Under the pitch-black night sky, a scorching blaze suddenly erupted, illuminating half the city district.

The deafening sound of explosions and the enraged roars of marauders startled the sleeping residents. Yet, ordinary people didn’t even dare to peek out in moments like this. They could only curl up under their blankets, trembling, and pray to the goddess for peace.

But the goddess does not bless everyone.

“Damn it! What the hell are you doing?!”

The new leader of the Red Flame Gang, Relon, who had claimed his position just yesterday, came storming out with his subordinates, all freshly roused from their slumber. His eyes were bloodshot as he stood face-to-face with the figures amidst the ruins and dust before him, grinding his teeth in rage.

“How dare you launch a surprise attack on the Red Flame Gang? Are you looking to trigger a war between the gangs?”

“War? No, this is not a war. You flatter yourselves too much.”

On the remnants of a wall blasted into rubble by forceful magic stood a short, goblin-like figure. His gaze swept across the courtyard engulfed in flames, and a derisive, sinister grin appeared on his rat-like, hideous face.

“This will be a massacre!”

“Rat King?”

Relon's pupils suddenly constricted when he saw the figure on the broken wall. But he quickly composed himself, suppressing his panic and letting out an icy sneer.

“A massacre? Just you and your Rat Gang?”

If the Rat Gang were planning something like a kidnapping, assassination, or poisoning, Relon might have felt some concern.

But a frontal assault?

Are you sure your gang of sneaky, backstabbing rats can manage such an endeavor?

“Who said... it’s only the Rat Gang involved?”

But at that moment, the smirk on Sam’s face grew even darker.

As his words fell, more figures began to emerge beside him.

And with the appearance of each shadowy figure, Relon’s face turned a shade paler.

“Cerberus...”

“The Brotherhood…”

“The Trading Guild..."

Relon’s lips trembled as he uttered the names of the factions these figures represented. The more he spoke, the harder it was to believe...

“Why… why are you all working together?”

What kind of sick joke was this? These factions, who normally couldn’t wait to kill one another—perhaps while simultaneously humiliating each other’s family members—were now gathered together? And judging by the apparent camaraderie, they seemed to be getting along?

Am I dreaming?

What the hell happened overnight?

“I was just saying earlier how strange it was that the Red Flame Gang hadn’t been invited to this party. Well, now it all makes sense.”

Cerberus leader Frangie stepped forward, his gaze landing squarely on Relon.

“Where’s Lorenzo? Why hasn’t he shown his face? And by the way, are many of your Red Flame Gang’s elites missing?”

“None of your business!” Relon barked angrily. “Boss Lorenzo is just busy with something—”

“Lorenzo is dead.”

At that moment, a composed voice interrupted Relon’s shout.

“And along with him, dozens of the Red Flame Gang’s top-tier elite—also dead.”

“Nonsense! Boss wouldn’t—”

Relon shifted his gaze toward the figure in a formal suit who had suddenly appeared, but his retort abruptly died in his throat.

His heart began to race, a chilling sense of fear winding its way into his chest like a venomous serpent.

Because he noticed something else—when this man appeared, the leaders of those gangs and even the weapon-wielding marauders below all fell into an eerie silence, almost instinctively.

It was akin to a wolf pack falling silent when the alpha let out a commanding howl. The moment this man arrived, he became the undeniable focal point of everyone's attention.

As his words resonated, the marauders below grew increasingly restless, preparing for carnage with an almost fanatical fervor. Those present seemed to instinctively believe this man wasn’t prone to lying.

He didn’t bother to explain in detail, but his curt statement about Lorenzo’s fate was enough to solidify it as truth in their minds.

Lorenzo was dead.

“Who… who are you?” Before he realized it, a touch of terror had already crept into Relon’s voice.

For someone capable of commanding such widespread allegiance from rival factions, why had Relon never heard of him?

Moen didn’t answer.

To the dying, there was no need to share his name.

