They reached their original entry point to find it unchanged—just ordinary grassland swaying in the perpetual breeze, with no visible signs of dimensional instability or exit portals.
"Commander Wang." Ye Sheng stepped forward, his expression serious. "My Word Spirit is the Vacuum Snake."
Wang Jianjun's eyes lit with understanding. The Vacuum Snake was a reconnaissance-type Word Spirit that released countless lightning constructs—manifested as serpents of crackling energy—deep into the surrounding environment. These constructs acted as extensions of the caster's senses, mapping terrain and detecting anomalies before feeding all that information directly back to the user's mind.
The principle was similar to how Gustave used his Rumble-Rumble Fruit powers for detection—exploiting the sensitivity of electrical signals to sense even minute changes in the surrounding electromagnetic field. For scouting unknown territory, especially in a space as treacherous as a Nibelungen, the Vacuum Snake was invaluable.
It was precisely why Cassel College had retained Ye Sheng even after disbanding their own expedition teams. Natural scouts of his caliber were rare treasures.
But the ability came with significant drawbacks. The Vacuum Snake consumed enormous amounts of physical energy, draining the user rapidly. Ye Sheng had deliberately avoided mentioning it earlier, saving this trump card for when they needed it most.
And if this wasn't that critical moment, nothing was.
"Understood." Wang Jianjun's voice carried the weight of command. "Everyone, defensive formation around Ye Sheng! We protect him while he conducts the search. Anything threatens him, we eliminate it immediately!"
"Yes sir!"
The five operatives moved with practiced efficiency, forming a protective perimeter with Ye Sheng at the center. Each person faced outward, weapons ready, creating overlapping fields of fire that would catch any threat from any angle.
Ye Sheng closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath to center himself. Then he released the Word Spirit.
The effect was immediately visible. Luminous serpents materialized around him—dozens, then hundreds of them, each no thicker than a finger but radiating pale blue-white light. They burst outward in all directions like a living explosion, some shooting skyward while others dove into the earth itself. The serpents moved with purpose, spreading in an ever-expanding sphere of detection.
It was beautiful in a eerie way. And clearly exhausting.
Within moments, sweat beaded on Ye Sheng's forehead. The initial wave of serpents was manageable, but as they spread farther and farther from his position, the mental strain of processing all that sensory feedback multiplied exponentially. Each serpent transmitted a constant stream of data—terrain features, temperature variations, air currents, electromagnetic signatures.
His breathing grew labored. Cold sweat traced lines down his temples.
Then, abruptly, his expression twisted. "Death servitors!" The word came out sharp with alarm. "My serpents have detected Death servitors! Multiple contacts. They're moving toward our position—I think they sensed the Word Spirit's energy!"
Wang Jianjun's response was immediate and calm, cutting through Ye Sheng's rising panic. "Ye Sheng, you have one job—find that exit! Leave the Death servitorsto us!"
The certainty in their commander's voice steadied Ye Sheng. He nodded sharply. "Yes sir!"
Refocusing his concentration, Ye Sheng directed his serpents to flow around the approaching Death servitor sand continue the search pattern.
"Weapons out," Wang Jianjun commanded. "We hold this position and buy Ye Sheng time. Remember—cold weapons only unless I give explicit authorization for firearms. We cannot risk waking the Dragon King."
The reminder sobered everyone. Yes, the King of Sky and Wind appeared to be sleeping off its wine. But "appeared" wasn't certainty, and thermal weapons created noise. Lots of noise. The kind that might penetrate even a drunken stupor and rouse an ancient monster that could obliterate all six of them with a casual thought.
Five sets of hands drew alchemical blades—weapons forged with draconic materials and treated with mercury-core infusions that could cut through Death servitors hide where conventional steel would fail. Wang Jianjun gripped a reinforced combat knife. Chen Moqing produced twin short swords. Aki wielded a katana that gleamed with an oily sheen. Qian Feng, despite being their designated marksman, held a wicked-looking hatchet. Xia Jidong hefted his signature weapon—a mo dao, an enormous blade over three meters long that ancient Chinese generals had wielded to devastating effect on battlefields.
They didn't have to wait long.
The first Death servitors shambled into view less than thirty seconds later.
It had once been human. The basic structure remained—two arms, two legs, a torso, a head. But the resemblance ended there. Its skin had taken on a grayish-green pallor, stretched taut over unnaturally prominent bones. Golden eyes burned with mindless hunger in a face that had forgotten how to form expressions. Ragged cloth strips hung from its body—clothing from gods knew what era, preserved in this timeless pocket dimension. When it spotted the living humans, its jaw unhinged wider than any human mouth should open, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth, and it charged with a guttural howl.
