A crimson red eye appeared on his palm—at first rolling in every direction, twitching—and then it fixed its gaze directly on the target, as if it were the Dead Eye of the Fallen itself, but if it were everyone here would hve ceased to exist, but it wasn't truly that, just a drop of Dead Eye.
The innocent boy didn't lift his head, but the two men behind him did. The moment they looked at the eye, their bodies froze at the place where they stood. Their eyes shot upward, turning pure white before rolling back down lifelessly.
And at the same time Ibaan felt something deep and sorrowful growing inside him, unbearable with each second. His chest tightened, his eyes almost bulged from the strain, and a sharp pain shot through his body—but it was nothing compared to what he had endured when those creatures had entered him, or when the petals burned had entered his eyes.
Then came the emotions—foreign yet real—flooding his heart. He felt their despair, their guilt, their pain. Memories flashed before his eyes.
He saw them being bullied by the Upper Knuckles, forced to work endlessly, beaten if they resisted. Those who complained—no one remembered them now except the walls. The weight of sorrow, regret, and something nameless filled him completely.
Now he understood. The Lower Knuckles were not comrades—they were slaves.
He could feel their minds now, could move their bodies like extensions of his own. Their movements, their voices, even their thoughts—all under his control.
Controlling them, he freed the child from the cuff and turned toward the others who stood frozen in shock.
"Take the child and support the others!" he ordered.
Yes, it was a risky choice. By sending them away, he weakened his own support and increased his danger—but Ibaan wasn't heartless. He already knew what might happen if the entities inside him took control again. If he transformed into that form—the one that had once consumed him—he could lose control and harm everyone, even his own allies. And if that secret got out, even his companions might turn against him.
"But—" Saint of Dreams spoke, but Ibaan cut her off sharply, his voice cold and heavy.
"Obey."
She hesitated for a moment, then swallowed her words. Trembling slightly, she took the child's freed hands which still looked cuffed and began leading him away, cautious with every step.
The boy still didn't look up. His quiet sobs echoed faintly as they disappeared through the balcony's edge.
Ibaan turned back, beneath the mask his eyes were cold and didn't wear any expression on his face. And then he dove into the memories he had absorbed—searching for the secrets of the Iron Knuckles.
*
Selpe focused her Chikara and spread it toward the tree, taking control over it.
She got hold of the tree, but she didn't use her [War Authority] power yet. She was waiting for Saint of Truth and Saint of Love to make their perfect strike. If she wanted, she could have cut all the branches the enemy controlled—but she wasn't foolish. Doing that now would only scatter his focus instead of breaking it completely.
Just then, the Saint of Truth summoned a scythe in her hand and, without a moment's delay, struck the enemy with frightening speed. The blade tore through his abdomen, slicing clean through to his back. Her scythe carried poison, for she was known as the Toxin Reaper.
'Are they serious? They're really revealing their identities to each other? First Huzaifo, and now Mereah?' Selpe thought. But before she could think further, she noticed a long white sword glowing—already cutting through the enemy's neck and returning to its wielder's hand on the other side.
'Soul Sword?' Selpe realized. That meant the Saint of Passion belonged to the Forge Clan.
Then, Saint of Love drew her Flower Serpent Sword and sliced through the enemy's legs at the knees. A serpent of mixed hues emerged from the blade and slithered into the open wound.
All of it happened within seconds. Shen De Weather, the enemy, stood dumbfounded, pain surging through his body—pain he could no longer endure.
He was about to scream, to alert others of what was happening—when a massive tree crashed down on him, crushing him completely.
Selpe felt a wave of relief wash over her heart.
They had succeeded. The branches once under the enemy's control slowly receded and vanished into nothingness.
And now, thinking of their identities, no one bothered to celebrate that they knew each other, as they were well aware of the current situation—they could deal with that later.
Saint of Dreams held a boy covered in a long jacket in her arms. Who was he? And what was he doing here?
But just then, Selpe realized that the group that went with Ibaan had come back.
Then what happened to Ibaan?
Her heart pounded.
She suddenly walked toward the group, curiosity rising, her breath heavy enough to be heard from a distance. "Why did you come back? Where is the leader?"
"He told us to support you guys, and that he'll handle it by himself," Saint of Passion said, stepping closer to them.
She was about to scold them but tried hard to control her emotions. In their eyes, Ibaan was the leader—they had to obey him. But for her, he was something else, someone she had known for ages yet was separated from by the ruthless wall of fate.
Even so, she convinced herself that Ibaan would be alright. He really would be. He was far stronger than her, so he could surely handle everything on his own.
"You guys have the Nitrox Gas Lid in your System's Space—summon it," Selpe ordered.
At the same time, a small silver bottle appeared in her hand. It had a lid on top, and if pulled out, the gas inside would instantly diffuse.
They nodded and did the same—the same silver can appeared in their hands.
With the Nitrox Gas Lid, they could lessen the number of Lower Knuckles, and perhaps even the Upper Knuckles, which would help them deal with the Iron Knuckles faster, engage with them, and hopefully wipe them out completely.
But deep inside, they knew—it wasn't going to be as easy as it seemed to be.