[Ding!
Congratulations, Host, on completing the replacement mission.
Would you like to return to the real world immediately?] In the Demon Netherworld, as Shendu clashed endlessly with his son Drago, a glowing screen suddenly materialized before his eyes.
*Boom!* Shendu unleashed a Dragon Blast and Laser Vision, blasting Drago thousands of meters back in an instant.
A look of wild excitement broke across his face.
How many thousands of years had it been?
Or tens of thousands?
He had long since lost count.
The damned system finally had a response.
In truth, he was not the original Shendu at all.
The real Shendu had suffered an accident at the dawn of his creation, his spirit destroyed within the Black Qi.
He was merely an ordinary young man from modern times who had accidentally bound a cursed replacement system, forced to become Shendu, the Fire Demon—one of the Eight Ancient Demon Sorcerers.
As long as he followed the script and completed his assigned mission, he could return to reality with Shendu’s divine power, achieving immortality and becoming the sole practitioner of true magic in his world.
Now, the time had finally arrived.
“Return!” Trembling with excitement, Shendu uttered the thought, and his massive form vanished from the Netherworld in an instant.
Far in the distance, Drago froze in place, roaring at the sky, “Old man, what trick are you playing now?!” *** 1991.
London.
Dusk fell like dark ink, quietly wrapping around the ancient city.
A thin mist drifted over the Thames, mingling with the stench of river mud as it crept down narrow streets.
Gas lamps along the sidewalk flickered to life one after another, their dim yellow halos blooming in the damp air like murky, half-lidded eyes watching the ancient heart of the empire.
Gremory Lane was an alley in London that even the rats bothered to avoid.
Two of the streetlights at the entrance were broken, and the remaining one flickered erratically, its glass shade caked in thick dust.
Four figures lingered suspiciously at the mouth of the alley.
The leader was a blond, middle-aged man with a viper tattooed on his arm and a smoldering cigarette hanging from his lips.
His name was Glenn, a veteran of London’s underworld who spent over a decade conducting the dirtiest kind of business—human trafficking.
“Are you sure the kid’s in the alley?” Glenn asked, squinting into the darkness.
“Boss, I swear to God, I’ve been watching for three hours!” replied Nick, a tall, gaunt man.
“The boy’s alone in there.
I watched him walk in with my own eyes, just like a lost lamb.
Besides, the kid’s got great features—definitely top-tier stock.” “Good job,” Glenn nodded in satisfaction.
“In that case, Bart, you stay at the entrance and keep watch.
Nick, Riff…” He gestured toward Nick and another burly man.
“You two come with me.” “Got it, Boss.” Bart, the muscular thug tasked with keeping lookout, was built like a brick wall.
Standing at the mouth of the alley, he blocked nearly half the passage.
He drew a cigarette from his pocket, lit it unhurriedly, and leaned against the wall.
Though he appeared casual, his eyes vigilantly swept his surroundings.
Glenn led his two men deeper into the alley.
The passage was exceedingly narrow, forcing the three to walk almost single file.
Green moss on the brick walls glowed faintly in the dim light, the stone pavement beneath their feet was pitted and uneven, and the air reeked of damp mold.
“Where’s the kid?” Glenn whispered.
“All the way in, past the corner,” Nick said on tiptoe, pointing ahead.
They rounded a bend where the alley narrowed even further, the walls pressing in from both sides.
Tucked into a corner sat a small figure.
He leaned against the wall, knees pulled to his chest, head bowed so his face remained hidden.
Wearing a dark, worn coat and sporting messy hair, he looked like any other lost or runaway child wandering the streets of London.
A smirk touched Glenn’s lips, a flash of greed in his eyes.
Stray kids like this were the easiest prey.
No one searched for them, no one asked questions, and selling them off yielded a handsome profit with virtually zero risk.
“Move in,” Glenn ordered softly.
Nick and Riff exchanged a glance and crept forward silently to flank the target.
Nick pulled a drugged handkerchief from his coat—their standard tool.
A few seconds held over a victim’s nose and mouth was all it took to knock them out.
Riff slipped a length of rope from his waist, preparing to bind the child.
As they closed in, they heard the boy muttering something under his breath in a language neither of them had ever heard.
“Damn system, is this my body?
Why have I turned into a child?” the boy cursed softly.
[Ding!
When traveling across realms, minor adjustments are normal.
According to the system’s calculations, this body is the most suitable host candidate in this world.] The boy was, of course, Shendu, fresh from his interdimensional return.
