The Emperor's Calculation

“But rewards must come with punishments. You all tried to revolt just now. Though I won’t kill you, some discipline is necessary.” Wang Hao took the ledger from Wei Zhongxian, flipping to the page filled with numbers. “My six beloved ministers, the IOUs are written—five hundred billion spirit stones each. Twenty percent annual interest, compounded. Don’t rush to pay it back; you’ve got plenty of time. What, too much? Fine then—double the mine revenue to the public treasury, and cut military salaries in half after the coalition is reorganized. Pick one.”

Xue Wuhen’s face immediately fell. “Your Majesty, five hundred billion spirit stones at twenty percent annual compound interest—you’re running a shadier operation than the Red Dawn Gambling Den!”

“Nonsense. I’m the emperor. If an emperor doesn’t lend at usurious rates, who will?” Wang Hao shoved the ledger back into Wei Zhongxian’s hands as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Old Wei, keep the books.”

Wei Zhongxian expressionlessly opened the ledger. His abacus rattled for a good long while before he looked up and announced in that flat, eunuch-specific drawl: “Reporting to His Majesty. The six leaders of the Eight-Band Alliance each owe the Eastern Wasteland Empire five hundred billion spirit stones. Twenty percent annual interest, compounded. Interest begins accruing from today.”

Yue Ji’s lips twitched slightly. That perpetually icy face rarely showed emotion, but a hint of helpless, wry smile crept through. Five hundred billion spirit stones was no small sum even for a faction leader. Yet, considering they had nearly died under the holy decree moments ago, five hundred billion for a path to survival and a corps commander’s position wasn’t entirely unreasonable. Besides, knowing Wang Hao’s style, this debt could eventually be offset with battlefield merits.

Just as they were mulling this over, Wang Hao’s voice rang out again.

“Now that the accounting is done, let me say a few words from the heart.”

The six leaders looked up simultaneously, gazing at that radiant grin.

“I am a man of many faults. Greedy, lustful, petty, vengeful, and black-hearted—I admit them all.” Wang Hao sat on the edge of a rock beside the massive pit, legs dangling as they swung back and forth, showing none of the dignity expected of an emperor. “But I have one virtue—I protect my own. You belong to me now. From this day forward, whoever touches you, I touch back. Not even the Sacred Lands of the Central Region, not the demon race, not even the gods themselves.”

He paused, his voice suddenly turning sincere.

“Today, when I needed you most, you stood by me. I accept this gesture of loyalty. I owe you each a life—no, six lives. I can’t sleep knowing I’m in debt, so I will make sure you live well. You will have spirit stones, techniques, pills, and territory. I will lead you to plant the Eastern Wasteland’s black dragon banner atop the battlements of the Central Region.”

“But before that—” He stood up, dusting off his pants, and looked toward the distant Central Region, his smile hardening into a cold edge. “I must first return to the Eastern Wasteland. The Sixteen Sacred Lands of the Central Region have suffered a great loss this time; they won’t swallow their pride. I’m going back to reinforce our defenses, expand our army, and prepare for the next, even larger battle.”

He turned to the six leaders: “The Demon Lord will remain in Dark City to recover. I’ll send life-extending pills. Yue Ji, Feng Wanli, Ghost Granny, Yin Jiuyou, Xue Wuhen—each of you will take command of your own units. Complete reorganization within ten days. One month from now, I want to see a coalition capable of fighting tough battles. Is that understood?”

“Yes!” the six replied in unison.

In autumn of the third year of the Eastern Wasteland Empire, the Sixteen Sacred Lands of the Central Region allied to invade Dark City.

Eastern Wasteland Emperor Wang Hao, alone, broke through six formation positions and fought forty war gods single-handedly. In the end, he laid an ambush using Calamity Blossoms, slaughtering twenty-nine war gods and eight hundred Skysoaring cultivators—a battle that shook the world.

This battle was recorded by later historians as the “Black Rock Triumph,” the most glorious victory in the history of the Eastern Wasteland Empire—even though one of the participating forces was Dark City, which had joined the empire less than a day earlier. Still, the chroniclers dutifully recorded this victory in the opening chapters of “The Annals of the Great Xia.”

After the battle, Li Cangming personally wrote a letter of apology, acknowledging that the Sixteen Sacred Lands had unjustly invaded the Eastern Wasteland. That letter was engraved onto a stele erected in the imperial gardens of the Eastern Wasteland capital, to be admired by future generations.

