Check out early access chapters on my Patréon, currently 2 chapters ahead! (Writing today because I'm behind)
🛑patreón.com/AlienWarlord🛑
——————
🚨Insert E-girl GIFs/PICs here - Most likes wins🚨(A/N: only TWO entries per person!)
🏆Last chapters GIF winner(s): Verman_7754!🏆 (A/N: 👑)
Hang Soyu stood panting, her red silk robe damp with sweat, snapped strings dangling from her instrument. Hameng's voice lashed out, "You nearly killed them all, Soyu! Reckless fool—control yourself!" Her face burned, pride stung by the rebuke, her gaze flickering to the unscathed Muyeon.
Muyeon stepped through the groaning crowd and knelt beside Hancock. "You okay?" he asked, voice low, steady. She wiped blood from her mouth, nodding, "I'm fine."
The heirs—Kungwun, Mukeum, Jongsum, Yuchan, Wonryou—rose first, eyes locked on Muyeon. Fear and awe twisted their faces; his unharmed state as Dark Clan heir screamed unmatched power. Mukeum's fists clenched, his snarl barely contained.
Yeo-Woon staggered up, blood crusting his lips, his stunned gaze fixed on Muyeon. His rapid Ki growth paled against Muyeon's dominance, fear flashing in his eyes.
{Heirs' hostility spiking. Want me to monitor their chatter?}
'Yeah, keep me informed of any plots on my life, if possible.'
Muyeon ignored the stares, helping Hancock stand, her weight light against his arm.
Hameng's glare softened, his reprimand done, but Soyu's hands shook, her instrument a broken testament to her failure. She shot Muyeon a venomous look, his ease a personal insult. Seob Meng, flask in hand, watched from the stage, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Hancock steadied herself, her nod to Muyeon firm, her pride unbroken despite the blood on her chin. She scanned the heirs, their wary eyes fueling her resolve to match Muyeon's strength.
Mukeum muttered to Jongsum, their whispers sharp, plotting behind narrowed eyes. Kungwun's posture stiffened, his sword hand twitching, while Wonryou's cold stare lingered longest. Muyeon's power had shifted the heirship race, their dread palpable.
Even Yeo-Woon clutched his fists, his fear laced with curiosity.
Meanwhile, hundreds of candidates lay sprawled across the training ground, unconscious, their failure sealed by Hang Soyu's merciless wave.
Hameng barked, "Get them out!" Staff surged forward, dragging limp bodies toward carts, their boots scuffing the blood-smeared dirt.
The failed were bound for the cult's shadows—mines, kitchens, or worse—condemned to lives of toil, greatness forever out of reach.
Passing candidates stood frozen, the weight of expulsion crushing their earlier bravado. Silence gripped the field, broken only by the creak of cartwheels.
Muyeon watched, his face a mask. The cult's cruelty was no surprise, merely a step in his plan.
Hancock's jaw tightened, realizing how close she was to being among those expelled. She gripped her fist, vowing never to join the fallen. Her eyes flicked to Muyeon, his calm unnerving yet anchoring.
Yeo-Woon, blood crusting his chin, clenched his fists, his survival a razor's edge from disaster. Failure would have ended him, a clanless heir with no safety net.
The heirs—Kungwun, Mukeum, Jongsum, Yuchan, Wonryou—exchanged glances. Relief at passing warred with unease; Muyeon's ease, untouched by Soyu's wrath, marked him as a threat beyond their reach.
Staff clubbed stragglers awake, shoving them onto carts, their groans swallowed by the crowd's hush. A girl's tag clattered to the ground, trampled underfoot, her dreams dust. The passing candidates averted their eyes, fear rooting them.
As the area cleared, leaving only those who passed the test, Hameng strode forward, his red hair stark against the training ground's dust, voice slicing through the tension. "Form twenty groups, twenty-five each—now!" The 500 passing candidates scrambled, anticipation crackling like a storm.
Muyeon guided Hancock to a forming group. She exhaled, relieved to stay with him, though Muyeon scanned their 23 teammates—strangers all, their faces unfamiliar.
