A faint, almost mocking smile curved his lips, and in a voice as smooth as steel sliding from a scabbard, he spoke:
"Fall." He paused just long enough for the word to hang heavy in the air.
"Aiden Fall"
The captain's gut twisted. That name carried weight. He didn't know why, but his instincts screamed that this man wasn't just an ex-prisoner.
Leaving his thoughts aside, the guard captain leaned forward, tapping the wooden frame of the carriage. "Speed up. If we keep crawling like this, we'll miss the commander's party celebrations."
The coachman clicked his tongue and flicked the reins, the horses neighing as the carriage picked up speed, wheels rattling harder against the cobblestones. Torchlight painted long shadows over the narrow street, but inside the carriage, the tension was suffocating.
The prisoner—Aiden Fall—sat with shackles gleaming under the dim lantern, his eyes fixed on the passing streets. He didn't speak again. He didn't need to. His silence was heavier than words.
The captain forced himself to look away, but his instincts whispered louder and louder.This man… isn't he too comfortable being in chains.
Karl Escort Services Headquarters, Trinity City
Meanwhile, across the bustling city, chaos was descending like a blade from heaven.
The Karl Escort Services manor—one of the largest branches in Trinity City—was alive with noise just moments ago. Paperwork shuffled, servants scurried, and guards patrolled the courtyard. It was supposed to be just another night.
Then came the sound.
STEP.
STEP.
STEP.
Footsteps—slow, deliberate, and chillingly casual.
A young man cloaked in a black-and-grey robe walked straight through the main gates, as if the guards weren't even there. In his hand, he carried a butcher-knife shaped sword, its jagged edge glinting like a hungry animal under the moonlight. His face was sharp, almost handsome, but his eyes—his eyes were a predator's.
"Stop there! Identify yourself—" one guard began.
The answer was steel.
SLICE
The man's blade cleaved through the guard's neck in a single, effortless sweep. Blood sprayed the courtyard. Before the body could fall, two more guards were already cut apart, their screams drowned in the wet sound of flesh tearing.
And then it began.
The shadows around him moved. Men cloaked in black surged in, blades flashing, hacking and slashing with animalistic glee. They didn't just kill—they butchered. Limbs flew. Heads rolled. Screams echoed as blood painted the pristine walls of the manor.
STEP
SLICE
SPLATTER
STEP
SLICE
The young man walked forward calmly, letting his subordinates bathe in gore. Every step he took was marked by another scream, another corpse. His sword dragged against the floor, leaving a streak of blood that grew longer and longer.
By the time they reached the inner courtyard, the ground was carpeted in bodies.
"Enough."
His voice cut through the night like a whip. At once, his men halted, their manic laughter dying into silence. Their eyes turned toward him, awaiting his command.
He lifted his butcher blade onto his shoulder and smirked, looking at the trembling figure standing at the top of the stairs.
The Branch Manager of Karl Escort Services.
The manager's lips trembled. "W-Why… why are you attacking us? We have a contract—"
The young man raised his hand, silencing him. His smirk widened into something cruel.
"You talk too much."
He stepped forward, dragging his blade against the ground. Sparks hissed.
"My brother doesn't allow me to fight often. No No it's not for my safety…" He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with madness. "…but for the safety of others."
The men behind him chuckled darkly. The air itself grew heavier.
He spread his arms wide, as if announcing to the heavens.
"Remember this name, Manager. Remember who turned your manor into a slaughterhouse tonight."
His voice deepened, shaking the walls with its force.
"I am Arkel Dron."
The name hit like thunder. The vice leader of the X Cartel. A Grandmaster in strength. A mad dog in spirit.
The manager's knees weakened, but he forced himself to stand tall.
Arkel moved faster than the eye could follow.
SMACK
The manager staggered back as Arkel's palm cracked across his face, sending teeth flying.
Before he could recover, a savage kick drove straight between his legs. The manager's scream tore through the hall as he collapsed, clutching himself.
Arkel laughed—loud, manic, cruel. "What's wrong, Branch Master? Is that all you've got?"
He didn't strike with grace. He didn't duel with honor. He humiliated, degraded, and destroyed. Punches, kicks, slaps—Arkel treated the master of the manor like a child's toy, tossing him against walls, dragging him across the floor.
Finally, he grabbed him by the hair and dragged him out of his chamber, through the blood-soaked hallways, into the courtyard littered with corpses.
"Tell me something," Arkel sneered, slamming his face against the dirt. "Why… did you send second-rate martial artists with the consignment? When I told you it was the most important shipment?"
The manager coughed blood, gasping. "I-It wasn't me… it was Patek's order. He demanded all Peak Masters and above be sent to Portland. Urgently."
The moment that name was spoken—Patek—Arkel froze.
His laughter died. His grin faltered.
Fear flickered across his wild eyes.
For the first time that night, silence fell. Even his men exchanged uneasy looks.
Arkel slowly lifted the manager up, his tone shifting to almost… apologetic. "You… you should've said that earlier."
The manager blinked in confusion, looking around at the carnage, the butchered corpses, the maniacs licking their blades. He wanted to scream, to curse, to fight—but the sight of Arkel trembling at a single name silenced him.
Swallowing his pride, he forced a shaky smile. "I-It's fine. Truly… it's fine…" His voice cracked as tears streaked his face. "I-I understand."
Arkel exhaled, relief softening his features. Then he patted the manager's hand gently.
"Thank you…" His lips curled again into that monstrous smile. "…for giving me peace of mind."
The manager's relief lasted exactly one heartbeat.
Then Arkel's men seized his arms.
