A Little First Love Shock for the Demon Lord - Chapter 7.1

“Are you okay?” Ying Ning crouched down, anxiously watching the man who had suddenly collapsed to the ground.

The man’s eyes were tightly shut, and he gave no response.

Seeing him lie motionless, Ying Ning nervously reached out her hand, first checking for breath beneath his nose, then placing her hand over his chest to feel his heartbeat. Once she confirmed he was still alive, she finally let out a sigh of relief.

She then began to look around cautiously.

Since the man fell unconscious, the surrounding area had become even colder and more silent.

Rubbing her chilled arms, Ying Ning hesitated before taking off her cloak and gently covering the man with it.

Faced with the current situation, she had no idea what to do. All she could do was hope he would wake up soon.

She sat quietly beside him, staring blankly into the darkness in the distance.

The scene in front of her stirred memories of her childhood—before she met her brother, there had been a time when she was utterly alone. Just like now, she had stared into the night, not knowing when the first light of dawn would appear.

Just as she was lost in thought, the man’s index finger twitched slightly.

Noticing this, Ying Ning immediately leaned over and whispered, “You’re awake?”

Still no response—but then, the man suddenly opened his mouth.

Ying Ning watched in confusion as he parted his lips. A moment later, a wisp of white mist drifted up from his throat, rising straight into the air, as if trying to escape beyond the spiritual tablet.

She didn’t know what the white mist was, but instinct told her that if it floated away, the Earth Deity before her might die.

Hurriedly, Ying Ning covered the man’s mouth with both hands. But the mist simply began to drift out of his nose instead. She had no choice but to use one hand to remove his mask and pinch his nose shut too.

Just as she managed that, white mist started escaping from his ears.

She wasn’t the Thousand-Handed Guanyin—there was no way she could block every opening. All she could do was anxiously watch as the mist continued leaking from his body.

This wouldn’t work. She had to find a way to wake him up.

“Wake up!” She shook his head vigorously.

Still no response.

Left with no choice, she released his mouth and nose, raised her right hand, and gave him a hard slap across the face.

Smack!

The sharp sound echoed through the stillness. His left cheek quickly swelled up, and the outline of her palm was clearly visible.

That must have hurt. Ying Ning immediately began apologizing. “Sorry, sorry!”

But the man still didn’t wake.

Just as she was about to slap him again, she noticed something: a thin strand of dark mist had emerged from behind his left ear, one end burrowing into his skin, the other floating in the air like a wriggling worm.

Leaning closer, Ying Ning saw that the dark mist resembled the aura that had come from the mouth of that demon earlier.

Biting her lower lip, she hesitated for a moment before slowly extending her index finger to touch the black mist.

As soon as her fingertip neared it, the mist suddenly reacted—one end wrapped tightly around her finger, while the other remained attached to the man’s skin.

Almost immediately, Ying Ning felt a wave of overwhelming drowsiness. She frowned and shook her head, trying to resist it, but the sensation was far too strong.

In the end, she gave in, collapsing onto the man’s chest and falling into a deep sleep…

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A thick fog blanketed the world—nothing but a vast, endless whiteness. Bitter winds howled through the mist, carrying with them faint, terrified cries.

Minglou stood within the fog, his expression dark and grim as he scanned his surroundings.

He had fallen into a dream demon’s illusion. This place was his dreamscape.

If he could maintain his clarity, if he could distinguish dream from reality, there might still be a way to break the illusion.

He slowly closed his eyes, steadying his mind.

No sights. No sounds. No feelings. He sealed away all five senses.

He alone existed in this world.

The wind roared even louder, whipping his loose hair and billowing robes behind him—but he remained utterly still.

Until a woman’s voice pierced his ears.

“Die. You should never have been born into this world.”

Her tone was calm, but her words cut like a poisoned dagger, stabbing straight into Minglou’s heart.

His brow furrowed even deeper as the black mist behind his ear squirmed and burrowed further into him. After a long moment, he slowly opened his eyes.

The fog had vanished, replaced by stormy skies, a bl00d-soaked battlefield, and countless corpses. Cold, indifferent demons moved mechanically through the scene.

Thin raindrops fell. Every face was expressionless. Every movement robotic—like puppets on invisible strings.

This was the Demon Realm: eternally gray and oppressive, where only bl00d offered a splash of color.

A ragged woman led a small boy to a tall tower made entirely of bones. She shoved him toward the entrance.

“Die. You never should’ve existed.”