Death servitors. The tragic endpoint of the mixed-blood condition.
Every hybrid carried dragon genes interwoven with their human DNA. Normally, the human side dominated, keeping the draconic influence in check. But if the balance shifted—if dragon blood exceeded fifty percent—catastrophe followed. The aggressive dragon genes would begin systematically rewriting human DNA, pushing the hybrid toward a pure-blooded dragon state.
But perfection was impossible. Human genes couldn't be fully eliminated, creating an evolutionary dead end. The body would strengthen, yes, gaining draconic attributes. But the mind would fracture under the strain of containing such power within an incompatible framework. Consciousness would shatter. Identity would dissolve. What remained was a puppet—still alive, still moving, but empty of everything that made it a person.
These puppets obeyed pure-blooded dragons instinctively. And they existed in multiple forms, each more dangerous than the last.
Humanoid Death servitors —like this first attacker—were the weakest. Roughly equivalent to C-rank hybrids at best, more often E or F-rank in actual capability.
Serpentine Death servitors had fused legs forming muscular tails, jaws that split open to the ears, and bodies that dwarfed humans. Their power approached A-rank.
Draconic Death servitors added massive leathery wings to the serpentine form, granting flight and power that exceeded standard classification.
Half-dragon Death servitors represented the most unpredictable category—bodies caught between human and dragon states, complete with claws, scales, reversed knee joints, and varying power levels from C-rank up to A-rank or beyond.
Fortunately, this first specimen was merely humanoid. Weak. Mindless.
Xia Jidong stepped forward to meet it. His mo dao sang through the air in a perfect horizontal arc—the kind of cut that ancient generals had used to cleave through cavalry and their mounts in a single stroke.
The Death servitors 's head separated from its shoulders and tumbled to the grass. Its body took two more stumbling steps before collapsing.
Xia Jidong didn't celebrate. He knew this was just the beginning.
Seven more Death servitors burst from the tall grass moments later, their howls overlapping into a chorus of hunger. The team responded instantly—each operative engaging their nearest target with brutal efficiency.
Wang Jianjun's reinforced knife punched through a Death servitors 's eye socket and scrambled its brain. Chen Moqing's twin blades opened throats in matched slashes. Aki's katana removed limbs with surgical precision. Qian Feng's hatchet caved in skulls. Xia Jidong's mo dao swept through multiple targets like a harvesting scythe.
Eight seconds. That's how long it took to eliminate seven Death servitors .
But more were coming.
A dozen this time, then twenty. They emerged from the grassland in waves, drawn by the scent of living blood and the energy signature of Ye Sheng's Word Spirit. Like a swarm of locusts descending on crops, an endless tide of corrupted flesh and mindless hunger.
The defenders fell into a rhythm—strike, recover, strike again. Efficient. Mechanical. But sustainable only for so long.
"How many of these things are in here?" Qian Feng grunted, wrenching his hatchet free from a Death servitors 's sternum.
"Doesn't matter," Wang Jianjun replied, already pivoting to face the next wave. "We hold until Ye Sheng finds the exit!"
They cut through Death servitors like farmers harvesting wheat. Bodies piled up around their defensive perimeter. But humans had limits—endurance, stamina, the simple physical toll of constant combat. Sweat soaked through their tactical gear. Breathing grew labored. Arms began to burn with accumulated lactic acid.
And the Death servitors kept coming.
Behind them, protected in the eye of this violent storm, Ye Sheng's entire body trembled. Sweat didn't just bead on his forehead anymore—it poured off him in streams, soaking his clothing until he looked like he'd been submerged in water. The strain of maintaining hundreds of sensory serpents while processing their constant data feed was pushing him toward his absolute limit.
His serpents searched frantically, mapping the Nibelungen's dimensions, seeking that crucial spatial weak point that would indicate an exit.
There. A flicker of dimensional instability. Southeast, roughly sixteen degrees from their current position.
Ye Sheng pushed more serpents toward the anomaly, confirming distance and exact coordinates. His vision swam. His legs wobbled. But he forced himself to maintain focus for a few more seconds.
Finally, certainty.
"Southeast!" His voice came out as a harsh rasp, but carried clearly above the sounds of combat. "Bearing one-six-zero, distance one point four kilometers! The exit is there!"
Wang Jianjun's response came instantly. "Move out! Fighting retreat!"
The team began backing toward the indicated direction, maintaining their defensive formation around Ye Sheng. They couldn't run—not yet, not with Death servitors pressing them from all sides. But they could move.
Step by bloody step, they began the desperate race toward salvation.
And behind them, drawn by movement and noise and the primal instinct to hunt, the Death servitors swarm gave chase.