Chapter 83: Never a Slave

In an instant, flames erupted violently across Chen Feng's body, engulfing him like a towering pillar of fire.

The heat in his chest was unbearable.

It felt as though his very organs were liquefying, the pain so excruciating it seemed endless. For an entire minute, the agony raged within him before it began to subside.

An anomaly.

Chen Feng's body had undergone a sinister transformation.

The flame runes on his skin grew sharper, more pronounced, and two small horns—dark and sharp, like a demon's crown—pierced through his forehead. They were no larger than a pinky finger, but their presence was chilling.

Demonic Horns.

A dormant power of the Balrog, now awakened in its weakest form. Though not yet imbued with its full strength, these horns held terrifying potential. For the demon itself, the horns were a secret weapon, a hidden ability capable of immense destruction.

The Demonic Horns could amplify spiritual power, warding off most spiritual attacks. Once they fully matured, they would become the bane of any Elementalist.

But that was only the beginning.

Chen Feng extended his hands, and flames ignited in his palms, swirling into fireballs with ease.

Fireball.

A fundamental technique of the fire element.

Flameblade and Fireball—now, Chen Feng wielded both close-combat and ranged destruction, an arsenal that marked him as a true threat.

This newfound power was born from the Balrog's Sigil, branded upon his flesh. Though Chen Feng did not worship the demon, the blood-soaked Flameblade allowed the Balrog to sense his growing strength.

Through this unholy connection, the Balrog bestowed power upon him.

Yet, such a gift was a double-edged sword. The stronger the mark grew, the tighter the bond between Chen Feng and the Balrog became. And lurking within that bond was a lethal trap.

The more Chen Feng embraced the Balrog Form, the clearer he became to the demon—like a beacon in the night. Once Chen Feng fully mastered the form, the Balrog would tear through the dimensional veil, hunting him down, claiming his life, and using him to escape its sulfurous prison.

If Chen Feng sought to prevent this apocalyptic confrontation, he would have to abandon the Balrog Transformation entirely.

But…

The Balrog believed it held all the cards, confident in the trap it had set. Yet in its arrogance, it overlooked a greater threat—Chen Feng had turned the trap against it.

Their connection was a two-way tether. Just as the demon could sense him, Chen Feng could track the demon. Once he reached the Legend Realm, Chen Feng could summon the Balrog itself—enslaving it.

It was a battle of wills, a war of deceit.

If Chen Feng failed, the Balrog would consume him, obliterating his existence and unleashing its wrath upon the world. But if he triumphed, the demon would kneel as his eternal servant, bound by chains forged in blood. Its power would be his, and the rewards would be limitless.

The Balrog may have plotted against him, but Chen Feng had laid his own snare, a trap far deadlier than the demon could comprehend.

Power was the foundation of everything. To hesitate, to abandon his strength out of fear, would be to court death—an end far more pitiful than any battle against the demon.

At this moment, everything became clear to Chen Feng. His resolve hardened, the weight of the demon's trap no longer a burden, but fuel for his ambition.

The flames surrounding him dimmed, and Chen Feng returned to his human form.

His gaze fell upon the Thunder Scorpion's lifeless body. Once a fearsome predator, it was now nothing more than a husk, a sacrificial offering. Its fate was the fate of the weak—crushed beneath the heel of the strong.

Chen Feng's desire for power surged.

He was no stranger to summoning. The Thunder Scorpion's corpse, brimming with vitality, was a perfect offering. Silver Realm and filled with life, it had devoured countless larvae, making its remains an even more valuable sacrifice.

In the hands of lesser beings, this corpse could promote them to Bronze Realm. For someone of Chen Feng's caliber, the body of the Thunder Scorpion was an unparalleled treasure.

---

Summon!

Chen Feng knelt, plunging his hands deep into the brain of the fallen Thunder Scorpion. Immediately, a surge of eerie energy coursed through his veins.

Fragments of visions flooded his mind—disjointed, chaotic.

A barren plain stretched endlessly before him, desolate and lifeless, where grotesque creatures wandered aimlessly in the distance.

Summoning followed a dark, twisted logic.

This was no ordinary vision.

A group of massive figures came into focus—hulking beasts with muscular builds and broad, flattened noses. Jagged tusks jutted from their mouths, dripping with malice.

Beastmen.

Male beastmen towered over humans, their brutish forms standing nearly two meters tall. Female beastmen, though smaller than their male counterparts, were far larger and more intimidating than human women.

But these weren't just any beastmen. Among their ranks were twisted hybrids—bear-men, tauren, lion-men, and even grotesque versions of what once might have been swan-men.

Beastmen were creatures of impulse, driven by fury and action, caring little for strategy or diplomacy. They relished battle, their brooding natures always teetering on the edge of violence.

Yet, despite their strength, they were among the most despised and discriminated against in the abyss.

Unlike the savage, mindless demons or the parasitic worms that crawled through the underworld, beastmen possessed a flicker of intelligence—a cursed gift that made them perfect slaves for the demon lords. These once-proud creatures were broken, born into chains, forced to toil in the endless mines, scraping the abyssal rock for precious resources.

They were neither as wild as the beasts nor as cunning as humans. Instead, they were damned—forever trapped in the margins of the abyss. From the moment they drew their first breath to their final, pitiful gasp, they lived as slaves, their only release found in death.

An existence of eternal servitude.

---

In the desolate plains of the abyss, countless beastmen toiled in agony, hacking at the unforgiving rock with crude tools. Over them loomed their demonic overseers—Soul Reapers, Serpentine Devils, and Flame Demons—each more grotesque than the last, their twisted forms embodying the cruelty of their rule. Whips cracked across the beastmen's backs, and the slightest sign of fatigue was met with swift punishment. A moment's hesitation could cost them their heads, their lifeless bodies discarded without a second thought.

But physical torment wasn't enough for these demons. They reveled in violating the beastmen's kin, tearing apart the last shreds of their dignity. Beastmen wives and daughters were dragged from their homes, reduced to nothing more than playthings, their bodies ravaged by the very demons who had enslaved their people. The beastmen could do nothing but watch in silent agony, their hearts consumed by helpless rage. To resist meant certain death, a swift and brutal execution that served as a warning to all.

This was the Devil's Abode.

Here, the beastmen were shackled by despair, trapped beneath the boot of their demonic masters.

Yet, where there is oppression, a spark of rebellion always flickers.

Among the masses, a few brave beastmen began to stir. Whispers of insurrection spread like wildfire through the camps. What began as a small group of defiant souls grew, swelling into hundreds, then thousands, until the ranks of rebellion numbered in the tens of thousands. United by their shared suffering, the beastmen rose, their fury boiling over.

Warriors by birth, the beastmen fought with ferocity, and among them were those who possessed the dark powers of warlocks—beings capable of summoning the ancient forces of the abyss itself.

For years, the plains ran red with blood as the beastmen waged their war for freedom. The demons, once unquestioned rulers of this cursed land, found themselves overwhelmed by the sheer force of beastial might.

The demons' reign crumbled.

And the beastmen—battered, bloodied, but unbroken—claimed the land that had been soaked with the blood of their fallen.

Roaring!

Hundreds of thousands of beastmen bellowed across the barren plains, their cries shaking the very heavens. The sound reverberated through the desolate lands, a declaration of their newfound freedom. Their language, harsh and guttural, carried the weight of their victory, and though incomprehensible to human ears, its meaning was clear:

"The beastmen will never be slaves!"