Her voice was numb and emotionless. Without a backward glance, she turned and walked away.

The boy’s face was just as vacant. As she walked away, he instinctively took a step to follow, but the woman turned and glared at him.

“Don’t follow me. I can’t feed you. So just go die.”

She left.

The boy didn’t follow.

He had been abandoned.

No one around him paid him the slightest attention, as if he were invisible.

Not knowing where to go, he sat at the tower’s base for several days, resting against the wall when he grew tired.

He knew the tower was made of the dead—but he didn’t mind. He figured, one day, he’d become part of it too.

He stared at the gray sky. After several days, a demon finally approached and spoke to him.

A skeletal man with a gaunt, bearded face and sunken eyes that gleamed with hunger.

“What’s your name?” the demon asked.

The boy didn’t answer. He didn’t have a name. His mother had never given him one.

Seeing that the boy was silent, the demon chuckled darkly, licking his lips with a gray tongue.

Like the other demons, this man had been forced by Lord Chen Wuxiu to labor without food or rest, building bone towers for the lord’s amusement.

Those who starved were eaten. Their bones added to the towers.

Others hunted the weak to survive.

This man was one of them. The boy—small and frail—seemed like an easy target.

As the boy stared up at the sky, the demon suddenly lunged, sinking his teeth into the boy’s arm.

He tore off a chunk of flesh, bl00d soaking his filthy beard. He chewed with a satisfied look in his eyes.

Then he froze.

The boy stared at his own mangled arm without screaming, without flinching—as if he couldn’t feel pain.

Perplexed, the demon bit off another piece. Still, the boy showed no reaction.

“Not afraid to die?” the demon asked curiously.

The boy blinked slowly and replied, “My mother told me to die.”

“So, you want to die?”

The boy was silent for a long while before shaking his head.

He didn’t want to die—but he didn’t know how to live.

The demon didn’t pity him. He continued feasting.

In this place, pity was worthless. The demon couldn’t even save himself—how could he save anyone else?

Other demons began to gather, drawn by the scene.

The boy looked at them—and suddenly smiled.

No one would save him. Death, perhaps, was a kind of release.

As he closed his eyes, the bearded demon suddenly recoiled in horror, scrambling backward on the ground.

“D-Devilbone!” he stammered.

All the demons turned to look at the boy’s arm. Where the flesh had been torn away, black bone was visible—bone that glimmered with sinister energy.

In the Demon Realm, there was a legend:

He who bears the Devilbone shall rule the realm.

Chen Wuxiu had such a bone—and now he was Demon Lord.

Could this boy be the next?

The crowd began to back away. No one wanted to gamble. If the boy survived and rose to power, he would surely remember those who once tried to eat him.

Having narrowly escaped death, the boy felt a flicker of joy—he could live a few days longer. But also fear—he never knew when death might come.

News of the Devilbone soon reached Chen Wuxiu.

When the Demon Lord found the boy, he was still sitting at the tower’s entrance, staring blankly at the sky. The wounds on his arm had scabbed over.

Chen Wuxiu sneered as he looked down on him.

“This bastard isn’t even worthy to compete for my throne.”

A flatterer nearby echoed, “Of course, My Lord. Just look at the little wretch. He could never challenge you.”

Chen Wuxiu laughed—but suddenly turned cold. With a flick of his hand, the flatterer’s head flew off and rolled to the boy’s feet.

The boy slowly shifted his gaze to Chen Wuxiu.

A tall man in black and gold robes, crimson hair flowing behind him. Bl00d still dripped from his fingers.

Chen Wuxiu crouched and grabbed the boy’s face with that bloodstained hand.

“I’m bored lately. You’ll be my new plaything.”

He looked at the bone tower behind the boy.

“These towers built from corpses—they’re called Minglou. From now on, that’s your name too.”

Minglou stared into Chen Wuxiu’s eyes. What he saw there was mockery, disgust, and cruelty.

Then, he followed the Demon Lord away.

Chen Wuxiu brought him to the Demon Palace, had his wounds treated, gave him food and clothes.

A month passed. During that time, Minglou never saw him again.

His expression remained numb, but a light had returned to his eyes.

He believed he could survive—even if it meant becoming Chen Wuxiu’s slave.

But one day, Chen Wuxiu summoned him to the grand hall.

Minglou followed the servant inside. The hall was filled with demons—men and women, old and young—lined up neatly on either side.

At the top, Chen Wuxiu sat on the throne, gazing down with cold disdain.