Each heir—Kungwun, Mukeum, Jongsum, Yuchan, Wonryou, Yeo-Woon—stood at the head of their own group, a calculated move to prevent early bloodshed. Mukeum's glare lingered on Muyeon, fury simmering. Yeo-Woon, blood still flecking his robe, stood alone, his group eyeing him cautiously.
Hameng raised a hand, silencing the murmurs. "Do you know why there are twenty groups?" The cadets shouted, "No, sir!"
"Until the third test, you're tested together, same day, same time," Hameng said, his tone sharp. "The academy won't waste coin on you past high-ranked warrior training."
He paced, eyes cold. "You've got three weeks to master middle-rank warrior skills. Then, your twenty groups will battle—only ten advance."
The cadets paled, the math sinking in: 250 would fail, carted off like the fallen here today. Hancock's fingers tightened, her resolve steeling. Muyeon's gaze narrowed, calculating his group's training plans.
"This is your only team test," Hameng warned. "Sabotage your group, and you all fail." His words hung heavy, distrust already festering among the groups.
Some groups, thin on clan members, shifted uneasily, their disadvantage clear. Muyeon noted his own group's mix—decent, but nothing extraordinary.
Hameng gestured to the instructors, their glares ready to kill. "Return to your dorms and rest. Tomorrow, these staff will teach you—pray you learn fast."
The cadets shivered, memories of clubbed failures fresh. An instructor's glare swept the crowd, promising pain for slackers.
"Dismissed!" Hameng barked. "DISMISSED!" the instructors echoed, their voices a whip-crack. The groups dispersed, tension trailing them like shadows.
Candidates shuffled off the training ground, dust trailing their steps, but Muyeon lingered, Hancock at his side. Hameng and Seob Meng, still on the stage, turned, their eyes narrowing at his delay.
He stepped forward, voice clear. "When do I get my Black Dragon Ball pill? And the library?"
Hameng raised an eyebrow, noting Muyeon's hunger. "Your group's pills arrive tonight," he said, tone gruff. "For the library, show your tag at the first floor—two hours, any time, but guards will toss you out the second your time's up."
He added, "You won't return until you pass the next test for the second floor—same for each level." Muyeon's eyes glinted, the library's secrets calling.
Muyeon bowed, voice respectful. "Thank you, sir." He turned, striding off, Hancock following close, her steps steadier beside him.
Seob Meng's gaze trailed them, a smirk tugging his lips.
Hameng leaned toward Seob Meng, muttering, "That kid's something, isn't he?" Submeng grunted, his ragged cloak swaying, interest deepening. "He's quite impressive, I'll admit," he rasped, taking a swig.
Muyeon's stride was deliberate, the library's promise fueling his plans. The first floor's manuals were a start, but the fifth floor's secrets were his true prize. He'd climb every level, no matter the cost.
Hancock glanced at him, her Kuja pride stirred by his ambition. "Is the library that important?" she asked, voice low.
Muyeon nodded, "You have no idea..."
————
Muyeon and Hancock reached the dorm, its stone walls dim under flickering torches. Hancock glanced around, uneasy. "What now?" she asked, voice low.
"Assert dominance," Muyeon replied, eyes sharp. He pushed the door open, stepping into a charged silence.
Inside, their 25-person group stood scattered, glares flashing like drawn blades. Eyes darted, sizing each other up, ready to brawl for leadership. But Muyeon's entrance froze them, some stepping back, their breath catching.
He strode to the center, voice firm. "Let's make this simple, shall we? I'm in charge. Anyone object?"
Silence answered, but defiant stares burned—clenched fists, narrowed eyes, unspoken challenges. Muyeon's lips curved, a smirk forming. "No takers? Pathetic."
The group bristled, murmurs rippling. A boy's knuckles whitened, another shifted forward, pride stung. Muyeon's gaze swept them, calculating, his wit a quiet blade.
"Fine," he said, voice cutting. "All of you—attack me at once." The challenge hung, heavy, stunning the room into stillness.
