Early spring had barely reached the riverbanks of the White Horse Kingdom, with willow branches only sprouting millet-sized buds, when a heavy snowfall swept down from the north.

The snow arrived without warning.

That morning the sky had been a dull, calm gray; a few cold crows skimmed past the dead trees, croaking with hoarse voices.

By noon the wind suddenly shifted, blowing from the northeast, carrying a bone-chilling cold, and then the snow began to fall.

The Winter Year had come.

No one knew how long it would last this time — a month, a year, perhaps several years, maybe even a decade.

In the annals of the White Horse Kingdom there were records of a Winter Year that lasted seven full years. In those seven years rivers froze solid, crops failed, herds died by the dozens in their pens, and the elderly and children who could not survive the cold quietly died in their sleep.

And this year the Winter Year arrived at an especially bad time.

A few months earlier the Demon Legion had poured out in force, advancing southward from the Forge Region, burning, killing, and looting along the way until they reached the gates of White Horse City.

Civilians who had escaped fled southward with their families. Some were lucky enough to hide in the Storm Territory; others scattered to farms and villages in the wilds, surviving on the little grain and livestock they still had.

They had been counting on the winter to end.

Winter in the White Horse Kingdom was cold, but it always ended.

In late February the river ice would begin to thaw, southern winds would bring damp warmth and the scent of thawing earth.

In March tender green shoots would appear on the fields, apricot trees in the orchards would bloom, and shepherds would drive cattle and sheep up the hills to graze.

That had been the pattern for centuries, the order everyone on this land believed without question.

But the Winter Year obeyed no pattern.

Seventy li south of White Horse City, in a river valley, sat a small farmstead.

The farm was small, a cluster of a dozen or so low thatched cottages huddled together around a stone well.

The surrounding fields had been leveled but were now covered in white snow; not a single crop could be seen, only a few bare apple trees along the terraces, their branches swaying in the wind and snow.

Some thirty people lived on the farmstead, mostly elderly, women, and children.

The young men had either been conscripted into the kingdom’s army and died on the battlefield beneath White Horse City, or had been taken by demons as slaves and their fates remained unknown.

Those left squeezed into a few relatively intact houses, living off a handful of stored rations in the cellar and the few hens left in the yard.

They had hoped the winter was nearly over.

Just yesterday someone had let the hens out of the coop to scratch in the thawed mud. The hens had pecked up a few earthworms and clucked with delight.

But the snow never stopped. By the next afternoon the wind had grown fiercer and the coop door was blocked by drifts.

Misfortune came in waves, and even worse troubles followed.

Outside the farmhouse, boots beat through the wind and snow.

A farmwife inside the house heard those steps.

You look up, eyes fixed on the window; through the thin crack you see several blurred white shapes moving in the storm.

“Mom—” the girl curled up beside her began to speak, but the farmwife clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Don’t make a sound,” the woman breathed in her ear, her voice barely more than exhaled air.

The footsteps grew closer.

They were noisy steps, not just two people but a dozen or more. Occasionally low voices muttered, rough and hoarse, sounding inhuman.

Then there was a loud crash as the neighboring door was forced open.

The farmwife heard an old woman scream, as if her throat had been seized, and then the sound stopped.

What followed were noises of things being overturned, wooden chests smashed open, jars shattering on the floor with crisp, brittle cracks.

Someone shouted in a language the farmwife could not understand.

They were demons.

The demons had come.

Her hands shook as she hugged her son tighter, chin pressed to the top of his head, eyes fixed on the plank-nailed window.

The footsteps neared. Someone paused outside the door, spoke something, and then a fist struck the wood.

The door split.

Cold wind and drifting snow rushed in, and light poured through the gap. A small shape stood in the doorway.

It was a demon gruntsoldier, an infernal foot soldier shorter than a human by a head, gaunt, its skin dark red and covered in tiny scales.

The demon grunt cocked its head, assessing the farmwife and the boy inside. Its lips curled to bare two rows of sharp teeth, and it seemed amused.

The woman shoved her son into the corner and used her frail body to shield him.

She gripped a rolling pin in her hand, her face fierce as she brandished it to threaten the demon.

“Get out!”

The demon grunt looked at the rolling pin and snorted derisively, then took a step forward.

The woman swung the rolling pin.

Her motion was slow, so slow in that demon’s eyes it must have seemed like a moth that could no longer fly. The demon did not even attempt to dodge; it reached out casually and caught the rolling pin, taking hold of the other end and giving a light tug.

The woman was yanked a step and nearly fell. But she did not let go; she clenched the rolling pin with a mad determination in her eyes.

The demon cocked its head, somewhat surprised by such resistance.

It released its grip, the rolling pin snapped back and struck the woman’s shoulder, pushing her back two steps.

Then it stepped forward again, this time lifting its claw higher, aiming at the woman’s chest.

“Don’t you dare hurt my mother!”

The boy rushed out from the corner and crashed into the demon’s leg.

The impact was negligible. The demon bent down, grabbed the boy by his collar, and hoisted him up like a kitten.

“No, no!”

“Pierce, run!”