Only, it seemed his return had not gone entirely according to plan.
Shendu took a deep breath.
“Fine, fine.
But what about my Talisman powers?
Why can’t I feel anything other than the Sheep Talisman and a tiny spark of fire magic?” [Basic Sheep Talisman reward has been issued.
Please collect the remaining Talismans across the world on your own.] “You brainless system—” Before Shendu could finish, Nick lunged forward, pressing the soaked cloth toward his face!
Just as Nick’s hand was about to touch him, the boy raised his head.
It was a youthful face belonging to a child of about ten, yet his features were already strikingly refined.
Appearance alone would ensure no shortage of buyers.
Yet Nick’s movements abruptly froze, panic surging across his face.
Because the boy’s eyes—a pair of glowing, crimson orbs—did not belong to a child, nor to any human being.
They were like the eyes of an ancient, ferocious beast slowly opening after being disturbed from its slumber.
“Hurry up!” Glenn barked from behind.
*Bang!* A wave of searing heat erupted from the boy, blasting Nick backward.
He slammed hard against the wall with a dull thud before sliding to the ground, the drugged cloth fluttering harmlessly from his grasp.
Riff flinched in horror.
Glenn froze as well.
They watched in disbelief as the boy slowly stood up.
He was short, not even reaching Glenn’s chest, but the moment he rose, the temperature in the alley spiked at a visible rate.
“Do you have any idea how much fire I’m holding back right now?” The boy’s voice was deep and raspy, dripping with dark pressure as if hailing straight from the abyss.
He raised his right hand.
The slender hand looked exceptionally pale under the dim streetlight, but in its palm, a ball of blazing fire burned intensely.
“What the hell!” Riff rasped, taking a step back on instinct.
“What…
what the hell are you?” Glenn swallowed hard, his face twisting in desperate fury as he drew a revolver from his jacket, aiming the dark barrel straight at the boy.
“Don’t move!
Or I’ll blow your head off!” The boy—Shendu—sneered.
Completely ignoring the gun, he hurled the flame in his hand.
The fire struck Riff squarely in the chest with a booming crash, instantly charring his body.
“You little bastard, die!” Glenn roared, and a flash of fire burst from his gun.
*Bang!* A loud shot echoed as the bullet struck the boy’s chest, only to be instantly swallowed by a burst of flame and melted into a puddle of liquid iron.
“Toys like this are useless against me.” The boy tilted his head, the corners of his mouth curving upward into a smirk—less like a child, and more like a dragon toyed with its prey.
*** One minute earlier, outside the alley.
Bart was still smoking when, in the blink of an eye, an old man suddenly appeared in his line of sight.
A very, very old man.
He wore magnificent, strangely fashioned robes.
Most striking of all was his sweeping silver-white hair and long beard, both of which seemed to shimmer faintly even in the dark.
Behind half-moon spectacles were a pair of bright, piercing blue eyes.
For some reason, when Bart met the old man’s gaze, he felt as though he were being seen straight through, stripped completely naked.
“Damn it!” Bart muttered, feeling deeply uncomfortable.
He shouted aggressively, “Get lost, old man.
This isn’t a place for you.” “Good evening, sir.
I’m afraid I cannot comply; I am in quite a hurry,” the old man spoke with polite refinement, reminiscent of an old-world aristocrat.
Bart flicked his cigarette butt away, his expression darkening.
“Old man, don’t look for trouble!” Before the words fully left his mouth, a loud explosion rocked the alley, followed closely by the sharp crack of a gunshot.
“Damn it!
What’s happening in there?
Why are they shooting?” Bart instinctively glanced back.
When he turned his head again, he found the old man holding a strangely carved wooden stick.
“Old guy, you think you can scare me with a broken stick?” Bart pulled a collapsible baton from his belt.
“This is what you use for a fight.” He had no doubt that a single swing of his baton could end the old man’s life.
The old man’s expression grew serious as he gave his stick a gentle flick.
“My apologies.
Matters appear rather urgent.
I trust you will let me pass now?” Bart blinked, his tough demeanor melting away as he offered a polite smile, stepping aside deferentially.
“Of course, sir.
Respecting one’s elders is a virtue.” The old man hurried into the alley.
The moment he rounded the bend, a brilliant, roaring wave of heat and flames swept through the passage with terrifying force—a display so fierce one might have mistaken it for a Dark wizard unleashing Fiendfyre.
“Merlin’s beard!” Without a second thought, the old man raised his wooden stick—or rather, his wand—and cried out, “Finite Incantatem!”