Gen slid his sword back into the silent pocket of the space-ring worn on his middle finger.
Beneath his feet, George's blood spread across the stone, seeping into every crack.
That red looked like a dying thing desperately clinging to reality — but in the end it simply dissolved into nothing.
The solid earthen wall still stood, its accidental construction hiding the spectacle behind it. Those who were peering from outside the plaza — even Mo Hamus among them — had not seen how George had died. Only the guards and low-ranking servants had witnessed it; they lacked experience and knowledge, they were simply humans crushed by shock. Their eyes went blank, their faces drained of blood, as if their breath had been stolen.
The end had come too quickly, as though everything before had been a cruel joke.
Gen turned quietly. His footsteps fell in steady time, neither fast nor slow — a calm rhythm that made them all shiver. No one dared move; watching that lone figure was like watching the shadow of death glide past.
In the hush, each of his slow, cold movements felt like a blade cutting into the minds of the onlookers. The composure he showed after taking a life was terrifying in itself.
Gen stopped at his great hammer, the massive weapon still lodged in the manor's wall, leaving a deep, brutal crack.
He wrapped his hand around the haft.
When the weapon came free, the stone fractures widened as if to remind everyone that this thing was born to crush bone and flesh, not to be displayed.
For a moment Gen's eyes flicked across the weapon in his hand. Though his calling was not the Warrior Path as Mo Hamus had guessed, he couldn't hide that he preferred this hammer to the sleek lightness of a blade.
A hammer didn't need intricate techniques. One swing, one shatter — simple, merciless, absolute.
But this was, after all, a fantasy world — and to ignore magic would be a betrayal of its setting.
Gen circled back. Passing George's body, his pace slowed a little.
It was easy to see now: without any lingering magical support, George's augmented muscles had collapsed, revealing a gaunt, shriveled frame like a dry branch. The sight made Gen tilt his head; a peculiar, cold curiosity glinted in his eyes.
He had heard of mana nodes located deep in the spine before, but he'd never seen one with his own eyes.
By basic theory, when someone successfully awakens at the Awakening Altar, a mana node forms — a crystalline core that stores and channels mana throughout the body like a nervous system.
If a person dies before reaching level 100, the node usually shatters like a crude crystal. The moment the life thread breaks, the node breaks into dust and dissipates with the remaining mana.
But for those at level 100–199, death leaves a different remnant. Their nodes don't vanish immediately; they condense into a small, pale gray bead called a residual node. Though its mana is gone, it still carries a trace of personal mana — like a faint scent lingering after a flame has gone out.
Scholars consider residual nodes precious archives; from them one can study how an individual shaped their mana over a lifetime.
Yet for those level 200 and above, or for rare geniuses whose mana exceeds normal bounds, the node doesn't simply dissipate. Instead it crystallizes into a brilliant relic crystal. This is not merely a remnant but the true legacy of the strong — a testament left to the world.
Magic academies and kingdoms can even extract unique skills from a relic crystal. These signatures of power cannot be reproduced by ordinary means. Properly processed, the extracted skill can be stored in a skill box and passed on almost intact.
That is why relic crystals are not only treasures but the lifeblood of history, allowing lost skills to be transmitted through thousands of years.
The Smithing skill Gen took from the Stone King was a perfect example.
He only pondered this briefly. He had no intention of desecrating the corpse — if he had wanted to, he would have done so back inside the dungeon.
Gen looked toward Mo Hamus. The man was struggling badly.
Dolly whip lashed ceaselessly, giving him no chance to catch a proper breath.
It was difficult to maintain such a relentless rhythm without making a mistake.
The thin cuts gradually shredded his outer garments, revealing raw flesh beneath — small fiery knives biting into Mo Hamus's patience.
Gen did not hurry. He bent, grabbed George by the blood-soaked collar, and dragged the corpse across the stone. The scraping sound came in steady strokes, like a dry broom sweeping the floor, yet it was chilling enough to stiffen anyone who heard it. To him, the body was nothing more than discarded rubbish by the roadside.
Mo Hamus noticed instinctively; his eyes flicked sideways. In that instant, his heart plunged into an abyss.
George… was dead.
No clamour, no dramatic struggle — not at all. A man like George — a leader, a comrade, a bulwark who had always stood shoulder to shoulder — had fallen so simply. The once-mighty frame was nothing but a collapsed mass of flesh, dragged along like a puppet with its strings cut.
"No… impossible…"
The thought flared like an icy blade. Mo Hamus's pulse raced, breath ragged — half terror, half fury.
But that psychological shock was the invisible killing blow. He knew: as a killer who had waded through blood, the instant his mind wavered even for a beat, the whip that never ceased to lash would not miss its chance. It would tear him apart.
"Damn it… I mustn't falter…"
Mo Hamus gritted his teeth until he tasted blood at the corner of his mouth. He forced himself to concentrate on each crack of the whip, focus every ounce of will into dodging. Yet George's corpse clung to his mind like a nightmare that would not fade.
And because of that, his movements began to slow…
He could feel himself slipping.
Thoughts of George circled like a spreading ink stain, slowing his rhythm by half a beat. That was all it took — and the nightmare struck.
Whoosh!
Dolly's whip traced a beautiful arc through the air, a thin violet streak crashing down. He tried to lean away, but it was too late.
Smack!
A dry, brutal sound, followed by a ripping pain that tore from his shoulder down his ribs. Flesh and muscle were torn wide open, blood spattering across the shredded cloth.
