Chapter 70: Is He a Wind-Enduring Spirit?

Demon Valley is a twelve-kilometer-long depression, where a flat wasteland sinks into a narrow gorge, with buildings constructed along both sides, some even carved directly into cave dwellings, each fronted by wooden fences for slave habitation.

But now all fences have been torn down, all slaves freed, because all three leaders of Demon Valley are dead—humanity’s Ice City has produced a Sword Saint, a rarity born once in a thousand years.

Demon Valley’s environment is actually ideal, for at the gorge’s end lies the Abyssal Rift, a crack nearly splitting the entire plane in two, extending down until searing magma surges forth, forming a river of lava that never ceases.

The Rift blocks the Wind of Rest, so within Demon Valley, spring lasts year-round, with no seasons—crops can be planted twice a year.

Terraced fields carved along the Rift’s edges provide ample farmland; the only drawback is the extreme steepness, where people occasionally slip and tumble into the lava river below, burned to ash.

A few fences or ropes could easily solve this, but none were installed—fences require wood, ropes require hemp, both scarce resources here, but slaves are not—just make them farm.

Slaves in Demon Valley were worth nothing.

But all this changed recently: a human Sword Saint infiltrated Demon Valley, killed two of its leaders, and rumors spread that the third leader, Lu Se, was dead too—because the demonic brands on the slaves once marked by Lu Se gradually faded.

Lu Se killed his victims and fled, but Demon Valley, now leaderless, underwent a cataclysmic transformation.

The lesser demons, minor demons, fire demons under the former leaders had intended to continue enslaving others, but the human slaves rebelled, threatening the demons: “I’ll call the Sword Saint to cut you down.”

Under the prestige of the once-in-a-millennium human Sword Saint, the demons relinquished their right to enslave other races; all species now coexisted peacefully, farming continued, but fences and ropes were installed, safety lines added, and the slave caves were no longer locked.

The succubus Jiji Ge approached the pool, clutching clothes, her face radiant with happiness.

Succubi are technically demons, but in Demon Valley, their fate is grim—they are classified as slaves, among the most brutally oppressed.

They are routinely beaten, starved; luckily, succubi have strong physiques, so Jiji Ge survived to adulthood through sheer grit, aided by a human slave she called Giant Rock.

When hungry, Giant Rock secretly hid food for her; when sick, he dragged his exhausted body after a full day’s labor to care for her until she recovered.

As she grew older, Jiji Ge blossomed into a beautiful young succubus; recently, a demon took interest in her, planning to claim her as his own, then discard her back into slavery once bored.

Fortunately, the mighty Sword Saint appeared suddenly—Demon Valley turned upside down; all slaves were liberated. That very night, Jiji Ge dragged Giant Rock into her cave before everyone and declared forcefully: “He’s mine!”

The former human slave, Giant Rock, became the succubus Jiji Ge’s exclusive “slave”—today marks the sixty-ninth day of their mutual enslavement.

Jiji Ge hummed her favorite tune, scrubbing clothes carefully; last night they discovered a new position, drawing ever closer to the final “divine union,” when she would bear Giant Rock a hybrid succubus with human traits.

Succubi possess unique reproductive abilities (six thousand words omitted…).

A shadow flitted across the sky, its gaze locking onto her, then halting abruptly: “An heretic?”

Jiji Ge sensed something wrong, looked up—and saw an angel with wings on his back, clad in radiant armor.

The angel hovered midair, fists clenched, palms facing each other, then slowly drew apart—a solid, luminous sword materialized in his grip.

Jiji Ge realized the danger, turned, and sprinted toward her cave; her movement startled others, all looking skyward.

The angel whispered softly: “Sacred light, purify the world’s shadows; holy blade, erase all heretics—in the name of Light, judge!”

Light surged from the sky; the sword slashed toward the succubus.

“No!” A thin human burst from a nearby cave, arms outstretched, throwing himself before the succubus.

The blade’s light struck the human—exploded into countless specks—and vanished; the human remained unharmed.

The angel, now on the ground, clenched his fists again, ignoring the human, and drew forth a new light-sword, saying: “Sword of Judgment does not kill humans. Step aside.”

The human, certain he was dead, trembled, patting himself left and right—realizing he was unharmed—and hearing the angel’s words, “does not harm humans,” he refused to move, shielding the succubus firmly behind him: “No, she’s not a heretic—she’s my wife.”

“Demons are heretics. Step aside,” the angel said, face expressionless.

The human, Giant Rock, met the angel’s gaze without flinching, standing firm.

The angel moved like lightning, seizing Giant Rock’s throat, twisting lightly—*crack*—his neck snapped.

“Ahh!” The succubus screamed in agony.

The angel swung his blade, cleaving down upon the succubus. The Sword of Judgment carried extra damage against heretics—a holy flame erupted skyward, engulfing Jiji Ge entirely.

The angel spread his wings and soared, diving toward another demon; within Demon Valley, holy flames of judgment erupted sporadically.

In a distant rock crevice, two shadows whispered: “Are these battle birds insane? They see a heretic and go berserk—must kill them all. Don’t they remember their mission?”

“If they weren’t like this, they wouldn’t be called battle birds. Even killing succubi—such cute demons, what’s heretical about them?”

