-vision? That’s how your Rocksplit Tribe ‘greets’?”
On the fungal carpet, there were no secrets.
Tock’s flimsy lie was crushed instantly.
“I-I…” He stammered, trying to salvage it—
Pshh!
Hunter’s spear drove straight through his thigh, pinning him to the frozen ground.
“AAAHHHHHHH!”
Tock thrashed wildly, blood spilling over the snow.
Hunter’s grip never wavered. He leaned closer. “One last chance. Your purpose. Or the next strike pierces your lungs.”
Gasping, tears and snot running, Tock broke. “Don’t—don’t kill me! I’ll talk! It’s the Empire! The Empire sent us!”
The crowd erupted in murmurs.
“They promised us!” Tock howled. “They said if we bring back Demonkin ‘cores,’ our tribe won’t be sent to die on the frontlines! They’ll give us the fertile southern valleys! We won’t starve in the frozen wastes anymore!”
Then his eyes caught on Norris’s silver scales. Desperation flared—he seized on it like a lifeline.
“Lizardman?! N-no… half-lizardman? Look, we’re kin, aren’t we? Please, speak for me! I don’t want trouble! It’s the Empire’s fault! Spare me—spare me!”
Norris’s momentary sympathy drained away. If it were up to him, the lizardman would already be dead.
Hunter’s face darkened like a northern stormcloud. He had expected the Empire’s claws eventually, but the reality still brought a heavy weight.
He was about to order the prisoner locked up when several Pujis suddenly emerged from the fungal carpet around Tock.
Digestive slime sprayed out, drowning him.
His screams were brief.
Within minutes, under accelerated decomposition, the lizardman’s flesh was gone, leaving only bones and scales.
A voice-Puji climbed onto the husk. The eerie voice rang clear across the fortress:
“Only sending one lizard tribe against us? Kekekeke… my friends, I like war!”
The Pujis around it trembled in unison, echoing the declaration.