Calling it “moving” was really just transferring valuables like sunstones and the little treasury in advance. The far north still needed people living there for now.
Fat Pujis shuffled back and forth, hauling goods. Their activity quickly drew Gray’s attention.
She clutched her newly acquired ruby in her claws, watching the Pujis at the rift for a long while.
Once she was sure they were relocating, she acted decisively—snatching up an empty Fat Puji, dragging it back to her “treasure hoard” (Norris’s mushroom hut), and stuffing all her shiny baubles inside.
One wasn’t enough. She grabbed a second to hold the rest.
Pujis were the best at hiding things. Her instincts told her—if she followed them during a move, she’d never go wrong!
Lin Jun, of course, noticed her antics. Helping her move some things was nothing.
But once they crossed the rift, he deliberately had four Fat Pujis shuffle together, then split into two groups.
“Left side!” Lin Jun prompted. “Your shinies are with the left group!”
Gray froze, her head darting frantically between the two sets of Pujis.Luckily, she was fast enough to dart over and confirm them both, finally reclaiming her “treasure convoy.”
The group reached a nearby storage cave, designated by Lin Jun for ordinary goods.
Seeing her shinies safely dumped into a large mushroom warehouse, Gray finally relaxed.
It wasn’t far from the rift, within the range she could remember.
Inside the cave were many mushroom warehouses. One was hers, but she inspected all the others one by one!
Most contained dull, gray junk—worthless compared to her shinies!
But occasionally, something glittered. Those made her stomp her claws with envy.
Still, they belonged to the Pujis for now, so she restrained herself.
Gray had a dream: someday, she’d gather all the Pujis’ shinies into her own hoard!
If only she could help the Pujis build another one, or two, or four…
…
While the Pujis were busy moving house, the far north wasn’t idle. The re-education of prisoners officially began.
Lesson one: Queue for food!
Four long lines, each nearly four hundred people. Everyone received one bowl of mushroom soup ladled out by the demonkin.
Not enough to fill you? Then line up again.
It wasn’t that Lin Jun couldn’t set up more distribution points—it was deliberate.
These four hundred half-demons and twelve hundred Lizardmen were all scattered remnants of tribes.
Discipline? What was that?
Fear from their defeat kept them from rebelling against the Pujis and demonkin guards, but within the lines it was chaos.
Stronger ones shoved to the front. Half-demons and Lizardmen brawled, cursed, and pushed constantly.
Marshal Puji, clad in a crimson cape and wide hat, stood proudly atop a Heavy-Armor Puji’s cap, surveying the mess.
In one line, a demonkin scooped soup from a Burrowing Puji and handed it forward.
A sandy-colored Lizardman reached out—only to be shoved aside by a taller, stronger one.
Recognizing the bully as a higher-ranked warrior of his tribe, the sandy one said nothing and slunk back into line.
But the stronger Lizardman didn’t just cut in line. He took the very first spot.
The demonkin server hesitated, glancing toward Shou, who stood beside the Marshal Puji.
But the warrior grabbed the bowl himself, gulped down a mouthful, then shouted in dissatisfaction:
“Soup for these useless wretches is one thing, but for warriors like us—no meat? Not even a trace of fat?”
His booming voice drew everyone’s eyes.
Shou flipped his spear, stepping forward to discipline him.
But the warrior didn’t back down. He dodged, parried with his claws, refusing to yield. As a high-ranking fighter, he wasn’t about to be crushed in a few moves.
That they weren’t starving or chained—only implanted with fungus—meant they still had fight left in them.
After a few quick exchanges, the Lizardman leapt back, growling defiantly.
“Don’t act tough! I, Slik, am also a high warrior! If I had a proper weapon, do you think I’d fear you?”
Then his posture shifted sharply. Instead of pressing the fight, he dropped to one knee before the true master—Marshal Puji high above.
His head was raised proudly as he declared:
“My lord! I, Slik, have sharp claws and unyielding bones! I can tear apart your enemies no less than these demonkin whelps! Accept my loyalty, and I shall prove my worth!”
Cutting line, provoking guards, even dueling—everything had been a setup, a way to advertise himself.
Slik knew the law of the tribes well. Power was the passport. Show strength to the stronger, swear loyalty, and you’d earn survival—and respect.
The more fierce you were, the greater the respect.
His burning eyes locked on Marshal Puji, awaiting judgment.
And Lin Jun did give an answer.
“Interesting.”
That chillingly familiar voice rang out.
At once, invisible frost seemed to spread through the camp.
The demonkin only shrank their necks—they were used to their leader’s presence.
But the prisoners… they broke.
That voice unlocked their fear, dragging them back into the nightmare of blood and screams. Many shook uncontrollably, teeth clattering.
Even Slik stiffened violently. Only sheer willpower kept him upright.
From under the Marshal’s wide hat, a Voice-Puji slithered out, landing softly at Slik’s feet.
Slowly, with a cold slippery touch, it climbed his body, coiling snugly around his thick neck.
“Strength is worthy of respect,” the voice rumbled against his scales, inhuman and terrifying. “Shou! Bring meat!”
Shou, who only moments ago had faced him with spearpoint, obeyed instantly.
“Yes!”
He turned and strode off, leaving no hesitation in his steps.
Hearing that near-acceptance, Slik’s rigid face cracked into a smile of pride.
When Shou returned with a bowl of rich soup, dotted with oil and meat, Slik received it eagerly—and even gave Shou a taunting look.
The other prisoners barely reacted. In the north, this was normal.
Some high-ranked warriors among them even began plotting—perhaps they too could one day “sell” themselves like this.
Meanwhile, Louisa leaned lazily against a frozen wall, arms crossed, lips curved in an open, mocking smile.
Her eyes gleamed with cold amusement as she watched Slik gloat with his meat soup.
She was waiting—hungrily—for what would come next.