His eyes swept across the courtyard, lingering briefly on the flames burning over by the docks of the Glein River before returning to Relon’s face, which was now etched with anger and humiliation. Observing silently, Moen’s thoughts raced.

As expected, the news that I annihilated dozens of Red Flame Gang elites has been suppressed.

And it’s hardly surprising. After all, I am a duke's son; going on a public rampage and killing dozens would harm the duke’s reputation. Naturally, the duke’s estate would work hard to cover it up.

Similarly, the Red Flame Gang wouldn’t want word of this to spread either.

All is proceeding as predicted.

But there’s one thing...

“It’s too... peaceful,” Moen muttered softly.

“The peace here is almost... unnatural for a gang.”

“What?” Rat King looked over, confusion clouding his face. He hadn’t heard Moen’s earlier remark due to another explosion nearby.

“I said,” Moen replied,

“Keep going.”

The simple, casual statement sealed the fate of one of the Lower City District’s largest gangs.

The assault resumed.

Even without Lorenzo and its elite fighters, the Red Flame Gang still had enough resources to maintain its status in the Lower City District.

But not enough to withstand the combined onslaught of several gangs.

Ecstatic marauders swung their blades, slicing through their enemies. High above, crossbow bolts rained down like deadly hail, claiming lives one by one. Bursts of magic tore through protective wards set over the compound, while hidden rooms were pried open. Chests overflowing with glittering treasures were hauled out one after another—wealth looted from the fallen. Anyone foolish enough to obstruct their path met a cold, merciless death.

The Red Flame Gang retreated step by step, growing increasingly confined.

Corpses began piling up. The ground beneath them grew slick with flowing blood. As Red Flame Gang members mounted an uncharacteristically fierce resistance, casualties began to rise not only on their side but also among their attackers.

Still, it was manageable. However, this stalwart defense enraged Rat King, who had hoped to make a strong impression here. He yelled orders for even more aggressive attacks.

Corpses continued to mount. Blood flowed freely, gradually forming strange symbols on the ground—resembling either a child’s crude doodles or ominous diagrams meant for summoning fiends.

Yet, under Moen’s cold, calculating watch, nothing out of the ordinary happened.

Only anguished screams filled the night sky, accusing the inhumanity of the chaos.

“Could I have been mistaken?” Moen’s grip on his cane tightened as irritation seeped into his thoughts.

But then, he saw it.

In the stark interplay of darkness and firelight, shadows stretched like twisted, snarling demons, making anomalies difficult to spot.

But when one took the time to lower their gaze and watch closely, the peculiar patterns drawn in blood on the floor began fading.

Blood doesn’t dry or evaporate so quickly, which could only mean one thing...

It’s heading underground.

Moen tapped the ground lightly with his cane and looked up in time to spot a figure sneaking away from the frontlines, blending into the chaos.

Eyes narrowing in thought, Moen finally spoke.

“Sam.”

“Here.” At Moen’s call, Rat King quickly dropped his angry pretense and rushed over.

“Are those items I gave you well-ready?”

“Of course,” Rat King replied without hesitation.

The mere thought of the objects Moen had entrusted to him filled him with uncontainable anticipation.

And it only deepened his reverence for the man standing before him.

“Everything is prepared; they’re ready for deployment anytime.”

“Good.”

Adjusting his top hat, Moen’s form distorted into an ethereal shadow, bypassing the chaotic melee to pursue the sneaking figure.

His cool, detached command lingered in Rat King’s ears as he disappeared.

“Gather everyone and wait for my signal.”

“Yes,” Rat King answered, bowing his head respectfully in the shadowy night.

...

“Damn it, why? Why have those maniacs joined forces against us? And all at once?”

In an underground passage, a figure staggered forward.

Hatred etched deeply into his twisted features, his bloodshot eyes—well, one bloodshot eye, to be exact—flickered with mania.

The other eye was a different story: blood gushed forth, interspersed with a ruptured eyeball dangling precariously.

