Droville scanned the opposing crowd with a half-smile, sitting down unhurriedly and pulling the dazed Celoa into his arms.
He said in a calm voice, “Isar? Impossible. He is not qualified to open the Path of Authority.”
A man frowned, his voice turning sharp and aggressive. “Prince Isar possesses the purest bloodline; no one is more suited for the Path of Authority than him. Your Highness, your actions will make us question your decision.”
“After all, you were once an Angel. It is difficult for us not to suspect you of favoritism. Please understand our feelings.”
Celoa secretly tugged at Droville’s sleeve, casting a worried glance. Clearly, he was overwhelmed by the situation, but he firmly remembered Droville’s instructions: do not say a word, do not respond.
Droville knit his brows, but he wasn’t angered by the lack of respect. In fact, he seemed to appreciate the man’s clamoring expression, propping his chin up as if watching a performance. This indifference caused the man’s voice to gradually falter. The two sides locked eyes, neither yielding.
“Calm down,” Droville beckoned with a finger. Magic flew from his fingertips, pulling the cups placed on the side of the meeting room to the hands of the people below. He said, “Drink some water, lest your mouth gets dry.”
The man was completely choked up, his chest heaving and his eyes bloodshot, looking as though he might faint from rage.
Droville added leisurely, “Isar is unqualified; that is an objective fact, not my subjective interference. Before you cry injustice for him, did you ask him whether he actually wants—or even can—let me open the Path of Authority for him?”
The man instinctively tried to argue: “Impossible.”
Droville slapped the table and said sternly, “What is impossible? It is you who thinks it’s impossible. Has your cherished, fully-supported Isar not told you?”
“Following my example, he forcibly merged with the Wrath Authority. He no longer has the qualification to receive recognition from any other authority.”
Celoa seemed indifferent, but he was actually listening intently. Hearing Droville’s words, his eyes widened. If Droville was this powerful because he merged with the Pride Authority, then what kind of monstrous talent must this Isar possess?
The man clearly didn’t believe Droville. He frowned. “Your Highness Droville, do not joke. The authorities are so difficult to control; how could the young Prince Isar possibly merge with one?”
“Moreover, the Wrath Authority has been missing for years—it is one of the Demon Realm’s biggest mysteries. If he truly merged with it, given the circumstances, Prince Isar would only need to speak out, and his status would not be as awkward as it is now.”
Droville waved his hand, dismissing the crowd. “If you want to know the details, go ask him. I don’t know how he did it either. In any case, by the time I killed the former Demon King, he had already succeeded.”
The men could say no more. They were desperate to know the truth. Their only excuse to stop Droville was gone. In the end, they could only look at each other and hurry away.
Once the last person left, Droville shut the door quickly. His expression was unusually serious, which startled Celoa.
Celoa carefully let out an “Um,” tilting his head in confusion. “Dro? Did something happen?”
“Celoa, you might have to undergo the test of the Pride Authority right now. I know Isar; he will never admit to merging with the Wrath Authority. We must open the Path of Authority before those people use him as an excuse to cause trouble.”
“You must go, and you must go alone. Are you willing?”
Celoa’s heart hammered against his ribs. He was truly terrified of being alone. However, he understood clearly that if he said no, Droville would abandon this hard-won opportunity without hesitation.
His decision concerned not just his own future, but Droville’s as well.
He gazed into Droville’s eyes, bit his lip, and tried to ignore the fear within. He nodded firmly. “I am willing, Dro.”
Droville pulled him into a hug, pressing his forehead against the boy’s. He sighed, “Thank you, Celoa. I’ll wait for you to come back.”
Selene never expected that after being out for just a short while, Droville would have already smoothed over all obstacles.
She scratched at her hair, pacing anxiously, wondering what protective gear she should give Celoa.
Before her was a mess on the floor—piles of various tools and equipment. Any one of these items would cause a riot if taken outside, but here they were tossed around like common household goods.
“Droville, where is our largest spatial storage item? What can this tiny ten-square-meter ring even hold?”
Droville leaned against the door, yawning lazily. He had just accompanied Celoa for a nap and hadn’t slept for more than a few minutes before Selene dragged him out of bed to organize this gear. He was exhausted, his eyelids drooping.
Hearing Selene, he blinked, momentarily unable to find an answer. After a sluggish moment, he answered slowly.
“Mmh, there are larger ones, but they don’t fit your requirements of ‘hidden, bindable, and capable of holding living things.'” He couldn’t help but criticize: “Your standards are too high. Most storage items won’t work. Do you have any idea how much life force it takes a caster to maintain a localized life-support space?”
