The moon had long since disappeared, and at some point in time, the sky had grown heavy with dark clouds.

Moen felt something wet fall onto his face.

Rain?

Reflexively, he licked it, and his mouth was immediately filled with the nauseating taste of rusty iron.

Ah, right.

It wasn’t rain.

It wasn’t water either.

It was blood.

…The blood of a woman who was about to die because of him.

Moen stiffly lowered his gaze. The woman lay helplessly on the ground, a pool of crimson blood spreading beneath her. Her body convulsed in agony, yet not a single cry of pain escaped her lips.

Her voice? It had long since been torn to shreds. After repeatedly calling out earlier, her already damaged vocal cords were completely ruined.

Perhaps she could no longer see, no longer hear.

And yet, she was still desperately trying to say something.

Moen carefully watched the movement of her lips and realized she was saying:

"Run."

Not "Help me."

But "Run."

"What a… fool."

Moen suddenly burst into laughter, a laughter that made every bone in his body tremble and every muscle spasm.

"You don’t even know my name, and yet you tell me to run?

You’re about to die, and instead of clutching onto me as your last hope, you’re telling me to run?

Do you even know who I am?

I’ve said it so loudly—weren’t you listening?

I’m the son of Duke Campbell!

I’m a top student at Santa Maria College!

I’m the prized disciple of Master Mela!

And yet, you dare tell me to run?"

Moen raised his head and looked at the growing mob of bloodshot eyes, eyes crazed with fear and madness. He asked, with utmost seriousness:

"Isn’t that laughable?"

Of course it is!

Hilarious!

So hilarious—so absurd—

That it makes me—

Want to kill!

A pure white dagger appeared in his hand, and intricate golden patterns blazed coldly against the deep darkness of the night. Moen’s figure, carried by the biting winds of late autumn, swept across the chasm between life and death in an instant, as if gliding through space.

Lorenzo roared with unhinged fury, "Do it now! Kill him, you must kill him! If you kill him, I’ll find a way to smuggle you all out of here! If not, we’re all dead!"

At that moment, the desperation and madness that Moen had dismissed as irrelevant exploded in full force among the gang of criminals.

Gripping their weapons tightly, they charged fearlessly at the lofty son of a duke.

Clang!

Long swords clashed against the short dagger, sending sparks flying. Reflected in the blade's surface, Moen saw his own eyes—just as bloodshot, just as mad as those of the gang members.

Yet in this moment, Moen’s heart felt eerily calm.

As if he were a still lake.

But when he looked down, he found that beneath the surface of that lake…

There was fire raging!

"Die already!"

Moen roared.

His blade swung viciously.

Slash!

Blood sprayed into the air.

The first Red Flame Gang elite to meet Moen’s blade looked, stunned, at the half-shattered sword in his hand—and at the half-severed arm now missing from his body.

There wasn’t even time to cry out in agony. Moen had already closed in like a sledgehammer, driving his pure white dagger deep into the man’s chest.

The magical runic armor beneath the man’s clothing flickered faintly with traces of blue energy. It was an enchanted armor strong enough to withstand even military-grade magical crossbows. And yet, this armor—within a heartbeat—was pierced straight through by the dagger.

Flickers of life force crackled and writhed around the blade, its pure white sheen exuding a peculiar holiness.

But within that sanctity was an undeniable savagery.

If Master Mela had been present to witness the scene, she would no doubt have clapped her hands in delighted applause, brimming with pride for her work of art.

This was the true reason she sought to forge such a perfect blade.

Because for someone like Moen, soft, symbolic holy swords would never do.

True beasts require claws to wield their strength!

And now, Moen had claws. The pair of daggers—wielded truly for the first time in his life—felt as though they extended directly from his body, like a natural part of him.

He shredded the heart of the man before him and kicked him aside, both pure white daggers glinting without a single trace of blood staining their pristine edges. In a fluid motion, Moen drew an immaculate arc through the air, meeting an incoming onslaught of chill-forged blades with ease.

For a time, despite being surrounded by numerous attackers, Moen held his ground perfectly.

In fact, as his movements became more fluid, it began to seem as though he was gaining the upper hand, gradually pushing them back.

"Useless fools!"

A rage-filled voice bellowed.

From the corner of his eye, Moen caught sight of a figure charging into the fray. Though not particularly tall or imposing, the sheer pressure radiating from this individual was suffocating.

Lorenzo clutched his long sword tightly, taking a deep breath. A peculiar current of energy seemed to swirl around him. Moen noticed dry, dying leaves being sucked into his orbit, spinning rapidly before being shredded to pieces.

This is…

"Haah!"

With a deafening cry, Lorenzo unleashed all his aura in one devastating strike, channeling the peak of his second-tier strength through his magically reinforced armor.

Combat Art: Demon Severance!

The long sword came crashing down, shattering from the formidable power it carried. The ground beneath his feet erupted, sending fragments of stone flying in all directions. Invisible waves of destructive energy fanned outwards, as though some monstrous claw had swept through the battlefield, tearing everything in its path to shreds.

Caught in the explosion of destruction, Moen could not escape.

He could only watch as those terrifying waves consumed him.

Boom!

The stone-paved ground erupted violently, leaving a jagged trench in its aftermath. Smoke and dust filled the air, obscuring all vision.

Within the suffocating cloud, pieces of limbs—torn to shreds—were flung outward, along with other grotesque human remains.

To ensure the certainty of his strike, Lorenzo had not hesitated to include his own men in the attack’s range.

Though it appeared brutal, the result was what mattered most.