The group hesitated, eyes wide, doubt warring with anger. A girl stepped back, uncertain; a boy's jaw twitched, torn. Muyeon's smirk widened, "What, scared? You're embarrassing yourselves."
His taunts landed like sparks, igniting fury. "He's mocking us!" a boy snarled, stepping forward. Others nodded, rage overtaking fear, their glares hardening.
Hancock tensed, her hand brushing her belt, ready to fight. "Muyeon—" she began, but he raised a hand, voice calm. "Watch, Hancock."
She froze, her Kuja instincts bristling, but stepped back, eyes locked on him. Muyeon's confidence was a wall, unshakable.
The group roared, provoked, charging as one. Boots pounded the floor, fists and weapons raised, shouts filling the dorm. A boy lunged, his punch wild; a girl aimed a kick, her face twisted.
In return, Muyeon moved like a phantom, Ki-enhanced speed blurring his form as fists and kicks missed wildly. He struck with precision, Ki surging, slamming a boy to the floor, then flipping a girl over his shoulder, her cry lost in the dorm's chaos.
…
..
.
After only a minute passed, the group collapsed, groans echoing, pain etching their faces.
At the center of it all, Muyeon stood unscathed, drawing his sword and stabbing it into the ground, blade glinting under torchlight. His tag hung steady on his robe, red number 1 bold. "Kneel," he ordered, glare heavy as iron.
Shaken, the group rose shakily, knees hitting the floor, fear and awe in their wide eyes. Muyeon's voice cut through, "You're the first to follow me—a golden opportunity, I assure you. Because I reward loyalty."
He pulled two scrolls from his robe, tossing them to the ground—Nano-crafted techniques, Breath of the Loyal Soul for Ki cultivation, Oathkeeper's Blade for sword mastery. "Royal Guard techniques," he said, "better than any clan manuals you'll ever encounter, rivaling the library's upper floors of this academy. Swear loyalty, and they're yours."
The group stared, awed, the scrolls' weight sinking in. A boy whispered, "Upper floors?" Another clutched his bruised arm, hope sparking through pain.
"Swear," Muyeon repeated, his sword's hilt firm in his grip. The group exchanged glances, then spoke as one, voices trembling but resolute, pledging loyalty to the Dark Clan heir, betting on him as the next Demon Lord. They grasped the scrolls, fingers eager.
Muyeon smirked, "Everything's on track." His plan unfolded perfectly, minions forged in the dorm's crucible. 'First the stick, then the carrot.'
Hancock watched from the wall, her eyes sharp, impressed by Muyeon's ruthlessness and cunning. She swore to herself to match his strength, no matter the cost. The group's oaths rang in her ears, a warning of Muyeon's growing followers. If she didn't work hard enough, they could easily surpass her…
The kneeling candidates clutched their scrolls, faces alight with ambition, their pain forgotten. Muyeon's sword stood as a monument, his authority absolute. He'd turned defiance into devotion, a first step toward ruling the cult.
Muyeon's gaze swept his new minions, their oaths binding them to his cause. His ambition burned brighter, his path to the Demon Lord's throne clear.
————
Muyeon left the kneeling group behind, their oaths still ringing, and headed to his assigned dorm room, Hancock trailing to her own quarters. The stone corridor echoed with his steps, torchlight casting long shadows.
He pushed open his room's heavy door, expecting silence, and closed it with a thud. Instead, to his surprise, Seob Meng, the Right Guardian, lounged on his bed, boots propped up, chugging from a liquor bottle. The air reeked of spirits, the Crazy Blade's ragged cloak spilling over the mattress.
Muyeon raised a brow, his hand pausing on his sword's hilt. Seob Meng's presence was no coincidence, his drunken sprawl too deliberate.
Liquor sloshed as Submeng spotted Muyeon's arrival and waved, grinning, his eyes sharp despite the haze. "Hey, kid," he rasped, voice rough with drink. "Wanna be my apprentice?"
A/N: 1900 words :)
👇🚨🥺GIVE STONES PLS🥺🚨👇