An errant arrow from the earlier chaos had pierced his eye. If not for enchantments that had weakened its impact, the projectile would’ve pierced clean through his skull.

“Damn it! Damn it! How the hell did news of Lorenzo’s death leak out? Was it a traitor?”

No, that didn’t make sense. Non-essential personnel in the gang should have been purged already.

A storm of questions swirled in Relon’s mind. Fear and rage boiled in his chest, setting his teeth on edge. He itched to kill someone—anyone—to vent his fury.

For years, he endured, waiting for Braggart Lorenzo to finally meet his end so he could ascend to the top of the gang.

At last, that moment had come.

But before he could even relish a single day of peace, his entire world—and the Red Flame Gang—was crumbling into ash.

How could he let this go?

“This isn’t over! It can’t be over!” Relon hammered a fist into the wall, his low growl dripping with venom. “I’ll make them pay!”

The narrow corridor suddenly gave way to an expansive chamber.

A vast room unveiled itself before him, along with...

Corpses.

Corpses.

Corpses.

Gaunt, lifeless bodies hung in droves from the chamber ceiling. Guided by gravity, they swayed back and forth, spinning on occasion.

Creak. Creak.

Occasionally, one would rotate far enough for its front to face Relon, revealing grotesque faces twisted in hatred and despair.

Some of them were still alive.

Dull eyes shifted weakly, tracking the movement of the living intruder who had entered their domain. Their cracked lips quivered, emitting fragmented and incomprehensible whimpers.

Yet every single one bore grievous wounds.

Their abdomens had been eviscerated, their exposed viscera glistening grotesquely. Blood poured forth from their bodies—drip, drip, drip—falling into a massive pool of putrid crimson below.

Blood soaked the floor, cascading down in rivulets from the rafters above. A nauseating stench filled the air.

The blood pool rippled as if something lurked beneath the surface.

“Jeros, stop looking at me! Don’t look at me!” Relon howled as his gaze darted quickly past one of the corpses.

“I didn’t kill you—my job was just holding you down!”

“And Maelle—you had nobody but yourself to blame. We brothers drank and ate meat together, yet you wouldn’t join us in gaining eternal life? What’s wrong with that?”

Relon muttered frantically under his breath, his steps unsteady.

“Wenlanka, you bitch, don't you just have my child? How dare you threaten me? How dare you?”

Fear clawed deeply into his psyche as the dim-lit chamber descended into an overwhelming, suffocating silence.

These people included beggars on the street, abandoned prostitutes, and homeless vagabonds.

But more importantly, they were... "comrades" of the Red Flame Gang.

Some of them, who had once called him brother—and even his wife—were personally sent here by Relon in the recent purges.

But there was no choice! No other options!

These sacrifices, these steps... were necessary to attain immortality!

Lorenzo had already failed; he had lost the favor of the Almighty. Therefore, the one truly deserving of immortality was... me! It’s me, Relon!

“Almighty Lord, Almighty Lord!”

Relon strode along the pathway in the middle of the blood pool and came to the center of the room.

On a circular platform rested a pitch-black heart, slowly pulsating.

Relon knelt before the heart, incessantly kowtowing.

“Almighty Lord, the prophesied destruction of the Red Flame Gang has come. I beseech You, grant me immortality and bestow upon me infinite divine power!”

The pitch-black heart stirred, and an eye appeared on its sinewy surface, gazing down at Relon with cold indifference.

Moments later, a voice, both soft and aloof, echoed.

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Almighty Lord! Thank you, Almighty Lord!”

Overjoyed, Relon bowed repeatedly, then eagerly rose, carefully cradling the heart in his hands.

Though the eye on the heart had closed, it retained its sinister appearance, pulsating as if alive. However, in his palms, it felt eerily cold.

“Finally, I can achieve immortality!”

Ha, haha, Lorenzo! After all this time contending against each other, the ultimate victor... is still me!

