"Cowardly bastard! Don’t ru—AAARRGG!!"

The screams of agony and the sound of bodies being torn apart behind him did nothing to divert Leon’s focus.

If anything, he quickened his pace, running with every ounce of strength without looking back. He knew the rookies wouldn’t last long. Their bodies would become a mere snack for the horde of two hundred demons.

From the sheer ferocity and chaos of the horde, Leon deduced that there were no Level 3 Core Demons among them. If there had been, they would have already realized they were being lured into a trap. But whether such a leader existed or not wasn’t something Leon dwelled on—and likely, neither did the captain.

Failing to drive the target to the ambush site was a common occurrence. When that happened, the blame would simply shift to another squad, inevitably leading to their destruction.

But who cared?

That was the information team’s problem, not theirs. If accountability was demanded later, the captain only needed to claim his squad had fought valiantly and sacrificed many lives in the line of duty.

Exactly. The deaths of the rookies served as the perfect shield to spare the captain and the veteran hobgoblins from military punishment. That was the true purpose of the new recruits: living bait.

And if they bore a grudge?

It wouldn’t matter. The first person they would blame was Leon, the one who had abandoned his initial position and was thus deemed responsible for the mission’s failure. But they could only blame Leon if they survived, which was unlikely.

Even if they did live, they would still be at fault for abandoning their post without orders, silencing their tongues with the fear of military discipline.

Yet resentment would remain, and all of it would fall upon Leon. Why? Because hatred needs no reason. If someone appears weak and incapable of defending themselves, hating them simply feels justified—just like that.

After enduring this "welcome ceremony," the surviving rookies would transform into veterans. They would learn that the battlefield was no place for heroes, no matter what they’d been taught at the academy. The battlefield was solely about survival—even if that meant sacrificing their comrades.

The sounds of pain and rending flesh behind him gradually grew fainter. Perhaps it was because Leon had already run far enough, or perhaps there was simply nothing left to hear.

Still, Leon didn’t stop. He pushed himself to run faster, knowing he had to catch up with the veteran hobgoblins ahead of him. He understood that some demons were far faster than hobgoblins, and to survive, he would need a fresh "meat shield."

But as the agonizing cries behind him faded, similar sounds suddenly echoed from ahead.

Leon slowed his pace, his heart pounding in his chest.

What was happening up there?

Leon’s confusion turned into shock, which then exploded into uncontrollable terror. From up ahead, a veteran hobgoblin came sprinting toward him, his face pale as a corpse. His eyes bulged with fear, a terror so profound it made the horde of two hundred demons chasing them seem trivial compared to whatever was behind him.

Leon’s survival instincts screamed at him. His body begged him to turn around and flee, but his heart pounded so violently it felt like it would shatter his entire being. A dreadful premonition gripped his mind. Yet even this was too late.

A small red object—no larger than a pebble—floated lazily through the air, as if unhurried, and attached itself to the back of the panting veteran hobgoblin.

In less than a second, his body was consumed by flames. But these flames were not ordinary—they were an inferno so intense that the trees nearby instantly ignited, turning to charcoal, and the ground beneath him blackened and cracked.

The hobgoblin’s body burned fiercely, like oil meeting fire. His skin was incinerated in an instant, the fat beneath fueling the blaze into an even greater fury. The stench of burning flesh filled the air, so thick and pungent that Leon instinctively raised his hand to cover his nose, though it was futile.

The hobgoblin’s screams were like cries from hell itself, piercing and shredding the air around them. But the torment didn’t last long. Within seconds, his body was reduced to a charred husk, then crumbled into ash, carried away by the wind to vanish amidst the sunlight filtering through the forest canopy.

Leon was frozen in place. The sheer horror of what had just occurred left him paralyzed, unable to move.

His gaze was locked on the empty space where the hobgoblin had once stood. His senses screamed at him to run, yet his body refused to obey. The acrid smell of burning flesh churned his stomach, making his head spin as if he might faint.

Before his mind could fully process what had happened, his body began to shiver as though caught in a raging snowstorm.

Cold sweat drenched the back of his neck, and his teeth chattered uncontrollably. Fear overwhelmed him, crushing every instinct but the urge to surrender.

Then came the sound of footsteps from the side. Leon turned his head slowly, and at that moment, every hair on his body stood on end. An aura so terrifying, so far beyond human comprehension, engulfed him. His knees buckled violently, and he collapsed to the ground without realizing it.

His trembling hands touched the rough, cold earth, but nothing could restore the courage that had drained from him.

Leon could not lift his head. It was as if he were a lowly creature, unworthy of even glimpsing the feet of the being before him.