Some historians have verified that, while writing the letter, Li Cangming shattered three writing brushes in fits of fury. The third was borrowed from Wang Hao himself, who handed it over with a line that became immortal: “Elder Li, this brush was expensive. Break it, and you’ll have to pay for it.”

Li Cangming eventually coughed up ten billion spirit stones.

From then on, whenever disciples of the Sixteen Sacred Lands mentioned Wang Hao’s name, their expressions became quite complex—a twisted blend of anger, fear, and humiliation.

Anger over the twenty-nine war gods and eight hundred Skysoaring cultivators lost. Fear that Wang Hao’s bloody blade might one day fall on them. And humiliation because Li Cangming’s letter still stood in the Great Xia imperial garden—and the shameless Dog Emperor actually charged admission for the public to view it, one silver coin per visit. What an absolute insult.

As for the other powers on the continent, once they learned the full story of the battle, their assessment of Wang Hao was strikingly unanimous.

“That Young Emperor has a seriously dirty mind.”

It was said that someone later asked Wang Hao if this was a compliment or an insult.

Wang Hao thought it over and answered very seriously: “Both.”

In Dark City, Wang Hao sat nursing a pot of tea, chuckling at the enormous stone tablet now packed up for transport.

“Issue the order—return to court tomorrow. Old Wei, prepare the carriages. I’m taking this pack of newly acquired wolf cubs to show them my Eastern Wasteland.”

He paused, his gaze shifting toward the distance, his smile warming with layered meaning.

“And while we’re at it, we’ll stop by the demon race. Someone still owes me an apology.”

The wind rustled through the imperial garden, scattering the steam rising from his teacup.

In the distance, the myriad lights of the Eastern Wasteland capital flickered to life one by one in the night, like countless eyes waiting for their emperor to come home.

The news that the full alliance of the Sixteen Sacred Lands of the Central Region had been wiped out struck the five regions of the continent like a thunderbolt.

The way it spread was peculiar—not circulated by the Eastern Wasteland, nor leaked by Dark City, but announced in a joint “Declaration to the World” published by the Sixteen Sacred Lands themselves the next morning.

The declaration was worded with exquisite care.

The first three thousand characters described the Central Region and Eastern Wasteland reaching a friendly agreement through amicable consultations regarding the ownership of Dark City.

No matter how much flowery language tried to mask the Central Region’s defeat, any discerning person could see the declaration’s true meaning boiled down to two words—sheer terror.

“The Sixteen Sacred Lands are terrified.”

Deep within the Southern Wastes’ Thousand Demon Palace, in the Azure Dragon Hall, Holy King Canglong coiled atop his ten-thousand-year cold jade throne, dragon claws clutching a copy of the declaration, his vertical pupils reflecting the dense text.

His dragon whiskers quivered—whether in anger or fear, none could tell.

“Forty war gods, eight hundred Skysoaring cultivators—only eleven made it back alive to the Central Region. That old relic Li Cangming, with his half-step transcendent cultivation, even had a chunk of flesh blasted off his arm.”

Dozens of demon dragons coiled within the great hall, each one a peak expert of the demon race. Yet at this moment, these usually arrogant dragons remained silent, their draconic pupils flickering with their own private thoughts.

“Your Majesty, the Holy King.” Chi Lin, the chieftain of the Fire Dragon clan, spoke, his voice laden with barely suppressed anxiety. “My clan’s fifty thousand elite troops had already set out for Canglong Ridge, ready to join forces with the Young Emperor. But that day, you ordered me to withdraw—”

“Are you blaming me?” Holy King Canglong’s vertical pupils suddenly contracted.

“I would never dare.” Chi Lin lowered his head, but his tone remained stubborn. “It’s just that the Young Emperor won a great victory. He’s definitely the type to hold a grudge. That day, your message to him only said ‘I’m sorry’ before cutting off the connection. Given his temperament—”

“Enough.” Holy King Canglong cut him off, his dragon claws gouging five deep gashes into the jade throne. “Everything I did was for the sake of the demon race. At that time, with forty martial gods encamped outside the city, anyone who stood with Wang Hao was courting death. Was I wrong?”

No one answered.

But the silence itself was an answer.

After a long pause, an ancient dragon with a beard as white as snow slowly spoke, his voice ancient, as if carried from ten thousand years ago: “Your Majesty, the Holy King, you made one mistake.”

Holy King Canglong turned his gaze to the elder dragon—the clans’ most ancient elder, who had lived for forty-eight thousand years. Though his cultivation was only at the mid stage of the Martial God realm, his seniority alone forced even the demon emperor to treat him with respect.

