With a fierce roar, Alex charged forward.
His fist, shrouded in a dark glow, shot toward the enemy.
The wraith responded without hesitation, meeting him with a crushing blow.
The battle between them escalated in speed, their movements so rapid that in the dim shadows of this layer, an ordinary person wouldn't even be able to track the exchange.
Strange, tadpole-like patterns slithered across their skin.
But gradually, due to the disparity in strength and the oppressive environment—
After who knew how many exchanges—Alex's body smashed into the wall, then slid down slowly, his face twisting in pain.
Gasping desperately for breath, his mind foggy and sluggish.
Even doped up, he still couldn't win.
He was… pathetically weak.
His eyes hollow, his body covered in dark veins.
A bitter smile crossed his lips as he prepared himself for death.
"Still not enough?" His hatred was directed at his own incompetence, his sheer weakness—so feeble that he couldn't even manage a mutual demise.
Then—
Crack.
The sound of an egg breaking.
A young voice rang out not far from him:
"The hell? You stinking wraith couldn't just stay at the neighborhood entrance, had to come here instead?"
Watcher?!
Alex's mind jolted, but he dismissed the thought just as quickly.
The voice was too young, and the way of speaking didn't match Watcher's.
A newly awakened superhuman who'd stumbled into the Shadow Layer?
Impossible.
No sane person would just wander in here. And even if someone wanted to, most entry points were tightly controlled by The Dawnhall.
Unless—
Some reckless young superhuman had discovered a crack and forced his way in.
Just how impulsive would you have to be to pull that off?
Alex wanted to call out a warning, but the moment he opened his mouth, agony wracked his body. A wave of weakness crashed over him, and he staggered, collapsing to the ground.
Meanwhile, the fight had already begun.
HP: 23%
The tiny remaining sliver of the health bar dipped slightly lower.
A solid punch landed, sending Damian Vale's body flying backward.
At full health, the wraith was strong, fast—just a graze from its attacks could shred Damian's HP in seconds.
But now, with its health this low and already heavily injured?
This was a fight he could win.
And if things went south? He could always just retreat.
Mind burning with adrenaline, Damian had made his choice—he'd barged into the Shadow Layer.
The moment they locked eyes, the wraith's fury was palpable.
A sharp, grating shriek erupted from its maw as it lunged forward.
Damian snatched up a soy sauce bottle and hurled himself at the creature, smashing it down on its skull.
The wraith swung its blade in retaliation.
The bottle shattered mid-air, dark liquid splattering as Damian twisted aside.
His right arm tensed, muscles coiling—then he struck.
HP: 23% → 22%
From their previous clashes, he'd learned the wraith's patterns.
Either it swung its scythe or crushed skulls with its massive fists.
But the scythe had been wrecked by that Watcher. Now, with only one fist left?
Advantage: me.
Damian pressed the attack, clawing at the wounds already weeping black blood.
22% → 20%
Another chunk gone!
He raised his fist for another strike—
Thwack!
The wraith's body convulsed violently, its smoky tail whipping around like a whip.
It slammed into Damian's chest.
Crack.
A dull, heavy impact—followed by the sickening sound of snapping bone.
Damian was sent flying, his back crashing against the unyielding wall.
"Cough—!"
His whole body felt like it had been dismantled. For a few seconds, his mind blanked.
Then the pain hit.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself up.
No choice—the wraith was coming again.
"SCREEE—!"
Its shriek was like nails on glass, scraping against his eardrums.
"Its right side—the ribs are badly injured! Aim there!" Alex, slumped against the wall, spat out through clenched teeth.
"Got it."
Damian dashed forward.
But the wraith knew its weakness. It twisted its body, shielding the injured side.
Damn thing.
Swerving mid-step, Damian pivoted, left fist cocked back.
He barely dodged the wraith's punch—then drove his own into its gut.
HP: 18%
Below 20%, the wraith's speed visibly dropped.
It's dying.
The realization flashed through Damian's mind.
But the wraith wasn't done.
Its fist reversed trajectory, plowing into Damian's abdomen.
His eyes bulged, blood flooding his vision as he was launched backward like a cannonball.
