The cold wind of Dravenloch city bit like razors against Sané's skin.
It was the first time in years he had breathed the air of the world above.....air that wasn't thick with blood or shadow. But it wasn't freedom.
They were on a mission.
And missions, for the Masked one's, meant blood.
The target was a Transmuter named Azel Park, one of the Masta Realm's most gifted alchemists — and most depraved.
For years, he had been experimenting with a rare substance called Ashborn Essence — a liquid created from draining the blood of cultivators tainted by the blood of Ashborn cultivators....ot those with hollowborn gene. The process was ofcourse forbidden, cruel, and monstrously painful. Infact dozens of Hollowborn were said to have died for every vial of the stuff he brewed.
And yeah, the families knew about it....but they ignored him.....as long as he didn't go too far.
So when Command issued the order to erase Azel Park's base from existence, none hesitated.
---
Sané stood with 111 and 123 at the edge of a burned forest overlooking the facility. From this distance, the laboratory looked like a fortress....it had metallic towers rising from the ground, pale smoke drifting from their vents.
"Guards," 123 whispered, her voice low and sharp. "Armed cultivators. At least thirty."
Sané didn't reply. His crimson eyes narrowed behind the black-and-red mask.
He could feel the essence inside that place — not just the cultivators, but something darker. Something that screamed.
Beside him, 111 was crouched low, his flames pulsing faintly. "You take left, I take right. We burn it down from both sides."
123 adjusted her gauntlets. "And me?"
111 grinned behind his mask. "You're the clean-up crew. Make sure none of them crawl out."
She smirked faintly. "Fine by me."
Then Twelve's voice echoed faintly through their mind-links, calm but cold.
"No survivors. Destroy every flask, every record, every body. Leave nothing for the scavengers. Understood?"
Sané replied softly, "Understood."
And then they moved.
But something was wrong.
The ground trembled as the fortress gates split apart, and out of the smoke emerged not guards... but two giants clad in dark armor, their eyes glowing like molten gold.
Their aura burned the air itself.
Wyrmscourge experts.
Each step they took was like thunder rolling through the veins of the earth.
"Two of them," 111 muttered, voice was slightly trembling behind his mask....but not from fear....but from battle intent.
"He's got Wyrmscourge bodyguards…"
Number 12's voice echoed faintly through their communication rune.
"Stay on mission. The Transmuter dies first. Do not get caught in open combat."
But the warning came too late.
Azel himself stepped out from behind the armored titans....his robes was charred with black stains, his hands clutching glass vials swirling with blue fire. His smile was a cruel one, the kind that knew it could destroy cities.
"So... the Maker's rejects think they can silence me?" Azel's voice dripped venom.
"Let's see if your bones scream when they burn."
Azel tilted his head, studying them like new experiments . "Do you know how many Hollowborn I've saved from worthlessness? How many I've turned into something useful?"
Sané's voice came out low and steady.
"You call what you're doing saving?"
Azel spread his arms, laughing softly... "Of course! They died with purpose. Better than rotting in the gutters."
Sané's eyes darkened.
The shadows behind him began to rise — thick tendrils that moved like serpents.
"You know," Azel went on, "you should thank me. Without people like me, the families would have wiped you out completely. I gave your kind meaning."
He said.... as his army of armed Dreadmark cultivators tried to flank them.
He threw the first vial.
It hit the ground between 123 and Sané—and exploded with a flash of lightning and flame.
The blast tore through the front ranks, scattering bodies like ashes. The force knocked Sané back, but he caught himself on a wall of shadow, letting it coil beneath his boots.
"He's using soul-reactive potions!" 111 yelled, shielding himself.
"Don't let them touch your aura!"
The two Wyrmscourge experts surged forward, their fists sheathed in crimson energy.
Each punch sent shockwaves rippling through the ground. One swung his great hammer toward Sané who immediately ducked, the blow missing him by an inch but leaving a crater where he stood.
Sané moved fast— shadows swirling from his arms like black ribbons. He snapped them toward the warrior, but they broke against the man's aura.
He wasn't strong enough to pierce that layer yet.
"Tch..." he hissed, his eyes glowing faintly with a crimson glow.
