"Why are your subordinates so stupid?" said Sora, scolding his assistant Magenta, who was standing before him.
Sora had already learned that Magenta's subordinates—two Poccog demons with power abilities—had attacked Yamile and her group's hideout. But both ended up dead due to their arrogance, believing themselves to be invincible. Sora believed that if they had reported first instead of attacking recklessly, they might have already killed Yamile and her friends.
"I'm sorry! My subordinates really have no brains," Magenta replied quietly, her head bowed in fear of Sora.
"Forget it!" Sora snapped.
"Go! Call Goly here."
The short-haired young woman immediately left to summon Goly, Sora's other trusted subordinate besides Magenta. Soon, a well-built man arrived casually.
"What's up, boss?" Goly asked.
"Order your men to search the hills on the northern side of this city. Kidnap him!" Sora commanded, tossing a photo of an elderly man. It was Marco!
"Who's this?" asked Goly.
"Just go already!" Sora barked.
Sora had completely merged with the demon Weigow. His every action was cruel, devoid of any conscience—all for the sake of his own and his group's greed.
After giving Goly his orders, Sora gathered his other followers on the beach under the scorching sun. The blazing heat only seemed to ignite their spirit. They kept chanting Sora's name.
Sora! Sora! Sora!
"Silence!" Sora shouted in annoyance at the noise they were making.
He took a deep breath and said, "We're changing strategies. Now destroy houses and tall buildings. Flatten them all!"
"And guard every border of this city. Don't let the citizens escape to save themselves," he commanded.
---
Meanwhile, Yamile's group, hiding in a cave, looked anxious. Sora's terror was even worse than Kido's. They targeted everyone—except children under five. They destroyed many homes, killed people, and even enslaved some to work around the clock.
Yamile was eager to move into the city to fight those cursed demons. So were Tora and Zhao. But Zhao was still too weak to join them—his body hadn't fully recovered.
Moreover, Zhao hadn't finished his training yet. He had to train hard to defeat those cursed demons. So the group split into two: Yamile and Tora went to the city to rescue citizens, while Zhao and Uncle Marco stayed to continue training in the hills.
As the sun blazed in the sky, Yamile and Zhao prepared to head out.
"Don't push yourself too hard," Yamile told her brother while saying goodbye.
"Don't worry about me. I'll catch up with you in the city soon," Zhao replied.
Yamile and Tora departed.
"Uncle! I have to start training now. I would rather not waste any time," Zhao told Marco.
"Good! That's the spirit of youth," Marco responded.
Now Zhao and Marco climbed the hills, heading toward the highest peak. That was where Zhao would train.
The mountain wind blew hard, ruffling Zhao's slightly messy hair. He was out of breath, but his spirit was burning. In his hand, the black sword passed down to him grew heavier—as if rejecting a soul not yet ready.
After nearly an hour of climbing, they arrived at a small clearing surrounded by large stones and towering trees. The air was fresh, and the view unobstructed. In the distance, they could see the city engulfed in chaos by Sora and his demons.
"This is where your father and I used to train," Marco said, eyeing the black sword in Zhao's hand.
"Are you ready to train?"
Zhao looked at his sword, gripping it tighter. "Ready!" he said firmly.
"First step: You must become one with the sword. Take a deep breath. Feel its power surge. This sword feeds on anger—unleash your rage, but control it to strike only those who deserve it."
Zhao closed his eyes, imagining his beloved city in ruins and Marten's death. His fury peaked. The black sword began to tremble slightly, hissing as if it breathed. Suddenly, dark energy radiated from the blade, forming an aura that swirled around Zhao's body.
"Don't stop! Let the aura fuse with your soul!" Marco shouted.
Zhao's body trembled harder, sweat dripping from his forehead. Training to control the sword was exhausting. Suddenly, Zhao opened his eyes—he had lost focus, and his breath was ragged.
"Just this much already drained me," Zhao panted.
"That's the demon sword. Now practice using it in combat. Use the trees and stones as your targets," Marco instructed.
"But first, master a breathing technique."
Marco then explained a breathing pattern combining focus, emotional control, and body energy flow.
"Inhale for four counts, hold for four, and exhale for four. Focus on your heartbeat. Let the sword's energy flow into your body—not the other way around."
Zhao followed the instructions. Slowly, the black energy merged with his breath. A thick, dark aura enveloped him again—this time, stable. He began basic movements: slash to the right, thrust forward, spin, and diagonal slash.
Marco watched closely. "Good! Now create an attack from your heart! Not from rage, but from resolve!"
Zhao roared, "RAAAAAGH!" and slashed the air. A crescent-shaped energy wave burst from the blade, slicing through trees across the clearing. The ground shook, dust flew, and birds scattered in fear.
Zhao gasped for air. But a smile spread across his face.
"Uncle! I did it!" Zhao shouted, excited that he had begun to master the black sword.
"Good, Zhao! Keep training like that!" Marco encouraged.
Fueled by determination, Zhao trained tirelessly. He rested only briefly—five to ten minutes at most—then resumed. He trained from noon until sunset.
Marco, meanwhile, busied himself building a campfire. He cooked some supplies and ate to fill his growling stomach.
While eating, Marco watched Zhao. "I never thought I'd end up training your son," he muttered, thinking of Yamile and Zhao's late father.
"Zhao, come eat!" he called out.
"Just a moment, Uncle—I want to finish one more strike," Zhao replied.
He readied his sword to split a large boulder. But suddenly, the atmosphere turned ominous—the air felt suffocating.
"Is this the sword's power?" Zhao muttered.
Zhao turned to ask Marco about it, but to his surprise, Marco had disappeared.
"Uncle!" Zhao shouted.
He rushed to the campfire, still burning brightly. "Where did he go? Why is his food scattered on the ground?"
"Uncle Marco!" he shouted again.
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