Black Howl, as might be imagined given his chosen moniker, wore armor fashioned entirely of jet black wolf skins. They were not sourced from wolves naturally black of fur, but had been taken instead from the great white beasts of the far north and then stained an impossibly pure black through prolonged immersion in demon blood. An impressive demonstration of the dyer's art, truthfully, given the rapid dissipation of demons upon death. He'd made the wretched ensemble himself, including the many hours of carefully bleeding captive demons by the hundreds demanded by the process.

  A wolfskin helmet of the same shade completed the outfit and gave him an openly ferocious countenance. That the skin of his face was itself black gave him a terrifying monochrome first impression, one made all the more ferocious when he revealed the perfectly white, massively oversize mouthful of fangs his completed soul forging had appended to his immortal body. His hands and toes were similarly transformed into claws, hardened so that he had no need to bother with boots or gloves even when faced with the brutally rough terrain of the arctic tundra.

  The man found underneath that predatory mien was exactly as might be expected from without. After all, as an immortal cultivator of the celestial ascendancy realm, the very nature of his soul was exposed through his appearance, and Black Howl was far less complex than most who had reached such heights. Those who wished to conceal the nature of their being covered it, using the vast options available to armor to fashion a presentation revealing exactly what they wished.

  Few were as open as Black Howl. The Fuming Shade, whose costume let slip only hints of the charred and smoke-like being he truly was, offered a much more typical example. Scoria Scorn, for her part, stood on the opposite end of the spectrum. She considered it folly to allow any aspect of her nature to stand out for enemy examination, and habitually concealed everything.

  She knew Black Howl was a brute of a being, pure predator from start to finish. That did not, as many had believed before he tore them asunder, make him a fool. Fools did not reach the rare status they had achieved. The wolf-clad man might have simple wants and needs, but simplicity was not idiocy. He was cunning, and also distinctly willing to avoid complications through swift application of violence. He embraced the glory and violence of his dao fully, and this bound him to the plague most firmly. An endless drive to tear apart and feast upon the qi of his opponents tied to the feral cunning of a born predator that knows to fight only when the moment serves that need, these things made him a poor strategist but an almost ideal auxiliary.

  It was a truth he both knew and embraced, and he had reached great heights as a result.

  Scoria Scorn recognized that these aspects made the man useful. It was why she had not objected to the suggestion that he be their third. They did not, however, make him pleasant company.

  Thankfully, she was under no obligation to endure his presence for very long. By the time the black-clad stalker arrived from the north and the Fuming Shade returned the horde had swollen to its maximum size and advanced to the point where she was relying heavily on formation flags to hold the attack back rather than the reverse. The gateway stood before her, and the monsters were already beginning to trickling through. Holding back the flood became more difficult hour by hour.

  Some scouts advancing to trigger defenses and traps had their uses, but the horde must not be dispersed. The hammer had to strike in a single blow, a series of smaller assaults would inevitably fail. Like a mob, it could only serve its purpose when acting as one frenzied mass.

  Black Howl took a single moment to assess the horde's size and grunted in satisfaction. He agreed to the proposed division of spoils, one weighted heavily in his favor, with equal swiftness. “I will lead the attack,” the blood-soaked cultivator offered. He sounded eager, even by his wolfish standards.

  Had the choice been hers, Scoria Scorn would have agreed at once, but the Fuming Shade overruled this option. “No.” His ashen voice crashed and stormed. “We will enter together. This realm has survived for a long time, and likely claimed the lives of more than one of our number. There will be powerful defenses and numerous surprises waiting. I expect multiple defensive formations to slam against us beginning the moment we are through.”

  “What formation could possibly harm any of us?” Black Howl countered. It sounded boastful, but was truthfully very reasonable. Static defenses were usually no more than an irritant unless prepared by a formation master a full realm higher than the target. Since that was impossible when targeting an immortal, such things were usually of little consequence.

  Standing at the peak of the pyramid came with very real advantages.

  “I do not wish to stumble blind into the worst trap a formation master blessed with centuries of preparation might unleash,” the Fuming Shade stood unmoved. “Not without support. We go in together, in the middle of the horde.”