Selene turned and glared at him. “Of course I know! But I’m worried about Celoa! With his current physical condition, he can’t use magic at all. How can I not worry about him taking the test alone?”
After speaking, she rummaged through the pile again, making a clattering mess. Her expression became visibly more irritable.
Droville sighed and stepped forward to help, organizing the items piece by piece. “You needn’t worry. The Pride Authority will watch over him for me. If there is a life-threatening danger, it will automatically end the test. I’ve also placed a charm on him that triggers a shield upon a heavy attack. By the way, what were you looking for?”
“Clothes. Pack a few extra changes for Celoa.”
Droville moved the items aside and calmly pulled out a few pieces of fabric. “These are decent. Give them to the weaving spirits to rush two outfits. When they’re done, they can take a few extra magic crystals from my private treasury.”
Selene looked down. One piece of fabric was Cloud-Silk Mermaid Thread, woven by the Mermaid tribe through tears at dawn; it was warm in winter and cool in summer, capable of naturally gathering magic elements. The other was forged from the rarest Flexible Metal of the Dwarven tribe—sturdy enough to withstand almost any physical attack.
She recalled the history of these fabrics; Droville had once led an army into their capital cities, nearly wiping out their races. These were ancestral treasures offered upon their surrender. There weren’t second pieces of these in the Three Realms.
Selene nodded. She sent the fabrics away with magic. Such precious materials were worthy of her cute little Celoa.
“Pack more spiritual treasures and herbs for survival. If necessary, he can use them to bribe others.”
Without blinking, Droville began tossing a series of divine artifacts toward Selene. Selene didn’t even look twice, stuffing them all into the small storage ring.
However, Selene’s worry proved justified. After a short while, the ring was stuffed full. Yet Droville was still tossing items over with great enthusiasm.
She urged, “Droville, stop. It’s full. No more room.”
Droville raised an eyebrow. He glanced at the ring as if he had expected this. Reaching into his pocket, he threw a pile of rings onto the table. “Keep packing.”
Selene rubbed her nose and muttered, “You’re just as bad as I am.”
Finally, after filling four rings, the task was finished. The mountain of items in the room had cleared a small space.
Droville nodded in satisfaction. “I’ll go wake Celoa. You pack the clothes, and then we set off.”
The Path of Authority was actually a void path. It had no physical entity and required no specific destination. It was born along with the host—wherever the host was, the path was.
For convenience, and so he would know the moment Celoa returned, Droville chose his office as the entrance.
A deep, dark tunnel slowly revealed its shadow. A violent wind gusted from within as if rejecting outsiders. Celoa peeked inside, trying to see what was hidden at the end, but saw nothing.
He asked hesitantly, “Dro, what kind of test did you take back then? Will mine be the same as yours?”
Droville shook his head. He tied the necklace of rings around Celoa’s neck and activated the cloaking function. “Everyone’s test is different. There is no pattern. But one thing is certain: it tests the pain you find most difficult to overcome. I hope you pass through it.”
His gaze was complex as he added, “Even if you fail, it doesn’t matter, Celoa. Put yourself first.”
“I’ll wait for you here.”
Celoa nodded vigorously. He stared at the tunnel entrance, took a deep breath, and walked forward into the wind.
As his figure shrank in the distance, Droville narrowed his eyes, his hand reaching forward instinctively.
A wind carrying the scent of blood brushed his nose—a familiar smell of gunpowder. Droville’s pupils contracted as he realized where this feeling came from.
His hands slowly clenched into fists.
This aura was the smell he encountered when he first arrived in the Demon Realm.
Celoa knew nothing of the outside world. He shuffled slowly toward the depths of the tunnel, clutching his cloak to keep it from being blown away.
The road seemed never-ending. Celoa didn’t know how long he had walked; his stomach was growling and his legs were aching, yet the path ahead remained dark.
Exhausted, he sat down, planning to take something from his storage ring to replenish his strength. But just as he rested, the tunnel shook violently. A booming sound echoed from afar. Before he could react, the tunnel rotated 360 degrees, and Celoa was tossed out like he was on a giant slide.
“Oof!” Celoa tumbled onto the ground, head spinning.
He looked up dazed. He was in a strange yet slightly familiar place.
Above him hung the unchanging Blood Sun of the Demon Realm. Red light touched every corner of a barren land. There wasn’t a blade of grass in sight. The fine sand was scalding. With a quick glance, Celoa could see piles of white bones and tracks of crawling creatures.
He seemed to have arrived in the desert region of the Demon Realm.
The cloak slipped from his shoulders. The scorching sun hit his skin, and within moments, it burned. He quickly pulled the cloak back around him. Shielded from the light, the pain lessened, but he immediately began to overheat.