"Gah—!" Mo Hamus choked, spitting a mouthful of blood.
His weapon-bearing hand trembled violently, nearly dropping its hold.
If it had been an ordinary whip he might have endured it. But this was a high-grade weapon — the ominous violet light coiling around its length testified to that: every lash was enough to wreck a human body.
The strike did not kill him, but it was grievous enough to make his breath stutter and his steps falter. Each inhale stabbed his ribs as if a thousand needles pierced his lungs.
Dolly remained as always: silent, expressionless. It retracted the whip, then slowly raised its small hand again, ready for the next strike.
Mo Hamus growled in despair, one knee buckling, humiliation filling him.
He had thought his speed could match his opponent, but his adversary's reflexes — fast, absolute, inhuman — made him feel like an inferior creature.
Only one thought remained in his head — find the opponent's missed beat.
But the more he searched for an opening, the deeper his despair grew.
Each time he thought Dolly would pause for half a breath to regain her stance, the next strike came down with impossible precision. No hesitation. No sign of fatigue. No emotion to disrupt the rhythm of her attacks.
And that—was his fatal mistake.
Mo Hamus never realized that the short, petite figure before him was never truly human to begin with.
If she were just a human, no matter how high-grade her equipment, there would still be openings—a ragged breath, a twitch of a muscle, or the slightest hesitation when blood splattered in her face.
But Dolly had none of that.
It was because he believed he was fighting a "person" that Mo Hamus never changed his strategy. He waited for that inevitable human mistake.
A moment that… never came.
Dolly didn't stop.
The whip coiled in the air, hissing like the shriek of metal being torn apart.
Every motion was exact, cold, unburdened by mercy or feeling.
Just one more strike, and Mo Hamus's body would be sliced in two.
But then—
"Enough, Dolly."
The voice was quiet, calm—so calm it froze the air around them.
Gen had arrived.
One hand held a massive war hammer. The other dragged the corpse of George, leaving a winding trail of blood across the stone floor.
His steps were light, unhurried—as if nothing in the world was worth his concern.
Dolly halted immediately. Her raised arm stopped midair; the whip fell limp and silent.
Mo Hamus turned, wanting to say something—a curse, a sigh—but the words caught in his throat. George… the infamous smuggler, the man feared as "Big Nose" among the underworld, now reduced to a lifeless carcass dragged like worthless garbage.
Gen flung the body down before Mo Hamus. The thud echoed like mockery—an unspoken jeer at the foolish rebellion of those who thought they could alter their fate.
"You're loyal," Gen said.
His tone carried no contempt—just a flat, emotionless observation. "I wonder… why didn't you use your skill? Even knowing you couldn't win, you still chose to fight instead of running."
Mo Hamus lifted his head, eyes bloodshot like dying embers. The defiance in them had faded, replaced by exhaustion and bitter resignation.
"…You think I didn't want to?"
His voice rasped like dry sand. "Especially Eclipse Bloom… a skill meant to create deadly chaos. But…"
He bit down hard, swallowing the rest of his words.
What could he possibly say?
There was no excuse.
No reason anyone could understand.
The truth was—he couldn't.
His unique skill, [Eclipse Bloom], relied on emotional distortion to locate targets.
It was a magic born from inner chaos, allowing him to sense the "emotional breath" of living beings—fear, anger, despair...
But before him—there was nothing.
Dolly had no fear.
No hatred.
No rage.
No fluctuation at all.
The shadow within his skill couldn't attach to emptiness.
To Eclipse Bloom, she wasn't even a valid target.
If he forced the skill to activate, the shadow would rebound, exploding inside him.
That's why he gritted his teeth and relied on mere physical attacks instead.
So he remained silent when Gen questioned him.
Not because of loyalty.
Not because of fear.
But because he knew that using [Eclipse Bloom] would make it bloom inside his own chest—killing himself instantly.
And deeper still, a part of him sensed…
Even if [Eclipse Bloom] had worked perfectly, the monster before him would've found a way to nullify it anyway.
"I don't like your reaction…"
Gen's voice broke the silence as he slowly stepped closer.
"No attempt to save yourself. Just trembling, waiting for the end.
Don't tell me you people have no allies?
Surely this entire town can't just be two fools like you."
A chilling stillness settled between them, heavy as if the war hammer in Gen's hand might fall at any second.
"I gave you time," he said quietly, his tone low and sharp.
"More than enough time."
He raised his hand slightly—a small gesture, yet it felt as if the air itself tightened.
"And this is how you use that gift?"
Mo Hamus froze, realization dawning on him at last.
"You… you did it on purpose…" he whispered, his lips trembling.
"Not just to let the crowd gather… but because…"
"…because you wanted George to call for reinforcements."
"You wanted him to summon every subordinate in this town… so you could kill them all at once."
The words scraped out of his throat like shards of glass.
The air turned deathly still.
Gen neither confirmed nor denied it—he didn't need to.
The blood in Mo Hamus's veins went cold. The more he thought about it, the more terrifying it became.
From the very start, everything—his survival, George's, even the idle chatter—was all part of Gen's plan. Not out of pity.
But because he was waiting.
Waiting for the rats to gather—so he could crush them all with a single swing.
Mo Hamus opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
A moment later, he let out a dry, broken laugh—
the kind of laugh that only comes from a man who has just received his death sentence.