Demon Race territory. Northern Mountain Stronghold.
The wind howled mournfully, and snowflakes swirled across the sky.
The demons sat in the snow, waiting in silence.
Suddenly.
A bear demon stood, climbed onto a snowdrift, and cleared his throat.
"Let me speak."
"The Violent Bear Tribe has always loved peace, cherished life, and obeyed the rules. We're good bears."
"Our heads were muddled this time. That's why we answered the Demon Saint's call and tried to invade the human world."
"As for me personally—"
"My heart aches with regret! Looking back on my wicked path, all I can do is shed two streams of tears!"
Thunderous applause rose from below.
The bear demon wiped away his tears. Through narrowed eyes, he stole a quick glance at the expressionless ghosts and gods, then looked away.
They were too damn terrifying.
At first.
When these ghosts and gods appeared, everyone had assumed they were some kind of Mystic Arts. All they had to do was fight with everything they had until someone was finished.
Either the enemy would be finished, or they would.
As long as someone was finished.
They had already been seeing red. With no thought for the consequences, they charged and gave it everything they had.
But—
These things simply would not die.
Nor did they tire.
Once you were exhausted, they tied you up and made you reflect on your mistakes.
Curse at someone, and you were flogged.
Spit, and they pulled out your tongue.
Refuse to repent, and swords pierced your body.
Attempt suicide, and you were treated at once, castrated, and had all four limbs severed. They made sure you had food and water. Dying was forbidden.
No one could die.
Gods were quick to save lives.
One moment, a blade had just gone into your body.