Their eyes blazed with zeal, as though a dawn of demon rule had already broken.

The escape of demonic souls thundered through level six, and within an hour, everyone had gotten wind of the news.

In the Dark Forest, a circle of beast race cultivators sat roasting meat over an open flame.

The sudden turbulence in the air made their fur bristle; glancing upward, they gaped at black rain coughing from lightning-split clouds. Terror quickly stampeded through the gathering.

A guttural shout broke the dull hush. “What in the world is that?” the voice cracked, raw with a fear it could not hide.

A burly bear beast cultivator-his chest heaving beneath patch-worked armor-thrust a trembling paw toward the horizon. There, black vapors rolled like an ocean of ink. The stench of malice riding that wind felt thick enough to choke on, far darker than anything stirred during the ancient Demon Rebellion. Each breath the bearman drew sounded like it might be his last. “Such a thick and strong demonic aura… It’s even more terrifying than when demons wreaked havoc back in the day!”

Someone gasped as the nightmare gradually took shape. “It’s the demonic souls! The hundred thousand demonic souls that legend says Roaring Storm Church had sealed away! They’ve escaped!”