The force dwarfed even the tail strike from earlier.
His insides churned, organs screaming in protest.
Fuck!
This bastard was at less than 20% HP, and it still nearly killed him in one hit?
Limbs trembling, he lay there for a second before dragging himself up.
Why wasn't it chasing him down?
Then he saw it—
The wraith was charging straight toward the two kids behind Watcher.
It's going for a heal.
Damian's pupils shrank.
Somehow, he found the strength to grab a vinegar bottle off the ground and hurl it at the wraith with everything he had.
Crash!
If this had been a Shadow Layer bottle, it'd be hard as steel.
But this was just a normal one he'd brought from the outside—utterly mundane.
The shattering glass drew the wraith's attention.
And in that split second of distraction—
The half-dead blind man erupted with a surge of power.
A sweeping kick hammered into its side.
HP: 18% → 15%
A full 3% gone!
At this stage, every single point mattered.
The wraith barely managed to kick Alex away—
But Damian was already airborne, tackling it like a predator taking down prey.
They rolled, tangled, until Damian ended up on top, pinning it down.
The wraith's body was a mess—dented, oozing black blood, barely holding together.
Damian wasn't much better.
Broken ribs, torn flesh, a gash on his forehead leaking crimson.
Bruised, battered, covered in grime.
But his expression was pure ferocity.
Fist raised—
Slam!
A brutal punch smashed into its face.
HP: 14%
"Aberrant, huh?"
Again.
Slam!
"Trash. Keep barking!"
"Like eating people?"
"Eat this!"
13%
12%
11%
Each blow was raw, unfiltered violence.
Splatters of blue-black blood hit Damian's face, sizzling against his skin.
But compared to the rest of his pain? A minor sting.
The wraith thrashed wildly, its elongated two-meter frame twisting in desperation.
But Damian held firm.
No fancy techniques.
Just attack, dodge, counterattack.
A crude, unrefined brawl—any Watcher watching would've scoffed at his amateurish form.
But the fire in his eyes?
No one could laugh at that.
Gasping for air, sweat drenching his body, his heart pounding like it wanted to escape his chest—
Slam!
HP: 10%
Then—
A red dot flickered into existence over the wraith's heart.
What—?
Instinct moved faster than thought.
Damian's fist was already in motion, plowing straight through the glowing point.
Time seemed to freeze.
The wraith's eyes locked onto his, wide with realization.
"Execute."
He clenched his fist, whispering the word.
The wraith's struggles ceased.
Its body stiffened.
The last 10% of its HP bar faded like embers dying out.
An Aberrant capable of slaughtering dozens—
Was dead.
The light in its eyes dimmed, then vanished entirely.
Damian's chest heaved, his breaths ragged.
Vision blurring, he looked down at the corpse, then around at the battlefield.
The fight had left almost no marks on the Shadow Layer.
Just bloodstains and broken glass—proof of the life-and-death struggle.
The blind Watcher lay against the wall, clothes torn, skin veined with necrotic black patterns.
The two children were unconscious, their small bodies barely shielded by the fading white glow.
Running a bloody hand through his damp hair, Damian smeared grime across his face—only his bright, unwavering eyes still clear.
His throat worked.
An Aberrant… This is an Aberrant.
Compared to others in the Shadow Layer, this one was weak.
But even at 20% HP, without the Watcher's help, it would've killed him.
It made him realize—
The kind of pressure and danger The Dawnhall faced every day.
For a moment, Damian's mind drifted.
A memory surfaced: Rina Carver stepping into Liam's room, the brief glimpse of the interior—
A massive map.
The outline of Veylund's territory, the entire southern region pitch black.
The west, north, and east marked by five massive red symbols—the first-class Safe Zones.
The rest?
Tiny specks of red, like fireflies in the night. Insignificant.
Branwick Safe Zone was one of those specks.
The hanging sun, the world's dark underbelly, superhumans walking on thin ice, a fractured land, flickering sparks of hope.
Some reveled in neon-lit streets; others screamed in the shadows.
The silent, the fighters, the dead—
This was Veylund.
The truth known—and unknown—to most.
The real Veylund.