Though the Red Flame Gang has been destroyed and I must begin anew, as long as I have immortality, as long as I carry the Almighty’s blessings, there’s nothing I cannot achieve!

Relon, his hands trembling, slowly brought the heart toward his lips. As long as he devoured it, once consumed, everything would be his!

Everything...

“Sir, you really shouldn’t eat things this randomly, you know,”

Just then, a mocking voice, faintly sarcastic, broke the silence.

Out of nowhere, a figure in a jet-black suit and hat materialized in the once-empty room.

“Who?”

Relon was startled. He had ensured that no one had followed him. Why was this person here?

“Exactly as you see me,”

Moen stood not far off, tilting his hat slightly as a sly smile curved across his lips.

“I’m just an ordinary passerby.”

“You, it’s you!”

Relon recognized him. He was the very man to whom even the leaders of all the gangs would humbly bow.

A chill crawled into Relon’s heart. Without hesitation, he attempted to shove the heart into his mouth.

But he failed.

To his horror, the heart, along with his hands, inexplicably moved further and further away from him, descending beyond his reach.

“What?”

Fresh blood spurted from cleanly severed wrist stumps, and only then did Relon realize his hands had been lopped off at the wrists.

“I did say, didn’t I?”

Nearby, Moen toyed with a pristine white dagger, letting out a casual whistle.

“Unsanitary things really shouldn’t be consumed.”

“You’re trying to stop me from attaining immortality as well?”

Relon snarled in rage. The anguish from losing both hands—a pain excruciating enough to drive anyone mad—coursed through his nerves, but he seemed unaware.

Suddenly abandoning the fallen heart, he charged directly at Moen.

“So mad?”

Moen frowned slightly, Elizabeth spinning expertly in his hand.

He was about to decapitate the man outright, not wanting to leave room for complications, when suddenly a death warning flared within his mind.

Though faint, it was strong enough to heighten Moen’s vigilance.

He immediately withdrew his attack and shifted aside.

A silver needle shot from Relon’s mouth, grazing Moen’s cheek. Clearly, it was only a diversion. Seizing the opportunity presented by Moen’s evasion, Relon twisted his body grotesquely and lunged again toward the heart.

“Without your hands, how do you even intend to eat it?”

Moen wondered, puzzled. But then, in the next moment, his expression turned to one of utter astonishment.

Relon’s outer coat tore apart, and from his squirming flesh, a newly formed arm suddenly sprouted. It grabbed at the heart.

“Damn it, has sprouting a third limb become the standard skill set for you heretical cultists?”

Moen’s eyes darkened, and the searing heat of magical energy poured into his Alchemy Core.

Time Deceleration, tenfold, activation—

But nothing happened.

In that instant, the black heart sprouted a ferocious, grotesque mouthpart. The maw let out a thunderous screech, and the deafening sound wave rippled outward.

Moen’s every action was interrupted. He could only watch helplessly as Relon swallowed the heart.

The fist-sized heart disappeared into Relon’s mouth. It was even visible as it bulged down his throat.

Unfortunately, choking him to death wasn’t in the cards.

In Moen’s increasingly wary gaze, the flush of excitement surged across Relon’s face, and he broke out in jubilant cries of triumph.

“Finally, I’ve succeeded! I’ve gained the Almighty’s divine power! I’ve achieved immortality, immort...”

But his cheers abruptly stopped.

The fervent exhilaration on his face froze. Moments later, an agony far surpassing the pain of losing his hands contorted his expression.

“Wha... what’s happening?”

Relon’s entire body convulsed violently, black veins spreading relentlessly from his torso to his neck, limbs, and face.

In mere seconds, he transformed into a grotesque, swollen mass of flesh that seemed on the verge of bursting.

“This... this isn’t divine power. This isn’t divine power! Almighty Lord, you deceived me! You deceiv—me...”

His final words, dragged into an indescribable distortion, drowned in agony.

