Chapter 705 The Problems of the Eighth Earth
In the Eighth Earth.....
In a town now governed by the arcane laws of magi and witches, a solitary figure, garbed in the mystical robes of a magi, traversed the desolate streets under the cloak of night. The once-bustling avenues lay eerily silent, save for the occasional lesser-ranked demons that roamed with a predatory grace, their eyes glowing faintly in the darkness as they patrolled the empty thoroughfares.
Above him, a billboard hovered ominously, its levitation a stark reminder of the changed world. On it was the image of the new ruler of this habitable part of Earth, the infamous Blood Demon, Cuban. His grin was wide and unsettling, a predator's smile that belied the danger beneath. The billboard played a message on loop, Cuban's voice echoing through the streets with a deceptive calmness: "People of the world, the curfew is for your own safety. As long as you remain in your homes, you will be safe. But if you disobey, you will be sent to the gladiator arena or end up in the gallows." The threat in his tone was unmistakable, a chilling promise of a fate worse than death.
The man, his hair long gone, leaving a shiny, aged scalp, watched the billboard with a deep frown etching his weathered face. The dryness in his mouth mirrored the fear that clutched at his heart. Being sent to the gallows was a death sentence, an end as a feast for demons. The gladiator arena was no better, a cruel spectacle of blood and death. Yet, despite the looming threats, he was determined to escape the tyrannical rule that Cuban, the Blood Demon, had imposed for years. This chapter was first shared on the Ñøv€lß1n platform.
He moved cautiously, navigating the broken streets where the shadows seemed to whisper secrets of despair. The town, once vibrant and full of life, now lay in ruin, its buildings crumbling and roads cracked, a testament to the oppressive regime that had choked the life out of it. Every corner held the potential for danger, every sound a possible herald of death.
Among them was Gonvo, a man with dark skin and eyes that spoke of years of struggle and resilience. He hurried over to Old Meg, his question more of a confirmation than an inquiry. "So tell us, Old Meg, did it work this time around?" The anticipation in his voice was palpable, a mixture of hope and fear.
Old Meg, despite the weariness that clung to him like a second skin, managed a tired smile. "Gonvo, my old friend, it works!" he exclaimed, his voice a beacon of hope in the dimly lit room.
Gonvo's reaction was immediate and profound. Laughter bubbled up from deep within him, a sound so rare and precious in these dark times that it brought tears to his eyes. His smile, wide and genuine, was a sight that stirred the hearts of everyone present.
The room erupted in a chorus of relieved sighs and murmurs of excitement. The news of the stone's success was more than just a triumph of their ingenuity; it was a symbol of their enduring spirit, a testament to their refusal to succumb to despair.
These survivors, who had pooled their knowledge, resources, and hope to create the stone, had seen many of their comrades fall in the process. Every life lost in the making of this magical artifact weighed heavily on their hearts. But now, with Old Meg's successful use of the stone, their sacrifices had not been in vain.
Old meg nodded at Gonvo, "hurry up! gather the others and anything we might need, we don't have much time. Glenn's territory will only appear for a few minutes before it goes again..."