  A standard deployment, one proven over the centuries. Scoria Scorn did not consider her partner an especially creative man, but the plague was not designed for complexity or originality. Ruthless efficiency playing to its strengths would more than suffice.

  Turning to her, the ashen mass asked a final preparatory question. “Your assessment?”

  “The land beyond the gate is very large,” she could feel that much, her qi had probed along the edges of the twisting construct for many days. “And the demon vanguard has suffered heavy casualties already, though I do not believe any formations have been unleashed.” That was impressive. Thousands of demons did not simply roll over and die. Lower-ranked cultivators could not dispatch them with such ease or speed. “Or the action of any elders.” Doubly unexpected. “I suspect the defenders are numerous and have many strong defensive positions. The zone comprising a prepared battlefield may be city-sized.”

  Despite these caveats, Scoria Scorn privately admitted that she thought Black Howl was probably correct. “Formations are likely to be unleashed upon our entry, but I do not believe they will harm us.” Even should a formation master lead this land, something unlikely, for they were rare and their deaths had been prioritized during the war, the resources and coordination necessary to truly threaten immortals were simply beyond the power of any hidden land. “But I suspect demon losses will be very high.”

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  Black Howl grunted at this, softly disparaging the horde's contribution. Beneath his mask the Fuming Shade's qi shifted and twisted. The smoke monster was far less sanguine regarding demon deaths. Standing as close as they did now, in a tiny gap opened amid the horde's vast red mass, it was impossible not to feel his unease. The connection of the plague carried echoes of their qi between each one.

  Scoria Scorn was continually engaging in the restructuring of her surface emanations in order to project perfect self-mastery. Nothing must be revealed through happenstance or proximity. She was confident nothing would leak through. Centuries of practice were of great value.

  “You suspect a large number in the soul forging realm?” the masked demonic cultivator questioned. Smoke swirled about his form, coating the cuffs of his armor.

  “Yes,” Scoria Scorn agreed quickly. “And numerous in the spirit tempering realm, perhaps enough to present a threat if they possess a combination technique.” That implied at least two dozen, which would be a very high number indeed, more than she'd ever heard of in a single hidden land, but it was not impossible in a land of such great size.

  The portal itself, a vast section of mountainside turned hazy and constantly shifting through terrain types that resembled what might happen if someone scattered a mirror made of trees across a rockslide, seemed to imply this. It was huge. Rather than allowing perhaps a dozen individuals to shunt through, the demons were passing inward hundreds at a time.

  “Then we will strike hard and fast, before the horde is slaughtered to the point of uselessness,” the senior demonic cultivator decided with dark finality. “I will strike the center and destroy their leading immortal isfthey possess the courage to fight.” Often orthodox immortals did not, something the demonic cultivators all knew well and relished greatly. Lands led by cowards who had chosen to hide when the war began to turn were easily overcome. “Black Howl will take the left. Scoria Scorn the right.”

  “And if there is more than one enemy able to match our cultivation?” This was the great fear, and the primary reason Scoria Scorn had requested support at all.

  “Then they are Black Howl's prey,” the Fuming Shade declared this with absolute authority. The mercenary growled in pleasure at the offer of this key reward. “But all subordinates must die first. I have no intention of playing games dodging combination techniques or sacrificial arrays. Kill the elders and we can take what is ours while the demons handle the rest.”

  No one chose to mentioned what would happen if there were three enemy immortals. If that happened, it would simply be a matter of which of them was the slowest. Among this trio that was Black Howl, though Scoria Scorn was at pains to insure he did not know this for certain. The mercenary probably suspected, they had worked together before and even a brute could be highly insightful, but he no doubt thought the risk minimal. It had been over a thousand years since any hidden land with three resident immortals was encountered.

  Almost, Scoria Scorn hoped this would be the one to defy the odds. She'd lose a prize, of course, but the devastation that would follow when they returned in force would be an experience worthy of witnessing in full. Certainly, she would not miss Black Howl if this day saw his end.

  A sentiment he surely returned. There were no friends among their kind.

  “Ready yourselves,” the Fuming Shade commanded. “We will push the horde forward in an hour.”

