A magnificent purple marten, over ten feet long with a crystalline violet sheen and ruby-like eyes, darted through the mountain forests, emerging in this direction. A group of young elites charged forward, summoning their treasures to attack, intent on subduing this young remnant of an ancient species.
“What a divine creature! This marten is extraordinary. If it weren’t already injured, these people wouldn’t stand a chance against it,” the Crimson Bird remarked in awe.
This rare ancient remnant pulsed with spiritual energy and carried an aura of ferocity. A vertical eye marked its forehead, marred by a terrifying claw wound from some unknown battle.
“Clear the way! The Martial Prince’s Manor is capturing an ancient remnant—do not interfere!” the leader at the front shouted.
Little Rascal hopped off the bird’s back, landing silently on the ground. He ignored the command, his gaze fixed on the encircled marten, already imagining it as a nourishing delicacy.
“Are you deaf? Move aside!” another voice barked as they rushed forward, sealing the golden passage to prevent the marten from escaping to another region.
Little Rascal remained silent, his expression unreadable.
The group’s anger flared. One of them eyed the Crimson Bird and gasped, “A Firecloud Sparrow—another ancient remnant!”
The leader, a sturdy youth of fifteen or sixteen with thick brows and piercing eyes, demanded, “We’re speaking to you. Did you hear us?”
Little Rascal studied them, searching his fragmented memories for any trace of familiarity. Perhaps they had played together in childhood. But eight years had passed, and the children of the past were now unrecognizable youths. Or perhaps they were never among those he once knew.
Before his illness, his cousins had often played with him. But after losing his Supreme Bone and weakening, only Amanda had remained by his side.
“Hey! Are you listening?” someone snapped.
“I heard you. I’ll stand aside. The world is vast—surely there’s room for me somewhere,” Little Rascal replied.
The Crimson Bird blinked in surprise. This usually ruthless child seemed oddly subdued.
“We told you to move, not to interfere with our hunt!” another voice scolded.
Little Rascal’s eyes narrowed, but he remained silent.
The Crimson Bird, however, bristled. “Who do you think you are, ordering us around? We stand where we please!”
“Such arrogance! Another ancient remnant—let’s capture it too,” someone sneered, eyeing the bird greedily.
With a wave from their leader, the group encircled the marten while subtly positioning to confront Little Rascal and the Crimson Bird.
Little Rascal sighed, shaking off his reverie. His gaze sharpened as he warned, “Don’t provoke me.”
“We don’t seek trouble, but don’t get in our way. Leave now, or face the consequences,” the leader growled.
Behind him, others eyed the Crimson Bird, eager to seize it as well.
“This land is vast enough. Don’t push your luck,” Little Rascal said flatly.
“Damn it, kid! Keep staring, and I’ll stew you alive!” the Crimson Bird spat, adopting Little Rascal’s usual threats.
Laughter erupted. “Bold words! Few dare challenge the Martial Prince’s Manor. You’re the first in the Hundred Broken Mountains!”
“Enough talk. Seize them! That Firecloud Sparrow will make a fine mount,” another chimed in.
The Crimson Bird’s mood darkened further. “Dare target me? Prepare to be cooked!”
The group advanced coldly.
“I warned you,” Little Rascal repeated.
“Who do you think you are? Another Shi Yi? Unless you rival the bloodline of gods, you’ll regret this!” the leader retorted.
“I’ll discipline you on behalf of the Martial Prince,” Little Rascal said calmly, stepping forward.
“Insolence!” they roared, seeing it as an affront to their entire house.
A young genius lunged, spewing runes. Little Rascal raised a hand, dispersing them effortlessly. A bolt of lightning coiled around the attacker, yanking him to the ground.
The crowd gasped. In one move, their elite had fallen.
Another leader stepped forth, conjuring a coiling dragon with a sweep of his arms. Little Rascal countered with a golden thunderbolt, shattering the illusion.
“So strong!” they murmured, realizing they faced a true prodigy.
The youth merged a beast hide with his arm, transforming it into a scaled draconic claw. It smashed a boulder to dust, but Little Rascal met it barehanded, lightning crackling.
The clash sent the youth reeling, the hide peeling away.
“He can match a treasure barehanded?!” they stammered.
Little Rascal blurred forward like an ancient beast, disarming the youth and pinning him beside his fallen comrade.
“Attack together!” they cried, realizing their mistake.
A chaotic battle erupted. Runes flashed, treasures gleamed, and cries of pain filled the air. Despite their prowess, they were no match for Little Rascal.
Soon, they lay battered, swollen-faced, and groaning in a heap.
“Had enough?” Little Rascal asked, perched atop them.
Defiant grunts earned them another round of shocks, leaving them foaming at the mouth.
“Consider this a lesson. Arrogance has its price,” he said.
The Crimson Bird gleefully joined in, clanging a black pot over their heads.
“The mighty Martial Prince’s Manor? Crushed beneath us!” it crowed.
With a final kick, Little Rascal sent them tumbling and strode away.
“Who is he?!” they seethed, humiliated. “Find our brothers in the forbidden zones. We must redeem this disgrace!”
Away from the chaos, Little Rascal eyed the marten hungrily. “It’d make a delicious stew…”
But the grateful marten, warm and friendly, made it hard to justify.
It spoke of a ruins filled with sentient treasures—swords, horns, divine rings—where the strongest clashed.
“The heart of the Hundred Broken Mountains!” the marten said.
“No wonder it’s deserted here. Everyone’s there!” the Crimson Bird exclaimed.
They pressed on, crossing golden portals, battling through regions teeming with geniuses.
Days later, they reached a barren, blood-red land. At its center, mist-shrouded ruins pulsed with treasure light.
Countless beings—golden birds, draconic beasts, noble heirs—crowded the entrance, hesitant to enter.
“Is that a golden roc?” the Crimson Bird muttered nervously.
“Looks tasty,” Little Rascal mused, wiping drool.
The marten sighed. This boy was more fearsome than any ancient beast.
“And that pure-blooded flood dragon… Is it from the divine mountains?” the bird whispered, humbled by the overwhelming auras around them.
Here, even the boldest tread carefully.
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