In the frozen heart of the Northern Wastes—a name given to a particular space within the lower realm that was sealed and had its separate laws, far away from the lower realm's perception—the Frost Wyrm Empress's domain trembled like a wounded beast.

This realm was completely under control of the Empress.

Even though it was meant to be present initially for this woman captured eons ago by the combined might of Dao Ancestors who feared her growing influence.

They had underestimated her.

Trapped in eternal isolation, she had not withered; instead, she had reached beyond her confines, her indomitable will seeping into the very fabric of existence.

She began to influence the nature of life and death themselves, twisting the cosmic cycle to her design.

Souls destined for reincarnation found themselves diverted, drawn into her growing domain—a passage she had carved between the living world and the void, where the wicked and the lost were remade in her image.

Her realm became the Hell of mortal legends: a vast, infernal expanse where punishment was eternal, and redemption was a lie whispered to the desperate.

The demons and monsters that prowled its shadowed depths were no born horrors—they were the transformed souls of those who had died carrying unresolved loss in their hearts, their essences warped by her touch into loyal servants.

But to sustain her growing army, to give form to these twisted spirits, she needed bodies.

Strong, resilient vessels capable of housing souls of immense potential.

And for that, she required males of exceptional vitality—alpha breeders who could mate with her realm's beasts and produce offspring worthy of her grand design.

Now, that carefully balanced hell erupted into chaos.

Screams and roars filled the domain, a cacophony of agony and fury that echoed off walls of jagged obsidian and rivers of molten lava.

Beasts—massive, scaled horrors with eyes like burning coals—thrashed in blind panic as the dimensional rift tore open like a festering wound.

Their death cries shattered the air: bone-deep bellows of terror from six-headed hydras as their serpentine necks snapped like twigs under the crushing force, gurgling roars from molten bears whose volcanic hearts burst within their chests, and the piercing shrieks of shadow ravens whose wings dissolved into ash mid-flight.

The Draconic Spiritual Vine's detonation flooded in, a cataclysmic wave of corrupted energy that ignited everything it touched.

Fire exploded across the landscape, devouring the twisted spires of bone and sinew, melting the iron chains that bound lesser demons to their torments.

The slaughter was absolute and horrifying.

Massive hellhounds, their fur ablaze, howled their final songs as their skulls cracked open like rotten fruit, spilling molten brains onto the burning ground.

Three-eyed tigers roared in agony as their striped hides peeled away in burning strips, revealing muscle and bone that crumbled to ash moments later.

Serpentine drakes, once proud guardians of the deepest pits, writhed in death throes, their scales popping like firecrackers as superheated blood boiled within their veins, their final hisses turning to wet gurgles as their throats collapsed.

Fires raged unchecked, consuming the shadowy forms of demons and monsters alike, their final howls blending into a symphony of destruction—a chorus of the damned meeting their second death.

Massive stone gargoyles cracked and crumbled, their death rattles like avalanches as they toppled into the molten rivers below.

Winged horrors plummeted from the burning sky, their membranes shredding, bones snapping audibly as they crashed into jagged peaks, their dying shrieks dopplering away into silence.

The realm itself seemed to wail, the very ground cracking open as the explosion's shockwave ripped through the domain.

Entire legions of her servants—thousand-headed chimeras, armored behemoths, writhing masses of tentacles and teeth—all reduced to ash in moments, their collective death roar so powerful it shattered mountains and boiled lakes of fire.

Lesser demons exploded like overripe fruit, their essence scattered to the winds, while greater beasts died more slowly, their agonized bellows echoing for precious seconds before fading to wet gasps and then eternal silence.

Yet, amid the inferno, one figure remained untouched.

Seated upon her huge chair made of bleached bones—crafted from the skeletons of ancient immortals who had dared challenge her—the Frost Wyrm Empress observed the pandemonium with serene detachment.

Her gentle blue skin shimmered like polished sapphire, unmarred by the flames that licked at her throne but vanished inches from her form, dissipating into harmless wisps as if reality itself bowed to her presence.

Black scales adorned her shoulders and hips like obsidian armor, gleaming with an otherworldly sheen, while twin black horns curved elegantly from her forehead, framing a face of ethereal beauty.

She rested her chin on one clawed hand, a smile adorning her lips—cold, knowing, and utterly devoid of fear.

The fires raged around her, but they could not touch her; they simply ceased to exist in her vicinity, vanishing into nothingness as if her very essence repelled chaos.

In her other hand, she held five small orbs, each glowing with faint, ethereal light.

They were fragments—pieces of memory, power, and essence from souls that had once belonged to her husband, the Horny God, scattered across realms and timelines.

None were complete; they were echoes, remnants of a being who had loved her beyond reason, who had died in her arms after a millennium of passion that had consumed him entirely.

She had collected them over eons, nurturing them like precious jewels, but they were not him.

Not the original source.

Until now.

"Finally," she murmured, her voice a silken whisper that cut through the dying screams like a blade through flesh.

"I've found the original source, husband."

The orbs pulsed in her palm, responding to her words, but she paid them little mind.

Her star-like eyes fixed on the chaos unfolding before her, the smile never leaving her face.

She had sensed him—the true him—through the rift, his eyes meeting hers across the void.

He had not been swayed by her beauty, as immortals and mortals alike always were, falling into lust at a mere glance.

No, he had glared with anger, fury born of protectiveness for his wives.

That unyielding devotion, that refusal to be tempted even by her divine allure—it was the trait of the Horny God himself.

Sinio.

Her Sinio, reborn in a new form.

"Tch, how weak you've become, darling," she chuckled, her laughter like the tinkling of ice crystals in a winter storm.

"Dying after just a millennium of sex? Fufu, you'll need to grow much stronger if you're to stand by my side again."

With a casual stretch of her hand, the entire domain trembled.

The fires vanished in an instant, snuffed out as if they had never existed, leaving only smoldering ruins and the acrid scent of charred flesh and boiled blood.

The dead beasts—twisted amalgamations of souls and demonic essence, their corpses still steaming with residual heat—began to stir, their mutilated forms knitting back together.

Shattered skulls reformed with sickening cracks, burst organs regrew with wet, squelching sounds, and flesh regrew over exposed bone like time flowing in reverse.

Eyes reignited with infernal light, and one by one, they rose from their own ashes, bowing their heads in unison toward their empress.

The resurrected horde let out a collective roar of submission—a sound deeper and more terrible than their death cries, shaking the foundations of hell itself.

Where moments before had been screams of agony, now rose a unified bellow of renewed loyalty, the sound rolling across the domain like thunder from a thousand storms.

Satisfied, she flicked her finger, and thousands of screens popped into existence around her throne—ethereal windows into the lower realm, each one showing the same man.

Tianlong. Sinio.

Her husband, in all his current forms and moments: battling cultivators, embracing his wives, radiating power that was but a shadow of what he could become.

She watched him with a mixture of fondness and calculation, her smile widening.

"You've found worthy mates this time," she murmured to the screens, as if he could hear her.

"But they'll need to prove themselves in my domain."

"Grow stronger, darling."

"Become the god I remember... and perhaps, in time, you'll be ready to rule hell beside me once more."

The screens flickered, capturing his every move, while the domain settled into an uneasy peace.

The Frost Wyrm Empress leaned back in her bone throne, the five orbs pulsing softly in her hand.

She had waited millennia for this moment.

A little more time—and a little more strength from her reborn love—would make all the difference.

For in hell, time was much slower than in other realms since she could control time within at will.

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