I reign supreme in the Western fantasy world for eternity.

Ji Tian looked down at the still sobbing silver-white head in his arms and suddenly felt that being a master was much more difficult than undergoing tribulation:

To overcome tribulation, one only needs to withstand heavenly lightning and confront one's inner demons; no matter how bitter or painful it is, one can grit one's teeth and get through it. But when one is a master, one needs to consider many more things when faced with the various mysterious actions of one's disciples.

He tried to recall how he handled the situation when his other disciples cried—

The eldest apprentice, Shirley, never cries. She only makes those who try to make her cry cry.

When Ophelia, the second apprentice, cries, she divines "when she will stop crying," and then stops crying precisely at the time indicated by the divination, never crying for even a second longer.

The third disciple, Alice, is carefree and almost never cries, except for once when she was beaten to tears by her eldest sister—once she even grasped the true essence of the power of force: "the left fist deals high damage, the right fist deals high damage," which is commendable.

Jenny, the fourth apprentice, cried twice. The first time was when the village was massacred. She didn't cry in front of others, but her eyes were swollen the next day. The second time was when she practiced swordsmanship until her hands bled but she still couldn't split the stone. She didn't make a sound, but tears fell one by one. Ji Tian said, "Take a break," but she shook her head and continued to split. He had no choice but to secretly split a crack in the stone.

The fifth disciple was an egg. It couldn't cry, but its body would glow slightly whenever it talked about profound Taoist techniques. Ji Tian thought that was probably its way of expressing emotions.

Lilith cries differently from all of them.

She's the type who cries without restraint, her face covered in tears and snot, her voice squeezed out from her throat like a little animal whose tail has been stepped on.

They can't hide it, they can't control it, and they won't find enlightenment while crying.

She just cried.

Ji Tian felt that this kind of crying was probably the most normal.

But he wasn't good at handling "normal" things.

Just like now, after just two sentences, she cried even harder and hugged me even tighter.

Helpless, Ji Tian could only stand there and let her hug him until she finished crying.

……

As dusk settled, the valley was filled with the damp scent of decaying leaves.

The Third Army's supply train moved slowly along the dried-up riverbed.

The wagon, laden with heavy supply crates, creaked and groaned as its wheels sank into the soft mud.

The army had already passed through this area, and the road ahead had been scouted by scouts. The mage corps walked in the middle of the column, with more than two hundred mages dressed in dark blue robes riding on horseback, some with their eyes closed in meditation, and others talking in hushed tones.

They are all high-level mages, the Third Legion's most valuable asset, and the sharpest swords in this western expedition.

On the chessboard of war, the mage corps is the queen who decides the outcome.

They can unleash a rain of fire from miles away, tear apart charging cavalry lines with wind blades, block enemy hordes with earthen walls, heal fatal wounds with holy light, and unite everyone into a large magic array.

A well-organized mage corps is worth as much as tens of thousands of elite soldiers. They are the spearhead of the westward expedition and the source of the soldiers' confidence to face the demons head-on. As long as they are there, even the strongest defenses can be breached and even the fiercest charges can be neutralized.

In the past, the mage corps was protected by the legion's elite in shifts. Today was a little different. For some reason, the guards on duty were a bit slow to arrive... But that didn't matter. For these high-level mages, those guards who only knew how to charge couldn't even break through their own magical shields. When it really came down to it, it was uncertain who would protect whom.

The leader was a middle-aged mage named Herbert, with graying temples and fine lines around his eyes.

He taught at the Royal Capital Magic Academy for over twenty years and was invited to the front lines by General Mike as a "special advisor" to guide and protect his family's magic corps.

"Stop." Herbert raised his right hand, and the line stopped.

He sniffed the air, his brow furrowed.

"There are no unusual magical fluctuations around... but something just feels off. Didn't the scout say there was no problem?"

Before he could finish speaking, a black crossbow bolt flew out from the bushes on the riverbank and accurately pierced the throat of a mage beside him.

The magician's eyes widened, he clutched his neck with both hands, blood gushing from between his fingers, and his body slumped off the horse, crashing heavily to the ground.

"Enemy attack—!"

Before Herbert's shout had even finished, more crossbow bolts came flying from all directions.

These were no ordinary crossbow bolts; the arrowheads were coated with dark purple venom, glowing eerily in the twilight.

The mages hurriedly erected magical shields, but the shields were as fragile as paper in front of the crossbow bolts—those arrows were covered with unique demonic runes designed specifically to hunt mages, and ordinary mages below the rank of Archmage could not withstand them at all.

One magician after another fell from their horses. Some were shot through the throat, some had their eyes pierced, and some were shot in the chest, vomiting black blood, twitching a few times, and then lying still.

The shadow guards emerged from the bushes like a group of ghosts crawling out of the ground.

They wore dark gray, tight-fitting leather armor, with masks covering the lower half of their faces, revealing only pairs of cold eyes. The short knives and daggers in their hands gleamed with a chilling light in the twilight.

Herbert finally erected a shield strong enough to protect all the mages, and a golden light enveloped the entire mage group.

His hands trembled as he chanted incantations, preparing to unleash a powerful magical counterattack.

A dark figure emerged from the shadows behind him, then silently appeared behind him, gripping a knife in a reverse grip.

puff--!

The dagger pierced Herbert's nape, the tip exiting through his throat, severing the magical flow.

The incantation abruptly stopped.

Herbert looked down at the bloodstained tip of the knife, his lips moving as if he wanted to say something, but he could only utter a soft "hmph".

The shadowy figure drew his sword, and Herbert's body collapsed limply, his shield vanishing like a bubble.

The lead shadow guard whispered the order, "Leave no one alive."

The massacre began.

These mages are mostly skilled at long-range spellcasting, and once they get close, they are no different from ordinary soldiers, especially when magic shields are useless.

The dagger danced in the twilight, each strike taking a life.

Some tried to escape but were shot through the back with crossbow bolts; some knelt and begged for mercy but were stabbed in the throat; some lit signal flares, and red flames shot into the sky, but this was too little, too late.

Before collapsing, a young mage finally finished chanting the spell, and a wall of fire rose from the ground, engulfing several shadow guards.

But more shadow guards circled around from both sides of the wall of fire, and daggers pierced his chest.

In less than the time it takes to drink half a cup of tea, all two hundred-plus magicians lay dead in pools of blood.

The supply train soldiers were not spared either; the Shadow Guards harvested their lives like wheat.

The lead shadow guard stood amidst the pile of corpses, wiping the blood off his dagger with a cloth.

He looked at the corpses scattered on the ground, his crimson eyes showing no emotion, and casually delivered a few more blows to the strongest mage in the area.

"Burn the supplies and retreat."

The guards threw torches into the carriage, and flames shot into the sky, billowing thick smoke.

The firelight illuminated half the sky.

When the guards on duty and reinforcements arrived, all that remained in the valley was a charred ruin and corpses scattered everywhere.

The entire mage force was wiped out.

The leader of the shadow guards stood on a distant hill, took one last look at the burning valley, and then turned and disappeared into the night.

His mission was complete; he was to report back to the Demon King.

On the scorched earth in the latter part, a charred hand emerged from the pile of corpses and twitched slightly.

That was the hand of the Archmage Herbert.

He wasn't quite dead even after being finished off!

The night wind blew from the wasteland, carrying ashes and the stench of blood that permeated the entire valley.

In the distance, from the direction of the Third Army Corps' headquarters, bugle calls rose and fell, signaling an urgent assembly.

But it was all too late.