Feng Deming, locked up for thousands of years, now appeared twenty years old by human standards. Although the prince was imprisoned deep underground in a dark dungeon, he shone like a beacon. The soft light highlighted his pointed nose and high cheekbones. His defined eyebrows, as sharp as daggers, arched over his closed eyes. Long, dark-brown hair flowed like a river of shadows down to his thighs, adding an aura of mystery to his appearance.

The dungeon reeked of mildew with the faintest metallic note of blood still staining the walls. The faint rustle echoed through the silence, interrupted only by the distant drip of water. Every drop echoed, as if grains of sand were trickling through an hourglass, measuring out the long years of torturous suffering he endured.

Every day, he focused solely on mastering the deciphering of the twenty seals holding those phantasmal chains. Now, with his eyes closed and twitching beneath his lashes, and the pressure of the chains digging into his skin, he concentrated so hard that his forehead lit up, all the while yearning for the liberty to walk free once more.

'How satisfying it would be to see no trace of their world, all by my own hands,' Deming entertained, an evil smirk curling his lips, tasting the thought like honey. 'Their mutilated bodies shall be my masterpiece, and their painful screams, well, the sweetest melody to my ears... And all of that is within my grasp now.'

Deming was pulled from his trance as heavy footsteps echoed off the stone walls, and the sound grew nearer as they hurried toward the dungeon. In the stillness, the low voices of men spoke far away in indistinguishable tones of urgency.

Many self-proclaimed 'gods' got together, preventing Feng Deming from escaping, all of them completely aware of his great power. The faerie general, known as 'the god of war,' yelled all the way through the dungeon, his voice grating as if metal were shredding against stone. "Cease, demon!"

Deming refused to open his eyes, not when he was this close to breaking the seal. 'Now, they shall witness the true meaning of what they call... a monster.' He sneered, the curve of his grin widening as he continued to decode the seals.

The faerie general looked to be in his mid-twenties. He had long, shiny silver hair with a slight wave and a gold chain headpiece that dangled a jewel resting against his forehead, matching the deep blue of his doe eyes.

The voice of the general began to rise in volume and intensity. "I said, stop!" A crackling pulse of energy formed a beam of light in his hand, vibrating with power.

And still, Deming refused to budge, not a moment of his attentions diverted by the alerts.

When he opened those eyes of his—like molten metal, telling stories of untold suffering and a promise of revenge—his long and dark lashes cast shadows across his cheeks with every slow blink. His golden eyes swept over the trembling soldiers. Each little shudder, each hasty flinch, only pleased him, as if he fed on the horror in their eyes.

Frustration and dread tinged the general's voice as he faced his troops. "Attack!"

White, ethereal wings emerged from their backs, glowing and shimmering as they flew up. They mirrored one another, making complex shapes with their hands that began with a circle. In unison, they pressed their palms together, releasing a barrage of beams that flickered against the stone walls and rattled the floors, sending a burning scent into the air.

Deming smirked, the beams reflecting in his eyes. "They're courting their demise." His arms and neck lost their shackles, and he dodged the attack by dipping his shoulder and spinning to face his attackers.

After a moment of dreadful silence, fire started to blaze from his eyes, surprising every faerie with his ominous look. He lifted his arms and pointed them back at the soldiers until they met their end in a flash of light and disturbing noise. 

With arms crossed, a brief sense of satisfaction warmed Deming's otherwise detached appearance as he gazed at the blast unfolding. "You tried." He waved a hand, dismissive, and then contorted his face into a mask of evil, staring at the trembling mouths and the wide eyes of the faeries he had not attacked yet, and they made choking sounds in response. A cruel smirk spread across his lips as he taunted, leering in that deep voice, "I wish you could see your faces."

"Stay alert, everyone!" ordered the faerie general. "Lord Muchen is nearly here! Hold your positions!"

"What? You cannot stop me without him?" Deming ridiculed, though the mere mention of Muchen made his jaw tighten and left a bad taste in his mouth. 'Does Muchen have another trick up his sleeve to trap me?'

Observing the general shaking before him, his gaze turned to the shadows, a brief moment of strain breaking the calm facade on his face.

That low, venomous rasp echoed in the stone chamber. "How amusing... I suppose it is your lucky day. It looks like my plan to obliterate this realm is going to have to wait. But do not worry; I am a man of my word. And when I return, perhaps I will start with your loved ones first. I shall chain them deep in your dungeons and make them yearn to see the light and sky again, knowing they can only dream about it, day after day. They shall scream in agony while you watch helplessly, begging me to stop. And I shall remain quiet, just as you did all these years, watching me suffer."

The general squinted, a look of utter confusion on his face. 'What is he... talking about? I've never...'

Deming's tone lowered into a sinister growl. "And it shall not stop there. On the lands where you have raised your children, I shall build statues of our people from your ashes. And as for Muchen, he shall be where he always needed to be—under our feet."

The color drained out of the general's face, his mouth opened, and he wheezed for breath that came in shallow, ragged gasps. His eyes widened, and he shook his hands, but that was maniacal in every way.

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