"W-What—?!"
Arkel raised his butcher blade high—then slammed the blunt back of it down on the manager's skull.
BAM
The first blow drew a scream.
BAM
The second silenced it.
BAM
The third shattered bone.
BAM
By the fourth, there was nothing left to scream with.
BAM BAM
BAM BAM
BAM BAM
Still, Arkel didn't stop. Again and again, he smashed the corpse, blood spraying across the courtyard. His men tried to restrain him.
"Vice Leader—he's already dead!"
Arkel's head snapped toward them, his eyes glowing with fury.
In that instant, his Grandmaster aura erupted.
The courtyard trembled. Stones cracked. The very air seemed to bend under the crushing weight of his presence. His men staggered back, faces pale, lungs screaming for breath.
Arkel stared at them with bloodshot eyes, then turned back and delivered one final, sickening blow.
The manor was silent again.
HUFF HUFF
Breathing heavily, Arkel wiped the blood from his face. His laughter returned, low and broken.
Then, in a calmer tone, he asked, "Tell me… why did my brother personally go with the consignment?"
One of his men—his right hand— John bowed deeply, his voice trembling.
"It… it was to ensure that sword doesn't get lost. But as he was just a mortal, he didn't know the escort agency would send weaklings. He… he has now been arrested by the Special Corps."
The courtyard froze.
"So what do we do now boss?"
Arkel's grin disappeared. His hands tightened on the hilt of his blade.
"Call the mole," he ordered coldly. "and gather all our gangs. Now."
John nodded, pulling out a small artifact glowing faintly with inscriptions. It was circular, like a mirror, but no reflection appeared. Instead, a faint voice crackled within—a connection made by spirit frequency.
A Spirit Transmission Artifact. Spirit-tech capable of linking voices across cities.
The air grew thick. Blood still dripped from the blade. And Arkel Dron's eyes burned like a demon awaiting the signal of war.
Party Location – Secluded Farmhouse Outside Trinity City
The night was loud with laughter, and the clinking of wine glasses. Lanterns glowed against the wooden beams of the old farmhouse, casting long shadows over the gathered officials. Retired veterans and rising stars mingled together, all here to celebrate the end of their commander's long service.
At the edge of the courtyard, Brian stood silently, nursing a cup of milk. His right hand was wrapped in cloth, the faint red stain of blood seeping through.
"Good evening, sir."
Brian turned. It was Captain Rowan—the same guard captain who had stopped Aiden Fall at the gates earlier. He saluted crisply before lowering his voice.
Brian gave a short nod. "Rowan. Didn't expect you to make it here so soon."
Rowan's sharp eyes dropped to Brian's hand. "What's wrong with your hand, sir?"
Brian shifted slightly, hiding it behind his sleeve. His reply was calm, almost dismissive. "Small accident this morning."
Rowan frowned. "Still on duty, or are you off sir?"
"I wrapped up duty and was heading home," Brian said, sipping his milk. "But something came up. Who was the man inside your carriage though."
Rowan leaned in, lowering his voice even further. "On the way here, I saw one of our station guards struggling with a man at the gates. Suspicious fellow—looked like a cultivator, though weak. Carried himself with arrogance. Had a tattoo on his arm too."
Brian's gaze sharpened, though his face betrayed nothing. "And?"
"When we asked for identification, he handed over a release order. Fresh. Straight out of Portland Prison." Rowan's tone hardened. "Didn't like the look in his eye, sir. Scoffing, silent… felt wrong. So, I had him cuffed and put in my carriage. I'll question him properly and release him in the morning if he checks out."
Brian tilted his head. "He's restrained?"
"Yes, sir. Shackled." Rowan nodded firmly.
Brian's lips tightened, but he only murmured, "Good. Keep it that way."
For a moment, neither spoke. The music and laughter behind them felt oddly distant.
Finally, Rowan asked, "Sir… if you don't mind me asking. What really happened to your hand? I am sure a peak master like you would not have an accident with your senses."
Brian exhaled slowly, his mind flashing back to moments ago at the old station.
Moments Ago
The seized contraband had been catalogued, bound, and hidden in the abandoned sewer beneath the outskirts station. But among the crates of demonic dust lay something else—a sealed black box, faintly humming with energy.
When Brian had reached for it, his men had tried first. One by one, strong martial artists strained, but none could so much as budge it. The box clung to the ground like it weighed mountains.
"This thing… it won't move!" Charlie had grunted, sweat dripping down his face.
Brian, frowning, stepped forward. His instincts told him this was no ordinary cargo. Ignoring his men's protests, he wrapped both hands around the edges and pulled.
The instant his skin touched the surface, agony ripped through him. His right hand felt as though molten iron had been poured into his bones. His qi roared wildly, suppressed by something deeper, heavier.
Still, gritting his teeth, he forced it up—inch by inch, vein by vein—until the box finally lifted free. He staggered but managed to drag it into the sewer vault, where it was sealed away with the rest of the contraband.
When he pulled his hand back, the skin was already torn and raw, blood dripping freely.
He said nothing to his men. He only wrapped it tight and gave orders to move on.
But deep down, Brian knew.
Even sealed, the sword inside that box radiated such power it scarred him with a touch.
Back to the Farmhouse
Brian's eyes returned to Rowan, steady and calm once more.
"Like I said," he murmured, lifting his cup. "A small accident. Nothing worth troubling over."
Rowan hesitated, sensing more beneath the surface. But he knew better than to press a man like Brian.
Instead, he raised his own cup, forcing a smile. "Very well, sir. To the commander's health."