"You're not the only monster here."
The battle erupted into chaos.
Azel's potions painted the battlefield in toxic light—green explosions, purple fire, shattering frost that froze men mid-step.
The Wyrmscourge guardians fought like gods of war, smashing through Masked Ones like they were toys. Each time one fell, Azel's vials reanimated the corpse into a flaming puppet.
123's Vestige—the wings of glass—spread wide, unleashing a barrage of reflective shards that sliced through multiple armed Dreadmark cultivators.
111's arms glowed with a molten hue as his Vestige erupted—a fiery gauntlet that turned every punch into an explosion.
Sané leapt into the chaos, shadows crawling along his spine.
He struck one of the Wyrmscourge from behind, shadow tendrils piercing his armor and yanking him backward.
For a second, it worked—the giant staggered.
Then the warrior roared, unleashing a blast of raw energy that shredded the tendrils and sent Sané flying through a wall.
Blood sprayed across the stones.
He coughed, as his vision dimmed a little.
His crimson eyes flickered—somewhere between fury and despair....
Despite the training they went through....it was obvious he wasn't strong enough to take on a Wyrmscourge expert just yet.
"You're still weak," a voice whispered in his mind.
It wasn't his own—it was the echo of his Vestige, deep within his blood.
"Feed me… and I'll make you whole."
But he gritted his teeth, standing again.
"Later," he hissed.
"Right now… I need to live."
Azel hurled another vial—this one cracked midair, releasing a swarm of liquid flame that crawled across the ground.
111 caught it mid-flight and hurled it back with a shout, detonating it near Azel's table of experiments. The alchemist screamed as the blast consumed his lab, shattering hundreds of potion bottles.
The Wyrmscourge roared, charging to protect him.
Sané dashed through the smoke, shadows snaking from his hands to form twin blades.
He met one of the Wyrmscourge head-on.
Steel met shadow.
Each strike rattled the air, sending bursts of pressure in every direction.
Sané dodged, slipped, struck low—his shadows cutting into armor joints—but the enemy's regeneration was monstrous. His body healed before Sané could land a finishing blow.
A hammer strike caught him across the chest, flinging him into the burning debris. His ribs cracked.
He couldn't breathe.
For a second, the world was only fire and ringing silence.
Then, through the haze, he saw Azel—staggering, trying to flee into a tunnel.
The Wyrmscourge followed, limping but alive.
Sané forced himself up, every bone in his body were screaming.
His shadows surged, thick and alive, wrapping around his limbs.
The ground beneath him cracked, and he shot forward—straight through the flames. His blade met Azel's back just as the Transmuter turned.
Azel's eyes widened.
"Wait—!"
The shadow pierced through his chest.
The alchemist collapsed, blood spilling onto the cracked glass of his own potions. The mixture ignited instantly.
BOOM.
A wave of heat engulfed everything. The shockwave threw everyone back—the Wyrmscourge howled, one losing half his body in the blast.
Sané barely escaped, his body a blur of burnt shadow as he dove behind the remnants of a wall.
When the smoke cleared, only ruins remained.
Azel's body lay twisted in the firelight.
The surviving Wyrmscourge knelt beside him, half his face melted, his aura flickering weakly.
He looked at Sané across the flames, then rose—silent, his eyes burning with vengeance.
"You… will not leave alive."
Sané tried to move—but his limbs wouldn't obey. His shadows flickered out, exhausted.
Just as the warrior raised his hammer to strike, a spear of light shot through the smoke—piercing his chest clean through.
Number 12 stepped forward, her expression calm as a blade drawn under moonlight.
"Mission complete," she said softly.
"Prepare to go out"
Sané collapsed, panting. His eyes glowed faintly crimson even in the dark.
He'd survived—barely.
But the look in his eyes had changed.
There was no fear left in them anymore.
Only hunger.
And far above, in the quiet clouds, the leaders of the Damned One's watched the carnage unfold through their spectral mirrors.
"So... the boy survived a Wyrmscourge?"
"He's still unrefined," another replied, smirking.
"But give him time... and he might become a perfect weapon."
"I want him"
---
TO BE CONTINUED...