A slender hand burst suddenly from his throat, prying his upper and lower jaws apart.

“What the hell... is this horror show?!”

Witnessing this macabre spectacle, Moen couldn’t resist voicing his shock.

But what followed was far from the stylized horror of a manga.

The hands gripped the edges of Relon’s jaws and tore.

With the chilling sound of flesh tearing, the hands ripped him apart—from the corners of his mouth to his cheeks, ears, neck, shoulder blades, and stomach.

In a flood of blood, Relon was torn into two halves.

From the rising haze of blood and shredded flesh, a stunningly seductive woman emerged, standing tall.

She held the two halves of Relon’s corpse in her hands, siphoning the spilt blood deeply. Her exquisitely made-up face wore an expression of utter ecstasy.

“You foolish pawn. You dare think you’re worthy of immortality when even I haven’t obtained it?”

With disdain, she licked her red lips, tossed aside the bisected remains, and turned her gaze toward Moen in the distance.

“Surprise~ Did I scare you, Moen Campbell? I prepared this little gift just for you. Hmm? Wait, you’re not Moen Campbell?”

The banshee looked quizzically at Moen’s altered appearance but quickly chuckled impishly.

“No, no, you are Moen Campbell. Those fiery, vengeful eyes can’t be fake.”

Eyes, huh?

Moen closed his eyes briefly, regaining his composure, then locked his gaze on the banshee once more.

“To think you’d show up here personally... oh, wait.”

He narrowed his eyes, noticing something off about her aura.

“This... is just an avatar?”

“Oh my, aren’t you keen-eyed? Yes, just an avatar,” the banshee admitted unflinchingly. “As you’ve guessed, this form only possesses about half the power of my true self. You might even stand a chance against me!”

“Heh, I really am underestimated, it seems.”

Moen smirked bitterly, gripping Elizabeth tightly.

“Can't deny. My true self would love to play with you, but she’s currently a bit preoccupied with those mad dogs from the Silence Bureau. So, only I could greet you. But...”

The banshee’s lips curved into an eerie smile.

“I’ve never underestimated you, Moen. On the contrary, I fear you more than anyone else.”

“What’s that supposed to mean—”

Before Moen could finish his sentence, his pupils constricted sharply.

He sensed... movement.

*Thud-thump. Thud-thump.*

The figures suspended from the ceiling began to sway violently. Ropes snapped, and one by one, the bodies fell into the blood pool below.

The pool churned furiously.

A blood-soaked hand grasped the pool’s edge, followed by a frail, trembling figure crawling out.

More forms emerged, their numbers increasing, encircling Moen.

“This is...”

Moen’s gaze grew heavy as he surveyed the zombie-like creatures around him.

“Merely the remnants of sacrifices. They’re not particularly strong, but in this quantity, they should trouble you somewhat.

Oh... and there’s more.”

The banshee snapped her fingers.

The blood pool erupted, its surface surging higher than ever.

A dark, massive figure emerged from the crimson tide, revealing its grotesque, immense form.

A worm-like monstrosity flailed its grotesque appendages, hundreds of gnashing mouths cluttering its underbelly as an eerie cacophony filled the air.

“A Lunar Beast.”

Moen’s face paled.

Lunar Beasts were magical creatures tainted by Moon of Silence.

In the original tale, even a Cataclysmic creature like Leviathan, the Sea Demon, was twisted into the Moon of Silence’s deadliest pawn—unleashing untold havoc.

Although this Lunar Beast couldn’t compare to Leviathan's enormity, its aura already marked it as a high-ranking Alpha-level beast.

An Alpha-level beast was equivalent to a peak Tier-3 being, a foe Moen would struggle to handle one-on-one.

And it wasn’t over yet, as Moen keenly heard another sound—*creak-creak.*

From the shadows of the room stepped a tall figure in a black raincoat.

In one hand, it gripped a bloodied butcher’s knife; in the other, it munched on a writhing shadow.