As pieces of flesh and debris rained down, a sinister grin spread across Lorenzo’s face. He had long since blurred the lines between friend and foe in the chaos, yet until now, no one had ever survived facing this strike head-on. So…

"Human lives, to you, are nothing more than trivial playthings, aren’t they?"

A voice—a deep baritone, steady and devoid of emotion—echoed through the haze.

Lorenzo’s triumphant expression froze, his eyes widening in disbelief.

How... that's impossible.

Absolutely impossible.

This was just some spoiled noble brat—barely a second-tier warrior—how could he possibly…

As the riverbank breeze swept through, the smoke began to clear, and the figure came into view once more.

His once luxurious clothes were now tattered rags barely hanging onto his frame. His stomach and arms bore multiple deep gashes, exposing bone and even internal organs. The wounds were fatal—but instead of bleeding, they burned, blazing with crimson fire.

Moen seemed utterly indifferent to the pain of his injuries, calmly tapping the two glowing white daggers together. With their contact, arcs of energy formed an alchemical field, pushing back the smoke and dismembered debris while completely isolating the oppressive aura of the King of Wither.

"So then…"

Moen raised his eyes, the serene surface of his gaze locking onto Lorenzo’s, who was now shuddering with renewed terror.

"Mr. Lorenzo," he asked softly, as if inquiring about some trivial matter, "are you equally unafraid of your own death?"

To Lorenzo, those words weren’t a question—they were the devil’s whisper. The veins on his face contorted, his fury consumed by spasms of dread. Desperate, he roared commands to his remaining subordinates, urging them forward.

"Now! All of you—now!"

"Don’t be scared, he’s just a spoiled noble brat, nothing to fear!"

"He must have used some rare potion or magical artifact, but the effects have already worn off! You can kill him now!"

"If he survives this, not just you, but your families will be dragged into this mess!"

"You have no way out now!"

The equally terrified Red Flame Gang elites exchanged glances before clenching their teeth and charging at Moen one after another. Meanwhile, Lorenzo quietly began retreating amidst the chaos.

"In that case…"

Moen lowered his gaze indifferently, crouching defensively once more.

Shadow Step!

Moen’s form blurred like a phantom as he darted toward the mob.

The disparity in weapons and technique was an insurmountable gulf.

Previously, the numbers advantage had put Moen in a temporary stalemate.

But Lorenzo’s intervention—ironically—helped Moen shatter that balance.

Like a tiger unleashed upon a flock of sheep.

One versus many quickly became one-to-two, one-to-three, and even one-to-one in fleeting instances.

With Shadow Step augmenting his movements, Moen wove effortlessly between the Red Flame Gang elites, keeping them perpetually fragmented and out of formation—like rescuers fumbling to save drowning comrades, only to drown themselves in the process.

The blood continued to spray.

Their treasured enchanted armor proved utterly useless. Without magical energy to sustain it, it became little more than clunky decoration. And such meager defenses—when faced with the absolute sharpness of weapons crafted by a Grand Archmage herself—were no better than paper.

Moen’s movements required no thought, only instinct.

Slash.

Slash again.

And slash, once more.

Kill.

Kill again.

Keep killing.

The dagger combat skill recorded within the Black Book had already reached Level 10 and transformed into dark letters.

Moen didn’t know what this signified. All he knew was that his moves had reached an unprecedented flow.

And so, no one could stop him anymore.

"How… how is this possible? How is he so strong?"

By now, Lorenzo’s eyes weren’t just wide in shock—they looked like they might pop right out of his skull.

You’re telling me this is a pampered duke’s son?

He kills more cleanly than I ever could!

The efficiency with which his strikes targeted and neutralized vital points—there’s no way that’s not the product of hundreds of kills!

Lorenzo began to regret everything.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have let his fear cloud his judgment and launched into reckless violence.

Perhaps keeping hostages would’ve left him with more leverage.

Perhaps surrendering outright would’ve been the better choice.

Perhaps…

But there were no "perhaps" anymore.

He had underestimated the strength of a duke’s son, just as Moen had underestimated the desperation and audacity of the rats from the Lower City District.

Everything had already happened.

And that which has already transpired—even the gods cannot undo.

"It’s not… over yet. I still have cards to play."

Watching his men fall one by one like stalks of wheat before a scythe, Lorenzo whispered to himself, his face pale and drawn:

"Do it. Do it now. Double the money… No, triple!"

"Spirit of distant winds… Mother of Slumber… Death Chant!"

As Lorenzo’s muttering ceased, Moen heard the ethereal murmur of a chant. He finally remembered—

Among Lorenzo’s crew, there was a hidden mage.

The unassuming man had been lingering at the very rear, now murmuring an incantation as quickly as he could.

Moen was just thinking about dodging when the two men suddenly lunged at him with all their might, wrapping themselves around his legs.

As a result, this strike was guaranteed to hit.

No matter how skilled you are, once you take this hit from me, you will become a lamb to the slaughter!

In the mage's confident, twisted smile, a powerful negative effect magic capable of putting even a dominant-level magical beast into slumber transformed into a dark green beam of light. It burst forth from his hand and shot instantly toward Moen.

With a crisp splat, like a water droplet hitting a glass shield, the magic collided head-on with the edge of the alchemy field and then... nothing else happened.

A deathly silence fell over the scene.

"Ah, I almost forgot. The field has this feature too," Moen murmured.

Even he seemed slightly stunned for a moment, then shook his head with a smile. After cutting down the two men beside him, he used Shadow Step to instantly appear in front of the mage.

Staring at the mage's dumbfounded eyes, he said earnestly,

"You should’ve used an attack spell."

With that, he swung his blade and severed the mage's head.