Ibaan frowned, confused why the hell would Bain, the leader, say those words. Was he mental? Surely not.
But to his surprise, the leader didn't dare to look back at his palm—he never did. He met the cold red eyes of Ibaan, and Ibaan felt he shouldn't be wasting his time. The memory of that kid crying flashed in his mind; he needed to fight for those who were sacrificed and those who were about to be.
He clenched his fist.
"You think you could make me a fool with that evil eye of yours? I see, but that won't work on me, kid," Bain said coldly and confidently.
Ibaan didn't wait to respond. Summoning his divine sword, he charged at the enemy at a frightening speed.
Everything around him slowed down due to the unknown specialty of the mask.
He pierced the sword through Bain's mouth, passing through it and emerging from his back.
Ibaan's excitement grew, but at the same time, it was replaced by confusion, and his chest tightened.
At the same time, flashes of the enemy's image appeared to the left side, fading.
The enemy had dodged the strike.
The enemy bent down and moved his hands back, just about to strike at Ibaan's stomach.
Ibaan saw it and instantly sidestepped, bringing his tentacles toward him, striking violently at his abdomen.
Bain's eyes widened, and before he could comprehend how Ibaan launched the strike so fast, he hit the altar violently, breaking it into pieces.
The stone tablet fell and scattered along with the candles.
Bain's expression froze, eyes narrowing as he realized the altar was broken. Words left his mouth—"You bastard, what have you done?" He clutched his head.
Lifting his gaze, he widened his eyes and growled, "What have you done, bastard?"
Ibaan stood frozen for a moment but didn't stop. He vanished from his place and charged at the bewildered man.
'What have I done? Wait for what I'm going to do.'
Ibaan raised his sword and struck the enemy's abdomen, saying in a cold, inhuman voice, "Fool."
But as the words left his mouth, Bain started laughing again.
"Huhahahahaha…"
He lifted his gaze upward at Ibaan, his eyes now pure black, laughing inhumanly.
"Says who?"
Just then, Ibaan realized a black light pulsed from the wound he had made on the abdomen—
A Black Fire, the one that burned fire itself and made anything cease to exist when it touched its abyss.
Ibaan's eyes narrowed—he didn't expect this. He tried to withdraw the divine sword, but it didn't move an inch. He tightened his grip and pulled harder with all his might, yet it still wouldn't budge. He tried to leave the grip of the hilt and that also slapoed him in the face directly .
'Wha—'
He then tried to unsummon the sword, but even that didn't work.
His body froze completely, there was nothing else he could do, there was no escape and no words left his mouth but a simple thought formed in his mind in sheer disbelief:
'Am I going to die… just like that?'
His heart felt exhausted, and just then his horns descended down, fading into nothingness. The tentacles slipped, disappearing into the same place they had emerged from, and the tail vanished from its place.
He closed his eyes, the full redness in the eye replaced by his normal crimson red eyes.
The black fire spread upward toward the hilt of the divine sword.
Was it his end?
Was he going to die just… like that?
Was this how it was supposed to happen?
No—it wasn't.
Because he was a servant to the will he desired, his will wouldn't let him die.
Just then, something stirred deep within his heart, and his soul and subconsciousness connected by a bridge—something nameless.
It grew and grew with every passing second.
Then, in his nervous system, the brain recognized a lost pattern—like a half-finished melody suddenly playing again.
Electrical impulses began to jump, synapses weak at first but gaining strength as more neurons linked together, forming the original pattern. But there were still gaps, meaning the pattern was incomplete. Not all memories had awakened—only a particular one.
He was familiar with that same flame—the one that had once burned through his very veins. It was his legacy, his uniqueness. The Utopians—an organization led by a woman named Xorra—the one who had given them their uniqueness, their Utopia. And he was one of them, despite being a vampire.
But unfortunately, he had lost it—the legacy—when corruption took hold of him. Yet fate always tied itself back to him. One could understand fate, but never escape it.
At that instant, a panel of his construct materialized before him.
[Divine Sword devoured Xorra's Inferna Noctis]
[Description: The legacy left by the great mother of the Utopians. The legacy of the Flame of Night—extinguished by nothingness, burning even fire itself. The most formidable power that shouldn't exist.]
And he realised —it was the power of divine sword, an ability to devour the forbidden powers.
It all happened in an instant. The divine sword erupted, devoured the black flame and made it one if its own.
The enemy's eyes widened, and words left his mouth, trembling and broken. "Who… are… you?"
Ibaan's eyes narrowed. If this man could use the Utopian legacy, then it could only mean one thing—the leader of the Iron Knuckles, the most cruel and heartless being in this world, was also a Utopian.
But every Utopian was a friend to them. So who could he possibly be?
At the same time, in Ibaan's true voice, he asked coldly, "Who are you?"
The Black Flame then spread through the enemy's body from the wound in his abdomen, burning him entirely.
It could never be extinguished—not by the wielder's will, nor by anyone else. It would vanish only when it had devoured its target completely.
"..."
He screamed, his voice raw with terror. But in truth, it was like a candle flickering out as its own fire consumed the last of its wax. Death was patient as ever—simply waiting for the perfect moment.
"Grahhhhhhhhhhh…!"
*
The scream echoed through the entire mansion, reaching the ears of the others—those who were still alive yet gravely injured after the battle with the Upper Knuckles, who had already faced the Judgement of the Saint of Dawn.
Their bodies were drenched in blood.
The corpses of the Upper Knuckles lay scattered across the ground.
And indifferent, the Saint of Passion spoke, his voice trembling, filled with awe and uncertainty.
"Who was that…?"
"We have no idea!" the others replied, their voices dazed and weary.
"It's been hours… and the leader still hasn't come back," the Saint of Passion continued, his tone breaking slightly.
Selpe sat with her head lowered, her expression dark and heavy, her arms resting on her knee in silence.
'Idiot!'
They had been waiting for Ibaan to return for hours, yet he still hadn't come back. Hopelessness crept in—they didn't know whether to wait longer or accept the bitter truth.
She feared losing someone who felt deeply tied to her, someone she had unknowingly lived for all this time, someone who was fated to be with her. There was something about Ibaan—something familiar she couldn't explain—and she didn't want to lose him.
Even so, she convinced herself that he was still alive. If they waited just a little longer, maybe… just maybe, he would come back.
Inside the mansion, the Nitrox Gas had already spread everywhere. In their weakened state, they couldn't go inside—if they did, they'd be lost to its effects for days, even though they were wielding Elite Branch.
But then, suddenly, the mansion was swallowed by black flames,, the sound of burning echoing through the air. The sudden wave of heat reached their bodies.
Selpe lifted her head, her eyes widening and glinting with hope.