Through the blood-blended mask that concealed its face, cold, dead eyes glimmered.

But it grinned hideously at Moen, exposing a predatory smile.

“Delicious.”

The Shadow Butcher!

He had been lying in wait here all along!

This was the true climax of the ambush.

And...

“He doesn't look like an avatar,” Moen muttered grimly.

“He isn’t,” the banshee remarked casually. “That’s his true body. He’s too dim-witted to avoid those mad dogs from the Bureau, so I sent him far from me. Convenient timing—he’ll serve as my ultimate insurance of your death.”

“What a frightening scenario.”

Moen’s gaze darted around at his seemingly inescapable predicament while his eyes shimmered with a cunning glint.

A banshee with half the strength of her true form.

A massive number of undead.

A ruler-level Moon Beast.

And, the Shadow Butcher who had previously caused him immense trouble.

No matter how one looks at it, this is…

"A death trap. An absolute death trap."

The banshee curled her lips into a smirk, stretching out her arms as she laughed gleefully:

"That’s right, Moen Campbell, this is the carefully orchestrated death trap I set up for you.

I know that in search of us, in search of Anna Kablin, you would certainly target the Red Flame Gang first. After all, Lorenzo died in front of you in such a way—there’s no way you could possibly overlook such a crucial lead.

So, all that was left was to wait—the moment you came knocking, the trap would spring. And sure enough, you didn’t disappoint me; you actively walked right into it."

"Taking back my earlier words, you all seem to think quite highly of me."

Moen sighed.

This kind of setup shouldn’t have been wasted on someone as insignificant as a second-tier martial artist like him.

"No choice—after all, I suddenly realized that you might pose the greatest threat to our plan."

"That’s quite flattering."

"So, what? Are you..."

"Planning to beg for mercy? If you kneel down and plead, I might just spare you a whole corpse if I’m in the mood."

Moen pressed his fingers against the brim of his hat, a faint sneer forming at the corner of his mouth once again.

"Your next words would’ve been something like that, wouldn’t they?"

"You—"

The banshee squinted her eyes slightly, sensing that something was off.

Because she noticed that apart from the initial surprise, Moen Campbell didn’t seem to exhibit the expected fear.

"Do you have a way to escape?"

After thinking for a long while, the banshee could only come up with this possibility.

Thus, under her command, the Moon Beast and the undead didn’t rush to attack immediately but instead sealed off all of Moen’s escape routes.

The Shadow Butcher positioned himself in the key spot, ensuring there was no way out for Moen.

"Heh."

Moen remained indifferent to the banshee’s speculation; he didn’t even seem to contemplate running away. Instead, he sighed with wistful disdain:

"Had it been the old me, I might have walked right into your trap and even died here."

This kind of trap—without fully activating the flames of the King of Wither—would leave him with no chance of survival.

Even if he managed to live by unleashing that power, it would almost certainly expose his connection to the dark god, facing judgment from the Silence Bureau, leading to a fate no different from death.

Not to mention rescuing his senior sister.

"But, what’s that saying?

As a man, he tends to grow when he has lost something.

And I, as it happens—"

Moen gently stroked the pristine white blade of Elizabeth, the memories of his struggles over recent days flashing through his mind.

Gradually, his gaze turned cold and steely.

"Not long ago, I truly lost so much."

"Kill him! Kill him now!"

The banshee seemed to have caught on to something and frantically commanded the Moon Beast and undead to charge at Moen together.

The Shadow Butcher tightened his grip on his blade within moments.

But it was already too late.

Moen's fingers tapped lightly on the blade, and a resonant vibration echoed past the undead, past the Moon Beast, past the stunned banshee, past the icy walls and ceiling, and traveled far into the distance.

Boom—

With a deafening explosion, the walls of the room were suddenly breached.

Debris flew everywhere, and every living entity in the room instinctively froze to stare at the incoming glow of firelight pouring through the newly-formed gap.