“Maybe they have no sense of beauty. Don’t know what ‘cute’ means.”

The two shadows muttered among themselves, but the angel swiftly slaughtered every demon in Demon Valley; humans and other species not on the heretic list, he ignored entirely.

Having purged all heretics, the angel ascended into the sky and turned toward a distant direction.

The two shadows hurried after him, emerging from the rock crevice, taking human form, legs moving in rapid alternation, leaving afterimages as they sprinted forward.

As they ran, the afterimages solidified—four legs formed, then six; the distance between legs widened, the front and rear pairs stretching longer, lifting the black knight entirely off the ground.

Then, a horse’s head glowing with red eyes emerged from beneath them, merging with the front and rear leg pairs into a steed, galloping swiftly as it carried them after the angel.

This was no black knight—it was a far more powerful black rider.

Like twin trails of black smoke, they left not a speck of dust in their wake, trailing far behind the flying angel.

As they ran, dusk fell, the wind grew stronger.

The two black riders spoke in unison: “Trouble. Damned battle birds wasted time—we’d have reached the World Transit Station already.”

“What do we do?”

“Hide. We undead fear the Wind of Rest most—touch it and we shiver. Liches fare better, can endure a while.”

Black knights and black riders are artificial undead, originally incorporeal spirits.

If they were mages in life, becoming undead changed little; but if they were warriors—swordsmen, fighters—they lost all physical combat ability, their martial skills rendered useless.

To restore their former prowess, necromancers of the Undead Empire invented a transformation technique: turning incorporeal undead into semi-corporeal black riders. From the black rider form, further condensing a warhorse yields a black knight.

The black knight’s steed is an extension of his own body, but its size reflects soul strength—the larger the steed, the greater the black knight’s soul power.

Yet whether black knight or black rider, their essence remains spirit—utterly defenseless against the Wind of Rest, which strikes directly at the soul. Unlike liches, who have flesh to absorb some impact, their resistance is far greater.

*Puff*—the steed beneath them dissolved into mist, retracting into their bodies; then their own forms gradually powdered, turning to smoke that seeped into ground cracks. As beings whose forms could scatter and reform, black knights needed no effort to dig pits.

The moment they vanished underground, a holy glow ignited in the distance, toward the angel’s direction.

“That battle bird isn’t braving the Wind of Rest, is it?” one black knight exclaimed.

An hour passed. The black knights emerged briefly to glance—far off, the angel’s holy light still glowed, now descending from sky to ground.

“Look! That battle bird is really enduring the Wind of Rest! Is he insane?” the black knight gasped.

“No way—he’s actually doing it? That’s the Wind of Rest! Dig a hole, you idiot!”

After two glances, the black knights couldn’t bear it and retreated underground.

Another hour passed. Both black knights, unable to wait, peeked out again—the holy glow remained as bright as ever, like a torch in a sea of mist.

The black knights sincerely admired: “Two hours already—his strength is incredible. No wonder he’s a battle angel.”

The third hour: the holy glow still burned. The black knights no longer believed it was strength: “He must have some special ability to withstand the Wind of Rest.”

The fourth hour: “He’s held this long? Can he endure all night? If he can do this, then the Wind of Rest means nothing to angels?”

The fifth hour: the holy glow vanished.

The two black knights felt a mix of relief and disappointment, exhaling deeply: “Finally broke down—probably dug a hole to hide.”

“Yeah, yeah, couldn’t hold it. Nobody can withstand it.” Their tone carried a hint of melancholy.

The black knights spent the next few hours in anxious anticipation; the moment the wind ceased, they sprinted toward the angel’s location to confirm the truth.

Far off, they saw a skeleton kneeling, slender and luminous—not like ordinary human bones—behind it, two bony wings hung limp.

Hands raised before the body in a sword-holding posture; in life, he must have planted his sword into the ground for support, kneeling on one knee, wings wrapped around himself.

But after death, his flesh had all dissolved under the Wind of Rest, leaving only the intact skeleton. Ordinary corpses don’t dissolve—they toughen.

The two black knights stared, dumbfounded: “He didn’t dig a hole. He endured until death. Is he… a Wind-Enduring Spirit?”

Never had they imagined such a scenario. Both were stunned, frantically pulling out gear to contact their superiors: “Boss! No—Archbishop! What do we do?”

A long silence. Then Archbishop Andong’s voice crackled through, thick and irritated: “Maximum mobilization order is active—I can’t spare anyone. Leon’s losses are already a nightmare. Losing another Holy Corpse? I can’t explain it. Fine—retrieve the holy remains.”

After a pause, he erupted in fury: “I sent him to resolve this quickly, not to wrestle the Wind of Rest! Is he an idiot? He’s dumber than a skeleton!!”

For an Archbishop to lose composure was rare. The two black knights immediately shut off the interdimensional communication array, refusing to endure his roar.

As they prepared to approach and collect the angel’s bones, hoofbeats rang out.

They looked up—a horse galloped past them at speed. On its back sat an angel, a lich, a skeleton, and a juvenile bronze dragon, all uniformly tilting their heads, staring curiously at the black knights.

The black knights’ minds flashed one thought: This is overloaded, isn’t it?