Dransart reflected as he prepared for his next destination. This world has no day or night, only the passage of time. Without a clock, living here feels endless… but of course, this is Hell Realm itself. He decided to travel alone, leaving his companions behind, for the path ahead led to Wrath City.
He mounted the spirit horse carriage provided to every subordinate of their city, a spectral vehicle meant only for roaming within the city's borders. At the edge of Former King City, he abandoned it, choosing instead to walk. Shifting into his Witch King Class, he altered his expression to one of fear, appearing timid and hesitant.
As he entered Wrath City, voices of wrathful ghosts echoed around him. "Hey, you won't take a single life. I can see it—you're afraid." Their taunts filled the air, but Dransart ignored them, pressing forward.
Soon, he found a homeless man sitting in the street. "Why are you here? Doesn't Hell Realm provide homes?" Dransart asked.
The man nodded. "I had a home, but I sold it. I know you seek information about this city's subordinate. In exchange, hear my story and give me d-coins."
Dransart thought, I have no time limit here. I fight, I plan, I endure. Perhaps listening will be worthwhile. He agreed.
The man introduced himself. "My true name is Weaver Notan. I was once known as the Blinded Killer. Don't mistake the name—I wasn't blind. It meant I killed without seeing who stood before me. My wrath consumed everything after my wife was assassinated."
He continued, "I was legend level. The six realms feared me. They killed my wife to catch me off guard. I lost myself, slaughtering monsters, children, men, women, even the elderly. My friends too fell in the hill of corpses I created. Eventually, I broke. I starved, refusing food or water, and died. That massacre became known as the Blinded Killer Incident."
Weaver's voice grew heavy. "I wished to become a lingering ghost, for their mission allows entry into Resurrection City. But Wrath City's mission is to forget the past—the very trigger of wrath. I cannot. So I sold my house. I wander."
Dransart listened silently, then spoke. "If you cannot call your home your place, then I too have no place. My past is similar. Do not burden your wife with guilt. I believe she is in Lingering City, waiting, worried for you. Move forward—for her."
He handed Weaver enough d-coins to build a home. Weaver's eyes widened. "Can you give me more? In exchange, I'll give you something you desire most."
Dransart agreed, offering more coins. Weaver handed him an object. Dransart examined it. "Is this your former house's key?"
Weaver laughed. "Can't you see? I made history. I was chosen as subordinate of Wrath City. This is no mere key—it is proof of my station. And I can feel it—you have killed more enemies than I ever did."
Dransart realized the truth. He had already been recognized by Hell Realm itself. His sack carried the Hell Tower Key, and now Weaver confirmed his path forward.
With Wrath City's subordinate revealed, Dransart prepared for the next stage. Financial matters were trivial, but security weighed heavily. He delegated paperwork to his Shift Sword, transformed into a pen.
The sword grumbled. "I am a legendary weapon, meant for battle. Yet you make me a pen."
Dransart smiled. "Thank you. Soon, you'll return to war. Hold on tight."
That night, he returned to his chamber. His companions awaited, and together they began dual cultivation, strengthening themselves for the trials of Lingering City, Pride City, and Resurrection City.