The massacre spread through the heart of Jax's kingdom.

Temples burned, his followers bled in the streets, rivers ran red with corpses.

The screams of the dying echoed even inside the golden cathedral.

Jax rose from his throne, fury blazing in his eyes. His voice thundered like a storm:

"Enough!"

He raised his hand, and eight silhouettes knelt before him. Eight women bowed their heads in silence.

They were not ordinary warriors. They were his disciples.

Chosen. Trained by his own hands. Fed day after day with his milk, filled to the brim through their holes, overflowing with the divine essence Jax had gifted them. Every drop of power inside them carried his mark.

The temple maidens approached, trembling. Only they were allowed to touch the disciples. With delicate fingers they dressed them in armors forged by Jax himself, living armors, pulsing with power, created for them alone.

When the last clasp was sealed, Jax's voice roared:

"Go. Show them what it means to raise a hand against me."

The eight disciples rose as one, eyes blazing with a supernatural fire.

And then, the slaughter began.

The armies of the continent had gathered in countless numbers:

Knights of Soaring Dragon, beast warriors with blood-soaked claws, elven assassins wrapped in shadow, colossal titans wielding boulders as weapons. The sky tore open with the flight of dragons, and the earth trembled under advancing demon legions.

But against the eight, no one could stand.

One disciple, clad in crimson armor, lifted her hand. A wave of flame devoured an entire battalion, reducing thousands to ashes in an instant.

Another, wielding twin spears, danced like a hurricane through enemy ranks. Every strike shattered shields, every spin severed heads. Hundreds rolled, blood spraying like fountains.

The third leapt into the sky, her sword blazing like a sun. With a single slash she split a dragon in two. Its burning corpse crashed onto the troops, crushing hundreds.

The fourth whispered a hymn Jax had taught her. Her voice spread like poison. Every enemy who heard it felt their blood boil literally. Their veins burst, their organs melted, and they collapsed screaming into pools of liquefied flesh.

The fifth fought with bare fists, her hands etched with golden runes. With a single punch she pulverized a titan's skull, bone and stone exploding in a crimson rain.

The sixth unleashed black lightning. Entire columns of demons were charred, their bodies falling like heaps of smoking ash.

The seventh spread wings of mana and hurled spears of light that pierced all defenses. No armor, no scale, no skin could resist her divine power.

And the eighth… the youngest, the smallest… opened her mouth and screamed.

A sound so sharp it tore reality apart. Enemy mages tried to resist, but their circles shattered, their ears bled, and their hearts burst inside their chests beneath the echo of her cry.

The battlefield became hell itself.

Mountains split, rivers boiled, the sky darkened with ash and fire.

In a single day, hundreds of thousands of soldiers perished under the wrath of the Eight Sacred Disciples.

And at the center of it all, Jax remained on his throne, a cruel smile on his lips.

Every death, every scream, every drop of despair flowed back to him through the bond with his disciples.

While the continent sent its strongest forces, Jax had released only a fragment of his true power.

The world would soon understand…

That even united, they could not stop the God of Dreams.

Days passed, and Jax's maidens did not relent for even a moment. They appeared like shadows and vanished the same way. Through their direct bond with Jax, they could sense when his faithful were under attack and moved instantly to protect them.

King Charles III paced back and forth inside the throne hall, eyes bloodshot, beard unkempt, hands trembling. At his feet, dozens of messengers and officers stood in silence, carrying scrolls sealed with the emblems of their legions.

Charles tore the seals one by one, reading messages written in blood, some carrying the final words of his generals.

"We couldn't hold… the disciples are monsters…"

"The crimson dragon has been split in two…"

"The border troops have fallen…"

"My king… we have failed…"

The letters piled like mountains before his throne.

His face turned ashen as he read the last scroll.

"No… this can't be!" he roared, throwing the letter into the fire.

It was a brief report, written with only a few words, stained in blood:

"We have confirmed that the prince is dead."

His son-in-law. The man he had sent years ago to lead the invasion against Jax's cursed island, who had vanished mysteriously.

Charles III fell to his knees, covering his face with both hands.

He regretted it.

He regretted not cutting the threat at its root when he still could. He regretted following the laws of his ancestors that forbade killing "heroes" and forced them to be captured alive.

For the first time in his life, the King of Soaring Dragon felt true fear.

Not fear for his kingdom.

Fear for himself.

Because he now understood there was no way to stop Jax—and that Jax must hold a deep grudge against them.

In the mountains of the Beast Kingdom, the Lion King struck the council table with his claws. Reports of destroyed villages made him roar with fury, yet behind his golden gaze, a flicker of terror betrayed him.

"It's impossible! Not even our united packs could stop eight women! That damn dream pseudo-god hasn't even moved, and our armies are already on the brink of annihilation…!" he growled, while the councilors bowed their heads in silence.

In the Titan Kingdom, the colossal monarch of stone, towering over thirty meters, shattered the walls of his own fortress with a single fist upon hearing that three of his immortal generals had been reduced to dust in mere minutes.

Even among the elven clans, the high kings argued with broken voices, admitting that their shadow assassins had vanished without a trace, erased completely from existence.

The whole continent trembled.

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