He sighed. He chose to keep the cloak on—burning to death would be painful, but heat wouldn’t kill him as quickly.
The rings on his chest clinked together, as if reminding him of their presence. Celoa thought of the Cloud-Silk clothes Droville had prepared. They were light as a feather and icy cold. If he wore them, he would be much more comfortable. However, he looked around. He couldn’t tell if anyone was lying in wait. He couldn’t use magic; any random person could kill him.
Hide your wealth. He knew this much. Only by Droville’s side was he truly safe.
Celoa rubbed his face and cheered himself up. Using the sun’s trajectory to determine his direction, he set a single goal: find Dro.
The desert at night in the Demon Realm was always cold. Droville had been here for three days and still hadn’t gotten used to the weather.
He hung his head, the wounds on his back still aching. Such severe injuries couldn’t heal in just a few days; any movement would tear them open again, leaving trails of blood.
Logically, he should be resting and using high-quality medicine. That would have been natural for him back in the Heavenly Realm. But the reality was that he had been dumped in this desolate place. To find food and water to survive, he had to trek long distances every day, causing his wounds to reopen repeatedly.
Six bloody holes remained where his wings had been gouged out. The wings that should have regrown were eroded by demonic energy mixed with Holy Water. They had long since rotted in the sockets, emitting a foul odor.
Droville knew he should clean them, but no matter how much he cut away the necrotic tissue, it would spread the next day. Eventually, he grew too tired to care. At least the rot attracted scavenger monsters; if he killed them, he wouldn’t lack a food source.
The campfire blazed. Droville sat on the ground, hovering his hands over the flames. Even when singed, he didn’t pull back. His pale skin turned red. He narrowed his eyes, finally feeling a hint of warmth, though it couldn’t dispel the chill rising from his bones—his wings were wailing.
His mouth felt dry and bloody. He grabbed a water flask, but after a few drops, it went dry.
Droville frowned and shook the flask. Not a drop. He turned his head, looking into the distance, and murmured:
“No sand bandits came today.”
As if a switch had been flipped, his eyes regained a spark of life. He pushed himself off the ground. He glanced at the fire but didn’t extinguish it.
“Hurry, then I can come back and continue warming up.”
He moved forward quickly, his agility belying the multiple wounds torturing him. Soon, his shadow vanished, leaving only the flames and the blood he had left behind, now absorbed by the sand.
Meanwhile, Celoa was covered in dust, tied up and tossed next to a large pot. The water in the pot was boiling, and next to it was a pile of blazing firewood.
Celoa never thought he would be this unlucky.
After walking for hours, he was so thirsty he couldn’t stand it. He had been about to take water from his ring when a few “kind” women appeared.
Their eyes lit up when they saw him. They praised him and lured him to their village with the promise of free water. He had been half-coerced and half-tricked into coming here.
In the end, he hadn’t had a single drop of water, but he was tied up tight. His belongings were stripped, though the hidden rings around his neck went unnoticed.
A few men stood behind him, watching him like he was a grand feast.
A burly man crouched in front of Celoa. His filthy hands touched Celoa’s cheek, turning his head side to side.
“This brat is a good catch. Fresh and fair. Definitely from the Human Realm. Maybe a rich young master. He’ll taste wonderful.”
Celoa shivered slightly, his brow furrowing.
The man patted his face—not hard, but leaving dirty red marks. He grinned, his foul breath hitting Celoa’s face.
“So, young master, how do you want to die?”
“Water’s boiling, fire’s lit. Do you think you’d taste better as soup, or roasted?”
The crowd laughed. “Chief, we’ve never eaten a kid this tender. One way is a waste. Let’s cut him in half and do both.”
Celoa bit his lip, his hands clenching into fists. He looked around and saw countless small white bones buried beneath the sand.
Those were likely the bones of other children.
Celoa suddenly remembered the demons who had told him to leave the realm. Was it because children like him, without strength, would end up as a meal? Celoa had heard of this, but it was his first time seeing such cruelty.
He turned his head away, refusing to let the man touch him. He snapped, “Why don’t you try it yourselves and see which way tastes better?”
He instinctively tried to summon a weapon from his ring to teach them a lesson. But before he could act—shhh, shhh, shhh.
The man in front of him still had that hideous grin, but he could no longer make a sound. A shallow bloodline appeared on his neck. He swayed and crashed to the ground.
In an instant, everyone in the camp lost their breath.
Celoa looked up. Through the wind and sand, a familiar figure walked slowly toward him. Celoa’s eyes lit up.
As the ropes fell away, Celoa scrambled to his feet and rushed forward, hugging the newcomer’s leg as he always did. He cried out:
“I want a hug!”