The moment Ethan’s order left his mouth, Dopey exploded forward, charging straight at the Stoneborn leader.

"Aaah—!" The man roared, rage breaking through his fear. "Then I’ll take you with me!"

A barrage of abilities crashed toward Ethan.

Too bad Ethan had been waiting for exactly that.

The instant the Stoneborn moved, Ethan blinked away with Teleportation, cleanly exiting the kill zone.

And the moment the Stoneborn committed to attacking, Dopey was already on him.

No tricks. No flourish.

Just a fist—simple and brutal—driving straight in.

The Stoneborn leader’s face went white. He stacked defensive skills on himself as fast as he could, layering them again and again while he tried to retreat.

It didn’t matter.

In front of absolute strength, every "method" looked flimsy.

Dopey’s punch smashed through the defenses and sank into the man’s chest.

"Pff—!"

Blood sprayed. The leader’s body flew backward and slammed into the ground.

Dopey had clearly held back. If he hadn’t, that punch would’ve ended it.

The Stoneborn didn’t even pause to check his injuries. The instant he hit the ground, he plunged straight into the earth, trying to escape underground.

Dopey flashed to the spot where he’d vanished.

Then stomped.

"BOOM—!"

The ground shook like a bomb had gone off. The earth sank visibly, dropping as if the land had swallowed a breath—then spat it out.

The Stoneborn leader’s body was forced back up, launched out of the soil in a messy tumble, scrambling to flee again.

Dopey was on him instantly.

He grabbed the man by the ankle and whipped him down like a rag doll.

"BANG—!"

The impact cracked bone. The Stoneborn leader’s body went limp, every joint collapsing wrong. He lay there twitching, eyes wide with terror as he stared up at Dopey.

Dopey didn’t hesitate.

He brought his foot down on the man’s head.

"THUD—!"

The Stoneborn leader’s eyes rolled back, and he went unconscious on the spot.

Dopey dragged him over and dropped him in front of Ethan.

Ethan looked down at the man—now basically a pile of broken limbs—and couldn’t help asking, "You didn’t kill him, right?"

Dopey couldn’t speak. He just tossed the body closer like, Check for yourself.

Ethan sensed the faint life still clinging on and finally exhaled.

Dopey really was reliable. Ethan said "cripple him," and Dopey crippled him—clean, controlled, not over the line.

"Creating a thrall takes a lot of materials," Ethan said, already thinking ahead. "We’re going back to Fallen Star City."

He stored Dopey away, then grabbed the unconscious Stoneborn leader and lifted off with telekinetic flight, heading straight for home.

On the way, he called Miles and told him to prepare everything they’d need.

This guy’s condition was awful. Ethan had no idea how long he’d last like this, so they had to move fast.

Then Ethan called Chris to tell the others to return as well.

This time, Chris’s group had basically just been spectators. They hadn’t needed to do much at all.

Ethan had brought them along anyway—because last time, things had gone sideways fast. If they hadn’t been there, Ethan might’ve bled out. Dopey didn’t exactly do "rescue."

Not long after, Ethan arrived back at Fallen Star City.

Under Miles’s guidance, he carried the Stoneborn leader down into an underground room.

A basement.

Inside, Miles had already laid out all the materials Ethan had requested, neatly arranged and ready to use.

Ethan glanced around, impressed despite himself.

Miles’s execution speed was insane. In this short amount of time, he’d already gotten everything together.

Ethan tossed the man into a pool that had been filled to the brim with medicinal liquid, then summoned Dopey again—just in case anything went sideways.

The "medicine" in the pool wasn’t anything rare. It was mostly harsh stimulants, plus venom extracted from highly toxic mutant beasts.

The create thralls method didn’t specify exact ingredients. It only required two things: something strongly stimulating, and something poisonous.

Ethan had already told Miles to stockpile that kind of material earlier, so Miles had been able to produce it immediately.

Then Ethan started refining everything according to the steps in the secret method.

Dopey hadn’t needed any of these prep stages back then, because Dopey had already been created as a thrall—using a more advanced method. All Ethan had to do was perform the technique to seize control.

Even so, taking Dopey had been hell.

It had taken days.

He’d cast the technique countless times, bled himself over and over until he’d lost track of how much blood he’d poured out.

If Ethan didn’t have a stubborn streak bordering on insane, he would’ve given up early.

But in the end, he’d succeeded.

And Dopey—without exaggeration—was the most broken, unfair "treasure" Ethan had ever gotten his hands on.

Without Dopey, forget killing the Stoneborn. Ethan would’ve been lucky if they didn’t wipe him out.

Creating a new thrall took time, but Ethan could afford time.

If it worked, their power would jump again.

A thrall created successfully would be noticeably stronger than it had been in life.

And this guy had already been Tier 30 peak.

If Ethan refined him into a thrall, he’d become something that brushed right up against Stage S.

Thralls had absurd physical durability, and they didn’t feel pain. Even against a Stage S powerhouse, they didn’t flinch.

Time dragged.

Inside the pool, the man’s expression twisted in agony again and again. But with every bone in his body shattered, he couldn’t move.

Whenever he started to wake up, Ethan had Dopey knock him out again.

He had no choice but to endure.

Outside, Chris and the others guarded the basement entrance, making sure nothing interfered.

Ethan’s thrall creation ran from midday all the way into the next afternoon.

By then, the pool water had turned clear—the medicine and poison inside had been completely absorbed.

And the man floating in it no longer looked like he was suffering.

Eyes closed, face blank, he looked almost peacefully asleep.

Ethan sliced his finger with a dagger.

A single drop of blood fell onto the man’s forehead.

Then Ethan used the technique, guiding the blood into the space between the man’s brows.

The blood sank in—no reaction.

Ethan stayed calm and continued.

One drop after another.

More than a dozen drops, more than a dozen casts.

Finally, the figure in the pool opened his eyes.

They were the same as Dopey’s—empty, dull, lifeless.

Ethan grinned. "Heh. Way easier than controlling Dopey back then."

He spoke like he was giving an order to a machine.

"Stand up."

Instantly, the man rose from the pool and stood there, dripping, staring at Ethan with that same wooden expression.

Ethan nodded, satisfied. "Nice. Dopey’s got company now."

He tilted his head, thinking for a second.

"Alright... I’ll call you Rocky."

Rocky didn’t react.

Ethan smirked. "No objections means you agree."

He stored both thralls into his spatial storage ring.

With an additional thrall that was nearly Stage S, Ethan felt like an extra layer of insurance had wrapped around his life.

He stood, rolled his shoulders, stretched the stiffness out of his back, then walked out of the basement.

At the door, Chris and the others surged in the moment they saw him, eyes bright.

"So?" Chris demanded. "Did it work?"

"Obviously." Ethan smiled.

The group erupted instantly.

"Haha—yes!"

"Two super monsters on our side now!"

"Damn, that’s huge!"

Ethan raised a hand. "Yeah, but same rule as always. This is a trump card. The real key is still our own strength."

Everyone nodded, sobering a little.

"Alright," Ethan said, letting the grin come back. "I’m dead tired. I bled a ton too. Miles—go catch another mutant chicken and stew it for me. I need to refill my tank."

Miles laughed. "No problem."

Big Mike immediately wiggled his eyebrows, voice filthy. "Captain... you’re not about to get any ideas after that soup, are you?"

Ethan didn’t even look at him. "Mia. Freeze him."

"Okay."

A moment later, the basement corridor echoed with one last yelp.

When everyone walked off, an ice sculpture was left behind in the hallway, locked in a very unfortunate pose.