The woman dropped the rolling pin in despair and lunged forward. She clamped both hands around the demon’s neck and bit into it with her teeth, ripping and tearing like a feral creature, tearing at its flesh in a frenzy.

The demon grunt roared in anger, released the boy, and seized the woman’s wrists with both hands.

They struggled for about three seconds.

Then the demon violently flung her. She struck the wall with a heavy thud.

She slid down, curled up in the corner, blood frothing at her mouth.

The demon stepped forward, touched its neck, checking the blood on its fingertips, eyes full of fury.

It raised a claw, aiming for her head.

......

On the opposite slope of the valley, two figures stood in the wind and snow watching it all.

Casaric held a demon tome in his hands, fingertips tracing the pages gently.

The resisting farmwife’s body stiffened, eyes wide, mouth open, and then she went limp like a puppet whose strings had been cut, collapsing in the corner, motionless.

A thin halo of pale light drifted up from her head, passed through the snow, and settled into the pages of the book in Casaric’s hands.

“A farmwife who dares to resist demons,” he murmured, voice full of approval, “worthy of collection.”

Morrigan stood a few steps behind him.

His dark shadow wavered in the storm, its outline shifting like smoke dispersed by wind.

He said nothing, merely watching the farmstead across the valley in silence.

The demon grunts had come out of the houses carrying sacks of grain looted from cellars slung over their shoulders and the trembling hens in their hands.

Several farmers had been driven from the houses with their hands bound behind their backs, heads bowed, bare feet standing in the snow, toes already frostbitten to a bluish hue.

Their fate would be to become demon slaves, to burn for the legion like coal until the last ember of heat died out.

They never spared people of this land.

If the demons did not do it, the orcs would.

Morrigan watched for a long time, his thoughts unreadable, then finally spoke in a low voice.

“My relic is harvesting souls; soon we will have gathered enough faith to open the gate to that broken god-kingdom.”

Casaric did not look up, still tracing the pages as if counting precious items.

“What about those slimes?” he asked casually, as if inquiring about something irrelevant.

Morrigan let out a cold, contemptuous laugh.

“The powers of shadow are sufficiently covert. Those magical creatures will pay for offending the church.”

“Hm.” Casaric turned and began to walk away.

They left the farmstead without purpose; Morrigan merely followed Casaric’s path, collecting the souls he favored.

Soon Morrigan’s shadow shuddered, and he stopped silently in place.

Casaric said leisurely, “It seems the progress is not going smoothly.”

“There have been some unexpected developments,” Morrigan finally said, his voice much lower than before, “my followers reported encountering unimaginable enemies in the Dark Realm.”

Casaric closed the book and turned.

“What sort of enemies?”

Morrigan’s shadow rippled again, this time more violently, betraying inner unrest.

“A cleric — an… undead cleric.”

“I know her: Lya Westwood, an ancient undead. One must not touch her; otherwise, unforeseen calamities may follow.”

“But fear not. Even missing a single Holy Grail will not prevent me from forcing open the gate to that broken god-kingdom.”

.......

Three days after the Canyon Battle, reconstruction of Darkness City officially began.

Chen Yu stood on the stone steps of the central plaza, watching captured Merchant Alliance soldiers formed into lines, supervised by Slime guards as they carried rubble and broken tiles.

There were about five hundred such soldiers, prisoners taken from the canyon battlefield; from now on they would do forced labor rebuilding Darkness City.

They helped repair roads, build walls, and clear ruins — in short, all the heavy, exhausting work.

This group also included three captured Extraordinary professionals.

True to their nature, Extraordinary professionals were resilient. The one called Lucas had survived a punch of Chen Yu’s gel body; his wounds had mostly healed.

In the past few days, under Casimir’s call, a Slime holy corps named the “Holy Expedition” had been forming.

Surprisingly many slimes signed up, nearly filling the cathedral.

Casimir stood before the line in flowing white robes, solemn in demeanor.

He preached the meaning of holy war to his followers, claiming that the actions of the Xirik Church were a desecration against the Great Slime Religion, an affront to slime faith and a disrespect to Holy Light.

They are the enemy!

They are evil heretics who enjoy disrupting all order!

They will be joined by the Sun Church to launch a holy war against the vile foes.

Chen Yu had meant to refuse Casimir’s proposal for holy war — the front was dangerous, after all.

But thinking twice, he could not predict what those zealots might do if refused, so he decided to go.

Lya, however, had her own plans to recruit talent, so she could not go.

As for Rem, there was no chance she would go; she was far too timid, following Lya around the kingdom and busy with unknown tasks.

So far there had been no news of a Holy Spirit awakening.

Sekashi and Semiaya had returned to the Winter Academy with Tam and Nilly to continue their studies.

According to Tam’s whispered reports, in the most recent exams Nilly and Semiaya did not perform well, while Sekashi and Little Aileen achieved good results.

Tam vowed to begin “devil-style” teaching upon returning, which made Nilly and Semiaya’s faces freeze in fright.

Yano and Galvin stayed behind to guard Darkness City while Chen Yu mounted Little Ka and returned to Slime City.

