The next day, Han Shuo was jolted awake by a heavy garbage bag slamming onto his bed.
He had been deep in a delicious dream—pinning the pretty Master Fin beneath him, one hand possessively kneading that firm, rounded backside while the teacher moaned softly in surrender—when the impact yanked him back to reality. Cursing under his breath, he scrambled out from under the bag and rubbed his eyes.
Another trash toss through the small warehouse window. It was definitely late.
Pushing open the window, Han Shuo saw the sun already high in the sky. He sighed. *Too much demonic yuan practice last night… overslept.* He was about to rush out when he remembered the dream. Last time a dream had come true with Little Skull. Heart skipping, he glanced toward the wooden barrel under his bed.
Inside, Little Skull lounged lazily—two dark hand bones resting on the rim, left leg bone crossed over the right, swinging gently like it was enjoying a private sauna. The little demonic treasure looked utterly carefree.
Han Shuo breathed a sigh of relief. *Still here.* He quickly shoved the barrel deeper under the bed, blocked it with a garbage bag, and slipped out to start the day.
"Hey, Bryan, you're only showing up now?" Jack called cheerfully from the stone-statue path, broom in hand.
Han Shuo looked around—no students in sight. Class had clearly started.
"Oh, Fitch hit me twice on the head yesterday. My skull was ringing, so I overslept," he answered with a foolish grin.
Jack chuckled mischievously and leaned in close. "Hehe, don't be mad, Bryan. I heard from the students this morning that Fitch got absolutely wrecked by that same seven-winged black Little Skull from last time. His face is swollen like a pig's now!"
Han Shuo's grin widened inwardly. *So the dream was real.* Little Skull had moved even faster this time, finished the job, and returned before dawn. No wonder the little guy looked so relaxed in the barrel.
"Well done," Han Shuo muttered under his breath, dark satisfaction curling in his chest. "Whoever summoned that Little Skull really helped me vent."
The following days passed in rare peace. No one dragged Han Shuo off for magic practice. Each morning he arrived early outside the necromancy classroom, broom in hand, eavesdropping on Master Gene's lectures with rapt attention.
Fitch hadn't shown up since the beating—probably too embarrassed or too injured. Han Shuo absorbed the lessons greedily. Concepts that had once confused him suddenly clicked.
At night, he practiced the "Mystical Glacial Spellfire," forcing demonic yuan along the torturous meridians of his right arm. Each session burned like fire, but his yuan grew stronger, his body firmer. Muscles began to show beneath his once-frail frame; he even stood a little taller. The necromancy students dismissed the changes as "madness." Han Shuo simply smiled and let them.
One night, deep in the abandoned graveyard behind the academy, Han Shuo stood alone. Little Skull waited obediently in the shadows, two trash bags clutched in its bony hands.
"Oh, endless darkness, transform into the Bone Arrow of Destruction. With my will, destroy everything before me—Bone Arrow!"
A sharp white arrow formed in the air, then veered wildly and exploded mid-flight.
Han Shuo shook his head with a sigh. Theory was one thing; actual casting was another. He had been practicing here every night, but success still eluded him.
Just as he prepared another attempt, hurried footsteps echoed from the darkness. Han Shuo's heart lurched. He dove behind a pile of rubble, heart pounding.
A tall, blue-haired man staggered into view—clothes soaked crimson with blood, foaming at the mouth, broadsword clutched in a trembling hand. He glanced back frantically, then collapsed near where Han Shuo had been practicing.
The man yanked a small gray handbag from his chest, dug a shallow hole with his sword, buried it, and smoothed the dirt before crawling away again.
"Dylan, where else can you run?" A gentle, kind voice drifted from the distance. Black light flashed. An emaciated old mage appeared—benevolent smile, gilded robe, magic staff embedded with three glowing gems.
A dark-green streak followed, resolving into a tall, powerfully built swordsman with a longsword at his hip. His frame was packed with dense muscle, broad shoulders straining against his tunic, thighs thick and powerful. Han Shuo's gaze lingered involuntarily on the man's sculpted chest and the way sweat glistened along the sharp lines of his collarbone. *Strong… very strong. The kind of man who would look magnificent on his knees.*
"Mister Duke, what should we do with Dylan?" the swordsman asked respectfully.
Duke sighed softly, eyes filled with false mercy. "Poor Dylan… he won't last. Eric, help him end his suffering."
Eric moved like lightning. Dark-green fighting aura flared along his blade. In a blur, Dylan's back erupted in blood. He collapsed, dead.
Eric searched the corpse, face growing grim. "Mister Duke, the item isn't on him."
Duke's benevolent mask cracked. He waved his staff; wind blades shredded Dylan's clothes, leaving the body naked and exposed. Nothing.
Duke's mental strength suddenly rippled outward—straight toward Han Shuo's hiding spot.
Han Shuo felt himself yanked into the air like a puppet.
"Eh? How did you know I was here?" he yelped, flailing.
Duke's kind smile returned as he studied Han Shuo's coarse clothes. "Heh heh, what a cute and pure young fellow. From the Babylon Academy, yes? An errand boy, I presume?"
Han Shuo landed lightly. He smiled innocently. "Yes, I'm just here throwing out magical waste. I didn't see anything. It's late—I'll be heading back now."
He took two calm steps, then bolted.
Duke chuckled softly. "Heh heh, crafty little one. Eric, see him off properly."
A powerful gust of wind roared behind Han Shuo. Eric's muscular figure blurred forward, dark-green aura blazing.
Han Shuo's heart raced—not just from fear. As the handsome, powerful swordsman closed in, dark possessive hunger flared in his chest. *Another strong, beautiful man… one day soon, you'll chase me for an entirely different reason.*
He ran faster, demonic yuan surging through his legs, a wicked grin splitting his face even as he fled into the night.