“You shouldn’t have said ‘I’m sorry.’”

The elder dragon’s vertical pupils reflected the light of the night pearls embedded in the hall’s vaulted ceiling, shattering it into countless tiny specks of radiance.

“Either you don’t take a stand at all, or you follow through to the bitter end. By saying ‘I’m sorry,’ you admitted that you deliberately broke the pact. The demon race owes him an explanation now—and he will definitely come to collect.”

Holy King Canglong’s dragon whiskers snapped taut.

He wanted to argue, but found himself with nothing to say.

That night, watching Wang Hao face forty martial gods alone, he had thought only of preserving the demon race’s strength. He believed Wang Hao would die—anyone facing such a lineup would die. And a dead man needs no explanation.

But Wang Hao did not die.

Not only did he survive, he personally killed twenty-nine martial gods and eight hundred imperial void cultivators in a method that could only be described as terrifying.

Now, this man is alive—and has become the most untouchable being on the continent.

“Prepare a generous gift.” Holy King Canglong’s voice came out hoarse. “When Wang Hao returns to the Eastern Wastelands, I will personally visit his doorstep—”

Before he could finish, a beam of eerie green transmission light blazed to life within the great hall.

It was the highest priority emergency communication of the demon race—in all of three hundred and twenty thousand years, this level of signal had been activated only four times before. The last time was the day the Primordial Dragon Emperor fell.

Every demon dragon’s face turned pale.

Holy King Canglong opened the message. A faltering voice emerged from the jade slip, trembling, weeping, wailing: “The Southern Sea—a ninth-level horror—a tenth-level anomalous domain—the Southern Sea dragon clan is trying to migrate—the Great Xia border army—fighting has broken out—”

The jade slip’s light went out in an instant.

For the first time, true fear flickered in Holy King Canglong’s vertical pupils, for he represented the North Sea—the North Sea dragon clan.

“The Southern Sea dragon clan.” His voice echoed through the hall. “Something terrible has happened to them.”

At the same moment, at the summit of Tianxu Peak, Chixiao Sacred Land, Central Continent.

Li Cangming sat cross-legged before the Sacred Fire altar, the Sacred Flame burning around him diminished by seventy percent. The wound on his left arm had been sealed by searing the blood vessels with sacred fire, but the lost flesh could not regenerate—the power of destruction from the Evil Flower still lingered in the wound, preventing all healing.

Behind him stood the remaining ten martial gods.

Every single one carried wounds. In each pair of eyes burned humiliation and rage.

“Ancestor.” Li Tianxing knelt before the altar, his forehead pressed to the ground. “This time—”

“Shut up.” Li Cangming’s voice was calm, but within that calm was thunder waiting to erupt. “Tianxing, how did you describe his strength to me?”

Li Tianxing’s body trembled violently: “I told you he was—a martial god of recent promotion, with exquisite palm techniques and extraordinary artifacts—”

“A recent promotion to martial god.” Li Cangming repeated those four words, a bitter, ironic smile twisting at the corner of his mouth. “A person who barely became a martial god—able to withstand eight of the same rank with a single sword stroke? Barely a martial god—able to fight forty without dying? Barely a martial god—able to produce the Evil Flower?”

Li Tianxing’s forehead already touched the ground, his back shuddering uncontrollably.

“Your mistake was underestimating the enemy.” Li Cangming’s voice suddenly rose. “And my mistake was trusting your judgment! Twenty-nine martial gods, eight hundred imperial void cultivators—do you have any idea what that means?”

He stood abruptly. The dim Sacred Flame around him exploded violently, and within an instant, the temperature at Tianxu Peak’s summit soared to a terrifying level.

“It means that the combat strength of the sixteen sacred lands has been crippled by thirty percent! It means that Central Continent’s seven-thousand-year deterrent power has crumbled overnight! It means that from today onward, every force in the five regions that we’ve suppressed for seven thousand years will swarm in like sharks that smell blood!”

His roar reverberated across Tianxu Peak, shaking the very flames on the altar.

The ten martial gods remained silent. Each of them understood that everything He said was true.

The authority of Central Continent’s sixteen sacred lands was built not on righteousness or morality, but on armed deterrence.

Forty martial gods and eight hundred imperial void cultivators—their very existence was a silent proclamation: Central Continent is the heart of this world, and the sacred lands are its rulers.

But now, that force had been crippled by a little emperor who had been on the throne less than three years.