Across the ten-mile arena of the Colosseum and through the three billion live projection screens spanning Worlds #6 and #7, not a single person spoke for ten full seconds. Meanwhile, They watched the thirty-foot Rank 7 Three-Headed Flame-Lion King rest its three golden heads peacefully in seventy-five-year-old Grandpa Mu’s lap. Meanwhile, Ten thousand rescued cubs and mother beasts curled up in warm, furry heaps around the [Gu Family Flying Courtyard]
and shared the remaining platters of Auntie Qin’s braised ribs and honey biscuits.
All the lies Chosen One Mo Fan had preached for three years. That spirit beasts were mindless, bloodthirsty monsters that could only be controlled through agony-brands, iron cages, and electric whips—crumbled into dust before the eyes of three billion witnesses.
“Look at the Three-Headed Flame-Lion King,” a veteran beast-guard in the front row of the stadium whispered, unbuckling his heavy iron shock-whip and tossing it into the trash bin beside the bleachers. “When Mo Fan whipped him with Rank 7 soul-lightning, the Lion King bit his whip in half.
Yet when Grandpa Mu simply pats his head and Little Miss Nuannuan puts salve on his nose, a Rank 7 beast sovereign purrs like a kitten! We’ve been following a fraud and a bully this whole time!”
