Northern Frontier.
Wind and snow filled Heaven and earth.
A small Human Race Town.
Demon Race soldiers drove all the humans onto the square.
The leader of the demons stood on a raised platform, his voice carrying across the square:
"Listen up. We're only here for livestock, ore, gold, and silver. You don't need to worry about dying."
"After all, we've agreed to a ceasefire."
"Behave yourselves. Understood?"
No one dared speak.
Not a sound was heard.
Only the bitter wind howled, whipping snowflakes across Emptiness.
The demon nodded in satisfaction. He was about to add another threat when he saw two of his men drag over a man and throw him into the snow before the square.
"What's with him?"
The demon sounded puzzled.
"General, look at his head. There's something above it. We suspect it's a Human Race Mystic Arts trick," one of his men called out.
The demon looked over.
The man wore rags, reeked of stale sweat, and still clutched a bottle of cheap liquor that was almost empty.
One glance marked him as a down-and-out nobody among the humans.
Yet above his head floated the word "Demon," wreathed in black mist.
"Are you a Cultivator?"
The demon's voice sharpened with caution.
"N-no..." the man answered, trembling.
The demon swept him with his spiritual sense.
He really was an ordinary man.
But the word "Demon" above his head looked so sinister that even a glance sent a chill down the spine.
The demon was quick to notice the strange expressions in the crowd and the way people avoided his gaze.
"Speak. What's his story?"
The demon barked the question at a human collaborator nearby.
"General, he's an old hunter. After he injured his leg in a fall, he couldn't go into the mountains to hunt anymore.