  This meant attacking exactly at sunset, which was not merely poetic. Scoria Scorn knew her companion's abilities were aligned with darkness and Black Howl, wolf to the core, preferred to fight by moonlight. Orthodox cultivators, by contrast, were far more likely to have daos attuned to day and brightness. Night attacks offered a tiny measure of advantage. It would probably make no difference, but she appreciated her nominal overlord's commitment to the small things.

  They spent the final minutes performing mundane tasks. Armor was double-checked for loose scales and straps. Weapons were oiled and given a final sharpening. Talismans and artifacts arranged and aligned for maximum potency. Qi reserves, drawn from the inestimably vast well that was the plague, were topped off. The foe knew they were coming. Both sides would meet at full strength.

  Taking up position in the center of a mighty swarm of surging demons, each of the three demonic cultivators unlimbered their weapons. They would advance with blades bare.

  The Fuming Shade, at the front of their little triangle, carried an unusual weapon. He wielded a war pick forged of black metal. Its lightly curved and pointed spike glittered in the dimming light, coated in a strange ashen dust ground from diamonds and able to tear through any defense. The heavy weapon rested loosely in his left hand, though Scoria Scorn knew he could effortlessly switch back and forth according to the dictates of his Winged Bill Method during battle.

  Black Howl's weapons were considerably gaudier. The mercenary savage carried a war axe in each hand. The weapons were gigantic, suited to his inhuman strength, and carved to resemble stylized red wolf heads. Painted black and red, they appeared to already be dripped with gore despite their perfectly clean state. Flakes of obsidian were attached to the blades of each axe, intended to break and shatter in inside the flesh of any foe they struck. Forged out of black titanium, the set was original named the Black Wolf's Fangs. Famously, they had been crafted during the height of the demon war specifically for the purpose of slaying the man who now carried them. The thuggish cultivator took a perverse pride in using this stolen prize as his chosen implement of death.

  No less a weapon than either of her allies did Scoria Scorn carry into battle. Her bandage-wrapped fingers extended around the hilt of a golden-bronze single-edged blade of great length. Narrow and straight rather than broad and curved, it was an uncommon weapon in these regions, but she'd never found finer. All who knew the name and origins of this curious greatsword were dead, and its origins were lost. Formed of a unique combination of many metals, proof against all forms of heat and breakage, Scoria Scorn called it nothing more than Alloy.

  The overly simple name offended many, which was why she loved it.

  Amid the red horde of demons, the trio resembled three coins dropped into a pool of blood. Nothing perturbed them. The demons ignored them, drawn instead by the pull of living qi, the target of the plague unconquerable hunger. Its servants, feral beasts and calculating cultivators both, united in common purpose.

  And why not? Once, long ago, both had been human.

  At the appointed time, the Fuming Shade sent forth a pulse of qi. Drawing on the plague, the essence, films, and cells that surrounded all and permeated every part of the world, it crafted a simple resonant signal.

  The qi ahead was reflected, echoed, and amplified. What had moments earlier been a lure to draw demons to the scent was now a blinding beacon, utterly irresistible, calling the demons forward with all their strength.

  The horde charged, and the demonic cultivators ran with the ghouls.

  The trio struck the gateway in the middle of the slope, upon the very edge of the mountains. High plains, crisscrossed by rivers and coated in forests, bamboo, and scattered grassy patches, covered the land beyond in a carpet of green. Once, long ago, this had been a vital land ruled by a sect operating at the edge of one of the world's strongest martial coalitions. Now it was a wilderness with scattered ruins where monkeys roosted. Elephants, exterminated in these lands long ago due to the needs of human farmers, had even begun to return to the warmest sections of the riverine forests.

  Black Howl, on the journey down, had killed one to keep its tusks for use in scrimshaw.

  The horde charged toward this seemingly empty territory, and then hit the shifting, fractured gap torn across reality by manipulation of the foundational spatial dao. The cultivators passed through alongside their minions.

  It was time to reap and consume qi, an opportunity long awaited, long delayed.

  Scoria Scorn knew the fight was ultimately pointless, but she relished it all the same.