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{Chapter: 72: Leaving The Wailing Forest And Baptism of Flame and Pain}
Three months after the brutal melee ended...
The mountain, once a battlefield painted with the blood of countless creatures, now lay eerily still. Death flowers blanketed the land as far as the eye could see, their black and crimson petals swaying in a wind that carried the heavy scent of decay and silent mourning.
Above it all, Dex stood on a rocky outcropping, his gaze distant.
"Almost..."
His voice was barely more than a murmur, swallowed by the deathly stillness around him. Raising his head, he closed his eyes and felt it — the will of the Wailing Forest, an ancient, whispering presence that had long since permeated every inch of this cursed place.
That will pressed against his mind now, an unrelenting, almost impatient urging, like a ticking countdown pushing him onward. It was not a question. It was a command. His time here was finished.
And Dex knew it.
He had lingered long enough, hunting tirelessly, crushing all opposition. Over the past months, he had carved his name into the bones of the Wailing Forest, and in doing so, gathered an ocean of evolution points. Far more than required to evolve into a [Middle Rank Demon].
There was no longer any reason to stay. No more prey worth his attention.
He exhaled slowly, the fire within him pulsing with anticipation. With a simple thought, he reached out to the will of the Wailing Forest and conveyed a single message:
I am ready to leave.
The response was immediate.
Without fanfare or warning, Dex's figure shimmered and vanished, swallowed by a surge of ancient, abyssal power.
When the light faded, the mountain was silent once again. Only the beautiful yet deadly sea of flowers remained, a monument to everything he had destroyed.
---
The world around him twisted.
Dex appeared in a place so alien it made the death flowers seem almost natural by comparison.
A turbid zone — a space riddled with chaotic distortions. Random spots and jagged lines floated in midair, shifting and twisting without pattern or purpose. The ground itself seemed to heave and breathe beneath his feet, and the air shimmered with a choking density of demonic energy.
But Dex recognized this place immediately.
It was the Transit Station — the bridge between the Wailing Forest and the endless layers of the Abyss.
Here, demons who had survived their brutal beginnings were given a rare, fleeting privilege: a choice. One opportunity to select their next battleground, their next home — or their next grave.
For most demons, it would be the only chance to travel freely between layers. Once they chose, they would be trapped in that layer unless they somehow gained extraordinary power, found ancient relics, or made unspeakable bargains.
Dex's sharp eyes narrowed. He could already feel the thin, almost invisible threads leading to countless different layers of the Abyss. Each thread was a portal, a path — and a risk.
One wrong step here could mean a swift, inglorious death.
He knew the odds.
In the Abyss, death was not an eventuality. It was the default.
Demons were, by nature, immortal creatures — at least theoretically. They would never grow old, never die of sickness or time itself. But reality was far crueler than theory.
The lifespan of a demon was, in practice, shorter than that of most animals.
Countless newborn demons, spawned from the fetid banks of the River Styx, never survived their first hour and the day.
Most perished mere hours after hatching, torn apart by predators, devoured by their own siblings, or simply unable to endure the harshness of existence.
Of those who did survive, the majority died within days, slaughtered in endless territorial battles or sacrificed in twisted rituals.
The mortality rate was staggering. Only a microscopic fraction of demons clawed their way past infancy, adolescence, and into true power.
It was said that for every ten thousand demon eggs born, perhaps one — one — would live long enough to claim a name, a domain, and a future.
The River Styx continued to vomit out demon eggs by the billions each hour, on different corners connected to different beginner villages like Wailing Forest.
Dex had clawed his way out of that bloody tide, and he would not let himself fall back into oblivion now.
---
Slowly, Dex closed his eyes and extended his senses.
The space around him buzzed with chaotic signals — weak marks representing the different layers of the Abyss. Each was stamped only with the vaguest information, barely enough to make an informed decision.
No proper names, no warnings, no promises. Only broad descriptors of elemental dominance:
Fire. Water. Earth. Wind. Thunder. Poison. Metal. Space. Time...
And many more, each thread a mystery wrapped in danger.
Dex gritted his teeth. It felt like a black market of fate, where he had to gamble his entire existence on half-truths and gut instinct.
Typical Abyss.
After several long minutes of silent study, his attention finally settled on a thread radiating a thick, suffocating fire-attributed aura.
He opened his eyes, the flames dancing in his pupils.
