This night was a torment for both King Bullhorn and Marshal Silver.
King Bullhorn faced uncertainty on all sides—news from Blossom Mountain, the relentless advance of the Heavenly River Fleet, and his own forces, who remained utterly blind to the true situation.
They could see nothing; nothing was clear.
He refused to leave as long as there was even the slightest hope.
No demon would ever choose a life of hiding and running.
But if he stayed, he had no choice but to trust.
Right now, trusting Blossom Mountain seemed the only path left.
When sunlight returned to the land, the plague would surely begin to take effect...
“Dawn,” King Bullhorn could only smile bitterly.
Today, he found that there was not a single soul on Frost‑Rain Mountain with whom he could truly speak.
Perhaps 'dawn' would never come.
"If only the Azurewave Dragon King were still here..."
Sitting atop the wind‑swept peak of Frost‑Rain Mountain, the ancient bull demon gazed helplessly at the globe‑like cluster of Heavenly River warships and sighed.
Within that brilliantly lit fleet was another world—a world utterly different from their own.
It was the world the demons had always dreamed of reaching.
Yet all that had ever accompanied them was raw survival—blood and bone, always on the edge, never close to entering that new world.
A figure appeared silently behind King Bullhorn.
He didn't need to look to know it was King Macaque.
At this moment, perhaps only that monkey—who hardly seemed like a Demon King at all—would come looking for him.
Carrying a wineskin full of cheap liquor, King Macaque swayed over and sat beside King Bullhorn on a slab of green rock. He pulled off the cap, took a long swig, holding the wine in his mouth without swallowing.
"Are they still arguing?" King Bullhorn asked.
King Macaque swallowed the wine and said, "No more arguing... You scared them all into silence. Without arguments, it really feels strange. Heh heh."
Using the back of his hairy hand to wipe his mouth, King Macaque handed the wineskin over.
King Bullhorn didn’t reach for it, still staring intently at the distant fleet.
After a moment, King Macaque, losing interest, took the wineskin back and hugged it to his chest.
The wind slowly brushed past, ruffling the fur around their faces.
"Any new updates?" King Macaque asked.
"Yes."
"Did they find an antidote?"
King Bullhorn shook his head. "No. But they've dosed the Heavenly Fleet with the same plague."
"They have it too?"
"Mm." King Bullhorn nodded. "From now on, everyone’s the same. Maybe this is an opportunity."
King Macaque paused with the wineskin at his lips.
After a long silence, King Macaque asked, "Do you think they might actually have an antidote?"
"Hm?" King Bullhorn slowly turned his face to look at the hunched King Macaque.
"I mean, what if Blossom Mountain really does have an antidote, but they’re not giving it to us—deliberately letting us despair. Just imagine: both armies sick, then a slaughter... What a hopeless war this is. I’ve never fought a battle like this before."
Lowering his head and thinking for a moment, King Bullhorn closed his eyes and sighed, "Maybe. I don’t know either. Right now, we have no choice."
King Macaque chuckled, "Honestly, I’ve always preferred joining forces with Blossom Mountain. If the Monkey King wins, no matter how he treats us—even if he’s hostile—it doesn’t matter. The world’s big. If we don’t go to Eastrealm, we’ll be fine. He can’t control all of creation and block every escape. But if the Heavenly Fleet wins... heh, then Heaven will rule again, and we’ll have no place to live in peace."
With that, King Macaque stood up, stretched his lazy waist, and yawned. "But others probably don’t think like me. After all... I still prefer wandering free. Being a king doesn’t mean much to me."
King Bullhorn stayed silent, not responding.
King Macaque patted King Bullhorn’s shoulder, slung the wineskin at his waist, leaned on his staff, and turned toward the cave-manor.
"Where are you going?"
"To tell them to prepare for battle."
...
Unlike King Bullhorn’s uncertainty, Marshal Silver faced unprecedented pressure—or rather, pressure he had long anticipated.
Bringing calamity upon the living—a grave charge indeed.
"The High Sky Throne Hall’s inquiry should arrive soon. Hopefully, by then, the war will be over."
Inside the cabin, he let out a long sigh, finished the last report, and stamped it with the marshal’s seal.
Though he’d already notified Skyler about the imminent use of Plaguewater, such a major event still required a formal written report.
"Do what must be done. As long as the scope isn’t too broad, let the High Sky Throne Hall handle the rest. It’s not the first time, anyway," he thought.
Those pampered immortals would never understand what it’s like to face such an enemy on the front lines, nor the necessity of using Plaguewater.
Against foes who use every trick, they’re forced to fight with one hand tied. If the difference in strength were greater, maybe it wouldn’t matter—but now, how can such a war be won?
From this perspective, Heaven’s seemingly stable system is ill-suited to war. Sometimes, Marshal Silver even envied the Demon Kings: at least those leading on the front lines could make decisions on their own judgment.
In the empty cabin, he reached out and covered the glowing pearl with a square wooden shade, plunging the room into darkness.
...
When the first rays of sunlight pierced the clouds over Frost‑Rain Mountain, Marshal Silver stepped out of the cabin.
The order was given.
War drums thundered, horns blared, and the entire fleet shifted into attack formation.
The demons in the caves were startled awake—though only some of them.
They quickly sensed something was wrong.
Many of the weaker demons had already fallen into a deep sleep, impossible to wake—almost as if stricken by illness.
Worse still, those who did wake were weak and powerless, unable to focus or summon their spiritual strength.
After all, most of those still alive were at least Spirit Channeling Stage. Normally, such a thing would be impossible.
They didn’t know that all demons at Spirit‑Refinement Stage and above had been quietly gathered at Frost‑Rain Mountain’s main peak by King Bullhorn the previous night—every last one.
Those left behind were nothing but sacrificial pawns to draw the Heavenly Fleet’s attention.