However, running also required strength, and this time, strength was something they no longer had the luxury to boast about.

The moment the demonic supernaturals tried to flee, the sky darkened.

Up above, suspended like silent executioners, were ten humans.

Except they were not humans anymore.

Each one radiated the aura of a solid Rank 3, their presence weighing down the battlefield like a falling mountain. These were part of Michael's undead, his human-type undead, the ones he rarely had time or resources to extensively focus on.

Michael could not fully invest in all of his undead. He lacked the time, the focus, and often the materials. Even nurturing a handful already cost him an absurd amount of energy and resources.

Of course this situation was expected to change in the future, but even now that limitation applied only to Michael.

It did not apply to the undead themselves.

Just because Michael could not look after all his undead did not mean they could not look after their own kind.

It also was not out of kindness, love, or kinship, since even with high intelligence to mimic things, Michael's undead were still far from being able to perfectly mimic complex emotions for something like a familiar bond.

However, there was something they could mimic perfectly to the extent that it could be said they were actually feeling it.

Spartan was the prime example.

As one of the closest undead to Michael during study sessions, Spartan had learned a lot. He even understood some things better than Michael at times and they traded knowledge back and forth through the Memory Infusion skill he got from Jester, who got it from the evil cultivator Li Fang.

Michael did not always use Memory Infusion on everyone.

But every intelligent undead had the skill.

And Spartan had been using it for personal reasons to teach and share.

Regardless of the creature race or type, even the ones that were not active, there were rarely races in the universe that did not want more strength.

Undead were a prime example of creatures that could stay perfectly still to the end of time and also get actively involved in increasing their strength.

Spartan was part of the latter, except unlike other undead that did it bloodily, thanks to Michael's nurturing and other things related to him, Spartan as an undead had come to see knowledge as his way to greater strength.

This was not exactly wrong either, especially after ascending to Rank 3.

The feeling of wanting strength did not necessarily have anything to do with protecting Michael as a master, but with the instinctive drive of any intelligent creature to want perfection.

Since knowledge was one way Spartan sought to make himself stronger, he created a quiet, terrifying network of shared information, an internal library of magic, battle tactics, and spell harmonization between the undead he could utilize.

So now the question became:

What happens when ten strong Rank 3 beings, each with refined coordination, shared magical knowledge, and perfect synchronization, cast a spell together?

The answer:

A disaster.

A colossal trap formation snapped into existence above the settlement.

Magic hummed through the air.

And suddenly,

BOOM.

A dome sealed the entire settlement.

No one could leave. And no one could enter.

It was so strong that even the void could not be utilized.

The demonic supernaturals felt it instantly.

Their escape route vanished in an instant, like a door slammed shut behind them.

Panic rippled through the crowd.

"What, what is this?!"

"No. The exit."

"Why can't I move past the boundary?"

It was too late.

The battlefield was now a sealed hunting ground.

A cold realization gripped every demonic supernatural present.

"If we want to live, we fight!" someone shouted hoarsely.

Another snarled in agreement. "This is not the time to hide your strength. Use everything you have or we die here."

Fear twisted into frenzy.

In the next breath, mana exploded across the ruined settlement.

Flames flared. Frost crawled. Dark curse energy thickened the air. Every demonic supernatural there unleashed their full power, no longer conserving a thing.

A large group broke away from the main cluster and shot toward the sky.

"Hit the casters!" their leader roared. "Drop them and the dome will crumble."

It was a basic principle anyone who used large scale magic understood.

Unless it was a pure array or a formation anchored into the terrain, sustaining a spell of this scope usually locked the casters in place. The larger the magic, the more it pinned the user down. Even if they could still move, it would be sluggish and restricted.

The dome that had sealed the settlement was huge.

The ten undead floating high above it were outside the barrier, but every demonic supernatural knew the logic.

Kill the casters.

Break the spell.

Escape.

They hardened their resolve and shot up in a tight wedge formation, aura blazing.

However, they never reached their target.

Something massive crashed into them from the side.

A blur slammed through the lead attackers like a meteor, tearing their formation apart in an instant. Several figures spun away, coughing blood that turned to mist in the freezing air.

The blur slowed.

A giant wolf stood in midair, eyes burning with cold intelligence. Power radiated from its body, dense and oppressive.

"W… wolf…?" someone stammered.

Before they could rally, shapes pulled themselves out of the wolf.

They were black figures with hollow, glowing eyes. Their presence surged, each one carrying the clear, heavy weight of Rank 3.

"What is th…"

The wolf, who was actually Prince, looked at the demonic creatures he attacked as if they were already dead while wondering what to do with them.

Turn them into soul puppets or use them as study materials?

Both options looked good to him.

Meanwhile, somewhere else in the settlement was a different battlefield.

Michael watched Ghost and an old man standing at a far distance.

A hunched figure in tattered robes.

Long white hair drifting in the cold wind.

A gnarled staff planted casually at his side.

He did not move.

He simply stood there watching the carnage.

Yet the air around him bent.

Michael narrowed his eyes.

"Sirs." His voice was calm, almost too calm. "That old man… tell me he is Rank 3."

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