The Rat Cultivator

Chapter 112: Teasing

The aggressive glint in Winged Tiger’s eyes vanished the moment he heard Bibo’s threat.

He forced a stiff, ingratiating smile onto his face. “Elder Bibo is indeed as prudent and steady as an old… er, as a wise elder. One word from you has awakened this tiger from his foolish dreams!”

He took a deliberate step back, physically signaling his abandonment of the struggle for dominance. He sidled closer to Bibo, attempting to forge an alliance through proximity.

Winged Tiger cleared his throat and continued, picking up the thread of the conversation.

“I actually know a bit about the background of this Peng Bird the Great King mentioned. Do you remember the Green Roc Great Demon who descended upon Little Green Mountain during the Emperor Fluid event?”

He paused for effect. “This Peng Bird is his spawn.”

“That Great Demon from the Beast Spirit Temple has already reached the ceiling of Foundation Establishment,” Winged Tiger explained. “If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have been qualified to harvest Fated Chances here, nor could he have forcibly breached the Spiritual Qi barren zone when it first appeared.”

Hearing this, Big Black’s face paled. He remembered the terror of the Great Demons vividly; he had barely escaped with his life back then.

He frowned, anxiety creeping into his voice. “If we kill his son, won’t it bring a mountain of trouble down on the Boss?”

The other demons exchanged worried glances. Though they hadn’t seen the Green Roc personally, the reputation of such a being was enough to cast a long shadow.

Winged Tiger, however, puffed out his chest confidently.

“So what if we kill him?” he scoffed. “The Green Roc Great Demon has plenty of offspring. He isn’t short of one son.”

He grinned, showing his teeth. “Besides, on the surface, we have ‘identities’ too.”

Big Black stared at him, baffled. “Identities?”

Bibo and Little Gray pondered for a moment before realization dawned on them simultaneously.

“I see!” Bibo murmured.

“See what?!” Big Black demanded, anxious as an ant on a hot pan. “What do you see? Speak plain!”

Winged Tiger enjoyed Big Black’s confusion for a moment before explaining slowly.

“I represent the Winged Tiger Clan. Little Gray represents the Rabbit Clan—and by extension, the neutral coalition. And Elder Bibo…” He winked at the beaver. “Bibo can easily pass himself off as an envoy from the East Sea Dragon Palace.”

“We pull the tiger’s skin to make a coat,” Winged Tiger said slyly. “Our combined ‘backgrounds’ are more than enough to suppress a single Peng Bird. Even if he dies in the conflict, it will be seen as a dispute between juniors. No matter how angry his father is, the forces behind us will block the Great Demon from intervening.”

“Other clans wouldn’t dare let a junior like him enter their territory alone unless they accepted the risk,” Winged Tiger concluded. “They know the rules.”

“But…” Big Black scratched his head. “How are you sure your clans will actually stop him?”

Bibo stepped in to explain, knowing Big Black was ignorant of the wider world’s politics.

“You might not know this, but the outside clans have an unwritten rule: they don’t allow seniors to blatantly attack juniors of other established factions. Humans are the most obvious about this—they are extremely protective of their own calves. We demons just copy them.”

Bibo counted on his fingers. “The Rabbit Clan is small, but they have the backing of the united neutral factions. The Winged Tiger Clan has a deep heritage. And the East Sea Dragon Palace? They are sworn enemies of the avian clans. They would love an excuse to kill a high-potential descendant of the Green Roc.”

“Won’t the Peng Bird Clan retaliate?”

“Birds value freedom,” Bibo said dismissively. “Their territories are vast and scattered. They aren’t united enough to start a war over one dead child. At most, they’ll hold a grudge and wait for a chance meeting to settle the score.”

Big Black scratched his head again, processing the information.

“I think I get it,” he muttered. “I finally understand why Boss always says the Demon Race can’t develop properly. Too much infighting!”

He sighed. “The Demon Race really lacks a strong, iron-fisted leader like Boss!”

Winged Tiger’s eye twitched at the shameless flattery. “Humans fight even more than we do,” he muttered. “They just unite when outsiders attack because they need peace to cultivate. We demons… we just like the chaos.”

“Are you done yapping yet?”

A sleepy, muffled voice rose from the ground. The Pangolin rubbed his crusty eyes, looking annoyed.

“Why are we making this so complicated?” the Pangolin grumbled. “Why don’t we just tunnel underneath, launch a blitz attack, and slaughter everything in the mine? We’re demons. Since when do we think so much?”

The group fell silent. They looked at each other, then at the Pangolin.

The sheer, brutal simplicity of the suggestion cut through the political fog like a knife.

Big Black gritted his teeth and slammed his fist into his palm.

“Let’s do it!”

Geng Gold Mine Mountain.

High above the metallic peaks, the battle between the Peng Bird and the Demon Vulture flock had reached a fever pitch.

The Peng Bird circled a thousand meters in the air, a silhouette of deadly grace. His wings were like forged blades, shimmering with cyan light against the sun. He moved with arrogant ease, diving and climbing in sharp, geometric arcs.

Below him, the Demon Vulture Leader pursued relentlessly. It let out sharp, ear-piercing shrieks that seemed to drill into the skull. As it flew, it spewed vast clouds of gray smoke.

The smoke spread rapidly, blotting out the blue sky above the summit.

Lower down, the main flock of Demon Vultures circled tightly, their eyes wide and bloodshot. Seeing their leader’s strategy, they opened their beaks in unison, vomiting streams of gray smog to reinforce the cloud bank.

The sky turned into a churning sea of gray sludge, thick and viscous, trying to mire the Peng Bird in its depths.

Yet, the Peng Bird wove through the smoke as if it were nothing. He vanished and reappeared like a ghost, his speed fluctuating erratically. He stayed just out of reach, teasing the Vulture Leader, making the hideous bird believe that this time, he would catch him.

But he never did.

Realizing he was being played, the Vulture Leader roared in fury. His Demon Power surged, agitating the smoke clouds until they began to weep.

Black raindrops fell from the smog—venomous and corrosive. They hissed as they struck the Geng Gold rocks below, sending up plumes of acrid cyan steam.

Bathed in this toxic rain, the Demon Vulture flock went into a frenzy. Their shrieks grew sharper, their bloodlust spiking.

One of the strongest vultures, eyes glowing crimson, broke formation. Leading a small squad, it beat its wings furiously, rocketing upward to flank the Peng Bird.

It didn’t make it far.

A streak of cyan light flashed across the horizon. It was faster than thought, a blur of motion that intercepted the rising squad instantly.

The Peng Bird was there.

His talon flicked out—gentle, almost caressing—tapping the back of the leading vulture like a dragonfly skimming water.

BANG!

The vulture didn’t just die; it detonated. The bird exploded into a fine mist of blood and feathers.

Without missing a beat, the Peng Bird opened his beak and inhaled, swallowing the blood mist whole.

This was the grim reality of the “battle.” The Demon Vulture flock wasn’t holding the low ground for tactical advantage; they were trapped.

The moment any vulture tried to flee or rise too high, the Peng Bird would turn them into a bloody snack. He was herding them.

High in the sky, the Peng Bird savored the terror. With a lazy flap of his wings, he circled back to the Vulture Leader, forcing the struggling creature back into the designated play area.

He wasn’t fighting. He was playing with his food.