Fire...
Though Dex had mutated and evolved, gaining all manner of chaotic powers, at his core, he was still a Fire Demon. The flames were part of his very blood, the foundation of his strength.
Choosing a layer aligned with fire would enhance his abilities, allow him to thrive rather than constantly battle hostile environments.
It was the logical choice.
But logic did not bring comfort.
Dex knew enough about fire-dominant abyss layers to realize they were often the most savage and inhospitable of all.
Worlds where the ground was a sea of molten lava, and the sky rained burning meteors without end. Worlds wracked by volcanic storms that could incinerate even a high-ranking demon in seconds. Worlds where survival meant enduring agony every second of every day.
In such places, the only creatures that flourished were fire-aspected demons, ancient fire elementals, and beasts forged in the heart of stars.
No cities. No civilizations. No shelter. No mercy.
He exhaled slowly, smoke curling from his nostrils.
"I hope," Dex muttered to himself, "that place isn't too bad..."
Deep down, he already knew better.
Hope was not something demons were allowed to have.
Still, his decision was made. He reached out, wrapped his will around the fire-attributed mark — and the world twisted again.
His vision began to twist and warp, as though the entire world had turned into a chaotic, abstract painting. The colors around him bled into one another, streaking in unnatural patterns as if the fabric of reality itself was being stirred by an unseen force.
Through the subtle tremors in space, Dex could feel it—an overwhelming power was carrying him away, shifting his very existence across realms. Yet no matter how hard he tried, he could not even begin to comprehend the scale of the force acting upon him. It was like trying to grasp the vastness of the cosmos with a single hand. His senses blurred and buckled, unable to measure or resist the magnitude of the transfer.
It was not a pleasant sensation. His body felt weightless one moment and crushingly heavy the next, as if he were being stretched across infinity. However, despite the disorienting experience, he did not panic. Instead, he surrendered to the flow, focusing on steadying his core, anchoring his soul in the swirling madness.
After what felt like both an eternity and an hours, the world abruptly snapped back into focus.
Dex stumbled slightly, the ground beneath him sizzling faintly under his touch. Steadying himself, he gazed around.
Gone were the twisted, shadowy trees of the Wailing Forest. Gone was the endless mist of decay and sorrow. Instead, he stood upon a scorched, barren landscape where life itself seemed to tremble under the oppressive heat.
At a glance, the land stretched endlessly in all directions, a wasteland littered with blackened stones and brittle, half-burned remnants of some ancient, forgotten flora. Vegetation here was rare, struggling against overwhelming odds just to exist, each stubborn plant a defiance against inevitable incineration.
The air was thick and stifling, laden with the biting stench of sulfur and volcanic ash. Every breath tasted metallic, dry, and hot enough to sear the lungs of any ordinary creature. Above him, five colossal fireballs hovered in the sky, burning fiercely and casting a hellish crimson glow over the land. Their heat battered the world without mercy.
Based on his past life's understanding, Dex estimated the temperature here easily exceeded 500 degrees Celsius. No water, no cool breeze, no mercy—this was an environment where only the strong, the adapted, and the truly monstrous could hope to survive.
Sniffing deeply, he allowed the harsh scents to fill his lungs, the acrid smell of burning stone and molten earth somehow invigorating him. Far in the distance, he could spot the towering silhouettes of active volcanoes, their smoking peaks coughing plumes of ash into the reddened sky.
Dex smiled—a rare, genuine smile.
"This... this will do nicely," he murmured to himself.
Satisfied that the environment suited him perfectly, Dex turned inward, stretching his awareness across the barren terrain. His power swept the nearby area in a wide circle, carefully searching for signs of danger or opportunity. But for now, there was nothing—no lurking predators, no rival demons seeking to ambush him.
Alone in this searing purgatory, he allowed his body to begin sinking slowly into the earth. As though the scorched soil welcomed him, he descended, merging with the ground itself in silence, leaving behind no trace of his passage.
He needed seclusion. He needed stability.
Most importantly, he needed to evolve.
Deeper and deeper he went, passing through layers of hard, sun-baked rock and brittle lava stone, sinking into the heart of the land.
At roughly 500 meters below the surface, the landscape around him began to change. The rock gave way to rivers of molten magma, the glowing currents flowing sluggishly through jagged underground caverns. The intense radiance painted the walls in violent hues of red and gold.
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