The swirling dust quickly cleared, carried away by the breeze conjured by a mage.

Through the blown-out opening, bloodstained and battle-hardened thugs leaned their heads inside.

"Whoa—cultists!"

"Whoa—monsters!"

"Whoa—beauty!"

Someone exclaimed in surprise, only to be smacked across the head by Rat King.

"You all got the new gear; what are you scared of?"

As he spoke, Rat King toyed with his new weapon, an almost feverish glint in his eyes.

This wasn’t just an ordinary crossbow.

No—it was the fifth-generation military magic crossbow, codenamed Mandrake, a frightening weapon of terror.

Not only was it more compact and portable—small enough to be hidden within sleeves—but its destructive power was even more terrifying. Its specialized enchanted bolts had explosive, devastating effects. Rumor had it that the military once used hundreds of these weapons to kill a top-tier expert just a step away from The Crowned realm.

Aside from its exorbitant cost of over ten thousand Emil per bolt, the Mandrake had no weaknesses.

When these thugs equipped themselves with such weapons, they were no longer ordinary criminals—they were a real army!

But this wasn’t the end.

Under the banshee’s “you’ve got to be kidding me” expression, an even more terrifying weapon was hauled in by several men working together.

Delicate azure lines of magical energy snaked across the cold, intricate exterior of the massive contraption. Its hefty metallic structure exuded a chilling beauty, a blend of exquisite design and savage power.

The large cylindrical barrel—gleaming ominously—began to tilt downward as it was carefully aimed directly at the Shadow Butcher in front of them. Even the banshee couldn’t stop her eye from twitching uncontrollably.

—The Royal Institute’s specially crafted, first-generation 255-caliber Joint Magical Mountain-Assault Cannon. Here to play.

Though as the prototype of its kind, it carried the nagging "minor flaw" of potentially misfiring and sending everyone indiscriminately to the heavens, its devastating power matched the Royal Institute’s philosophy of violent aesthetics. It could blast open a fortress wall within a hundred meters with ease.

As for the Shadow Butcher—an urban legend himself—well, kid, is your skin as thick as a castle wall?

"What the hell is this…"

The banshee couldn’t force a smile anymore. Staring incredulously at Moen, she shrieked:

"Did you haul in an entire armory?"

"This is nothing but a small gift, is it not?"

Moen responded indifferently, with a faint smile.

In the black market, every piece of leaked military-grade weaponry sparked fierce competition.

But when it came to arms smuggling, who could be better positioned than the Campbell family?

Needless to say, Duke Campbell was currently leading tens of thousands of troops at the front lines, locked in an intense standoff against the demonic forces. The daily consumption of military supplies was astronomical.

So, if an additional item or two of slightly faulty, “easy-to-wear-out” gear needed early disposal, wasn’t that perfectly normal?

"Although, making these things ‘disappear’ reasonably does pose a bit of trouble for the 'family.’ Ann even complained to me over it and pouted for days."

Facing the banshee and various monsters whose expressions had gone sour, Moen held his chest, bowed slightly, and conducted himself with the grace of someone announcing the premiere of an extravagant act.

"Thus, though it’s a pity you’re only a mere replica, I kindly invite you to enjoy this performance to its fullest, Miss Banshee."

“And...”

In barely audible tones meant for himself alone, Moen murmured:

"Earlier, I asked you to pass along my greetings to your father, didn’t I? Never said who it’d come from, though."

…

"Sam!"

"At your command!"

"Lock on and—"

Moen issued the order coldly:

"Fire! Blow them to hell!"

"Roger that!"

No further words were needed. At that moment, all the monsters roared and lunged toward Moen.

The closest of them—the Shadow Butcher—hurtled directly into Moen’s shadow, intending to drag him down to hell along with himself before destruction came.

But the Shadow Butcher could no longer strike at any shadow.

Because, in this moment of thunderous explosions, everything visible was consumed by blinding light.