It was snowing in Slime City as well.

Chen Yu looked down from the sky; the entire swamp was covered in a layer of white snow. The muddy roads and low depressions that were normally a quagmire had become a flat white plain, with only the tall mushroom houses and tree houses peeking their roofs above the snow.

But the kingdom’s granaries were well stocked; the grain stored in autumn was enough to feed the entire kingdom for a full year. Combined with the compensation paid by the Merchant Alliance, the people of Slime City would not starve — they would be warm and comfortable through the winter.

What concerned him most, the shipyard construction, was also progressing smoothly.

A huge pit had been dug, over a hundred meters long and wide, and about thirty meters deep. The pit walls were covered in a gray-white hardened layer that felt as hard as stone.

At the bottom large concentric magic foundation pedestals had been set in place. These pedestals were carved from obsidian transported from Golden Radiance Valley and were etched with dense runes over their surfaces.

Anvil stood at the edge of the pit, holding a blueprint and gesturing to several Slime engineers.

“Here, here, and here need reinforcement. The foundation must reach bedrock, otherwise it won’t bear the weight of that big fellow.”

Chen Yu hopped over and landed on Anvil’s shoulder, leaning in to look at the blueprint. The drawing was a cross-section of the Floating Fortress, a dense maze of lines and annotations that made his eyes swim.

“How’s progress?” he asked.

Anvil turned, saw His Majesty, and nearly lifted his big beard in excitement.

“Your Majesty, good news. The main excavation is complete. We’re reinforcing the foundation now. Should take about two more days.”

“Once the materials arrive, we can begin building the Floating Fortress’s base.”

Chen Yu nodded, about to say something when Selene approached from the other side of the site.

The great elf sage wore a gray robe speckled with ink and dust. Her long hair was casually tied at the back of her head, dark circles rimmed her eyes, and her steps were a bit unsteady as if she hadn’t slept properly for many days.

In fact, she really hadn’t slept well for weeks.

She carried a stack of blueprints and sighed with relief when she reached Chen Yu. “Your Majesty, the overall design of the Floating Fortress is complete.”

The set of plans was hundreds of pages thick: general structure diagrams, cross-sections, magic array layouts, energy core designs, component breakdowns — every sheet drawn meticulously, lines neat and labels clear.

Selene pointed to the drawings and began to explain.

Her voice was tired but logically precise, like delivering an academic report.

She explained at length the levitation principle, the structural design, and the energy system of the Floating Fortress.

Chen Yu half understood, but one thing was clear — this thing could fly.

“Thank you for your hard work.” He bowed in respect to the elf sage’s dedication. 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

Selene shook her head and smiled with satisfied exhaustion.

“It was not hardship. This is the most interesting work I have done in years.”

She paused, as if remembering something, and waved over to the barracks beside the site.

“By the way, Your Majesty, there is something I want you to see.”

At her words a slime bounced out of the barracks.

This slime’s color was unlike any Chen Yu had seen before; its gel body was a translucent bluish-green, looking much lighter than ordinary slimes. When it hopped it touched down slowly, like a feather caught by the wind.

“It hatched a few days ago.”

“While researching the Floating Fortress, Miss Sepham often watched us lay wind-element magic arrays nearby. After being exposed to those gales repeatedly, one day its body began to change.”

Selene crouched and prodded Sepham’s gel surface with a finger.

Sepham inflated like a blown-up balloon, her body swelling, and then she slowly floated up from the ground, exhaling a compressed burst of air.

The air condensed into a blade in midair and sliced off a corner of a nearby wooden stake.

“A wind slime. Able to hover and attack with wind blades and wind cannons — an interesting variant,” Selene said.

Chen Yu stared at the wind slime for a long time. The little creature, embarrassed by the attention, shrank back and made a shy “Mm” sound.

Chen Yu found this strange.

The number of slime variants had been increasing recently.

From ordinary slimes to Shadow Slimes, Dragon Slimes, Golden Slimes... and even Rem’s Holy Light Slime, now there was a Wind Slime.

These variants appeared more frequently and became increasingly diverse, like a deliberate, congregated metamorphosis of the species.

But was it really accidental?

He soon understood the reason.

These slimes could evolve not by chance or luck, but because of what they were doing.

Before, slimes were the lowest life in the swamp, absorbing sunlight and dew to grow, breeding in puddles, washed away in floods during the rainy season, dying in the dry season.

Their life scarcely lasted a single spring. Their memories barely reached a few days. Their existence was negligible to the world.

Now things were different.

With the kingdom’s support, these little creatures that had once barely survived in the mire could learn knowledge like humans, work in various fields, challenge themselves, and push their limits.

They learned land hardening while building houses, flame control during metal smelting, and wind mastery while researching the Floating Fortress.

Every new experiment, every venture into the unknown, engraved new marks into their genes and accumulated power for the species’ transformation.

Diversity in behavior patterns was pushing the slimes from quantitative change to qualitative transformation.

The slimes were shaking off generations of swamp life and stepping toward a future full of possibilities.

This was a great era.

A great era for the slimes.