Before he could swallow to moisten his parched throat, the voice came. Calm yet resonant, it carried a weight that made the entire world seem to bow before its owner.

"I am Furfur, Demon of the Volcano. I grant you the honor of answering my question. Be proud and remember this day as a moment of greatness for a lowly creature such as yourself."

Every word was like an immutable decree, locking Leon into utter despair and absolute submission.

Leon knew that the being before him was a manifestation of fear and terror beyond anything he had ever encountered. He couldn’t see the creature’s physical form, but its aura was so oppressive that the very air around it felt heavy.

Furfur stood like a volcano on the verge of eruption—immense, unyielding, and deadly. In the face of such a catastrophic force of nature, there was only one possible reaction: surrender and submission.

This creature far surpassed the power of any Asura Leon had ever encountered. Somehow, he was certain that Furfur was even stronger than Moku—the figure he believed to be the incarnation of The One.

Moku, whose mere presence was considered an honor to behold, now seemed small in comparison to Furfur. And if someone more powerful than the king of all monsters stood before him, what could Leon do but bow unconditionally?

The question came from Furfur’s lips, delivered in a tone so calm yet so thunderous it shook Leon to his core.

"Tell me, lowly creature, what is your mission?"

Without hesitation or coercion, Leon replied in a steady but cautious voice, "Our mission is to herd a horde of two hundred demons to an ambush point twenty kilometers to the east."

Furfur chuckled softly, his laughter like distant thunder. The sound carried waves of heat that struck Leon’s face, scorching his skin. His eyes felt dry, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he bit his tongue to endure the pain that radiated down his throat.

"Is that so? So you’re nothing but bait?" Furfur grinned, his tone mocking but still lethally menacing.

Leon swallowed hard, trying to steady himself. "In the Wilwatikta Kingdom, only the strong have the right to speak. The weak can only bow and restrain themselves."

It was an undeniable truth, and it applied now more than ever. The stark difference in strength between himself and Furfur left Leon with no control over his fate. Indeed, the monster culture that revered power often proved to be a double-edged sword.

Yet, the teachings of The One’s promised paradise had served as a shield for the weak, offering hope even on the brink of ruin.

Leon understood that revealing anything vital—such as admitting that Furfur was stronger than their king—would destroy everything. Not only would his name be tarnished, but the entire goblin race would be disgraced and exiled from The One’s paradise.

For Leon, that prospect was far more terrifying than death. Thus, he resolved to provide enough information without betraying his faith—information he believed would have little impact on the outcome. With Furfur’s overwhelming power, such a trivial detail might amount to nothing more than mere amusement.

Furfur observed Leon intently, his gaze sharp as though peering into the depths of his soul. "Oh? Interesting. I sense a significant difference between you and..." Furfur was silent for a moment and felt as he turned his gaze towards the location where the asura were preparing the ambush, "...the other group. Are you of a different species?"

Leon took a deep breath, carefully choosing his words. "No, we’re all from the same species. We are Arions, but our species is divided into different races. Just like elves, who have races such as mountain elves, wood elves, and others."

Furfur narrowed his eyes, weighing the response. "Is that so? But while elves may have different races, there’s no significant difference in their strength. Yet I sense something different about you. Your race is far weaker compared to the... other Arion race."

The words cut deep into Leon, though he dared not argue. While Furfur’s tone carried no mockery, the truth of his statement struck like a dagger, forcing Leon to clench his fists until his knuckles turned white. Still, he kept his head bowed, swallowing the insult like a bitter pill he couldn’t refuse—an undeniable fact.

But when Furfur spoke again, his words froze Leon in place.

"Do you wish to become strong?"

Leon’s eyes widened. The question struck him like a bolt of lightning in the middle of the day, shattering the cold resignation within him and replacing it with a spark of emotion he couldn’t quite name. Was it hope? Fear? Or perhaps, temptation?

His heart, which had been pounding with fear moments ago, now thudded to a different rhythm, mingled with a faint but undeniable desire—to be recognized, to have strength, to no longer be a creature that merely bowed to the will of others.

But what would he have to pay?

Silence fell over the forest. The tension that had filled the air now seemed to shift, as if every leaf and shadow awaited his answer, bearing witness to this fateful exchange. Leon’s breaths came heavy, as though he carried a burden suddenly too great to bear.

At last, he lifted his head slightly, just enough to steal a glance at Furfur, who loomed like a towering shadow, radiating a searing aura. Leon’s voice trembled, barely a whisper.

"What must I sacrifice?"

Furfur’s smile was faint, but it offered no comfort—only deepened the enigma. "Only something that has long since lost its value to a wretched being like you: your soul."