Lucas kept his gaze fixed on the bald man who had just stepped out of the shadows. Even in simple dark robes that hung loosely on his frame, Kael Vanderbilt carried an undeniable presence. His face was handsome in a sharp, weathered way — high cheekbones, strong jaw, and eyes that looked far younger than the silver threading through his otherwise smooth scalp. He could have passed for a man in his early thirties if not for the quiet lethality that radiated from him like heat from a blade left too long in the forge.
The leader of the masked trackers gritted his teeth behind his featureless visor, the concealment artifact at his waist now flickering uselessly. He raised both hands slowly in a gesture of surrender.
"We meant no harm," he said, voice tight with forced calm. "We were only scouting. Why create enmity between us?"
Kael raised a single brow, expression unchanging. "Which guild are you from?"
The leader hesitated, then exhaled. Since Kael hadn't attacked immediately, he thought there might still be a chance to talk his way out." We are from Nightfang Guild, surely you must have heard of it".
Kael's lips curved into the faintest, coldest smile. "Never heard of it."
Before the leader could react, an invisible thread of cutting force sliced through the air. His right hand came off cleanly at the wrist — SLICHH — tumbling to the concrete with a wet slap. Blood sprayed in a wide arc, painting the ground and the front of his black hood.
"GAHHHHH—!"
The man screamed, staggering back as he clutched the stump, mana flaring wildly in a desperate attempt to cauterize the wound.
Lucas's eyes widened in shock. How the hell did he do that? There had been no visible weapon, no hand movement, no mana flare he could see. Just a whisper of wind, and suddenly a man was missing a hand. This wasn't a fight. This was a massacre — brutal, efficient, and completely one-sided.
The other trackers panicked and tried to scatter.
WHSSS! WHSSS!
More invisible threads whipped through the night. One tracker's leg was severed mid-stride — THUD — he collapsed screaming as the thread continued upward, slicing through his torso in a clean diagonal line.
"AHhhh—! No—!"
Blood and organs spilled across the abandoned construction site in steaming ropes. Another tried to activate a hidden escape rune on his chest — the thread found his throat first, decapitating him so cleanly that his head remained balanced on his shoulders for half a second before toppling sideways — SLICHH.
"GAAHHHH—!"
The leader, still clutching his bleeding stump, tried to lunge forward with his remaining hand glowing with a desperate fire spell.
BOOM!
Kael raised one finger. A single thread pierced the man's shoulder, pinning him to a concrete pillar like a butterfly on display — THUD. The leader screamed again, the sound raw and broken, as more threads wrapped around his remaining limbs, slowly tightening until bones cracked and flesh tore — CRACK… SLICHH.
"AAAAHHH—! Please—!"
Within less than two minutes, the entire Nightfang scouting team lay in pieces across the ground — limbs severed, bodies opened, blood pooling in dark, glistening puddles that reflected the distant neon glow of the city.
Kael finally turned away from the carnage as if it were no more significant than sweeping dust from a floor. He walked toward James and gave a small nod of greeting. His sharp eyes flicked briefly to Lucas — a cool, appraising glance — before he vanished into another shadow, disappearing as silently as he had arrived.
James's hand settled heavily on Lucas's shoulder, warm and steady.
"So, what do you think?" he asked, voice low.
Lucas exhaled slowly, still staring at the slaughter. The metallic scent of blood clung to the back of his throat. "Dominating," he answered honestly.
James laughed — a short, genuine sound that cut through the night air. "Your grandfather ordered your great- uncle to protect you from the shadows. Take this chance to get close to him. You won't get many opportunities like this again."
Lucas understood exactly what his father meant. He nodded once, the weight of the Vanderbilt name settling heavier on his shoulders than the greatsword he had trained with earlier that day.
The convoy resumed its journey home, leaving the silent district and its fresh corpses behind. The night had taught Lucas something far more valuable than sword forms or mana nodes.
Power wasn't always loud. Sometimes it was quiet, invisible, and absolute.
__________________________________________________
Nightfang's headquarters existed in no official record. It squatted beneath the city like a tumor, drawing sustenance from forgotten tunnels and crumbling foundations. The air hung thick and diseased, heavy with the metallic reek of blood and a sweeter, sickly rot that clung to the throat.
Damp walls throbbed with black mold that pulsed faintly, as if breathing. Rusted chains dangled from the ceiling like dead serpents. From the far corners came a faint scratching—not rats. Not anymore.
At the center sprawled a grotesque banquet hall.
A long table dominated the chamber, obscenely opulent amid the decay. Gold-rimmed plates. Crystal goblets. Silver knives gleaming like mirrors.
And upon them, food that should never have existed.
Roasted limbs carved with surgical precision. Flesh lacquered in thick sauces that could not disguise its origin. Bowls of steaming crimson broth. Desserts arranged with perverse artistry—pale, delicate, unmistakably human.
The cooks stood in the shadows.
Silent. Watching.
Their faces were gaunt, eyes hollow and twitching, hands trembling as though the meal might suddenly turn and stare back at them. They barely dared to breathe.
At the head of the table sat something that had once been a man.
His throne was massive, less furniture than a grotesque monument built not for comfort, but to contain him. He spilled over its edges in heavy, quivering folds of flesh. His skin stretched tight and mottled, glistening with sweat under the flickering lights. Veins bulged like parasites beneath the surface, writhing with every labored breath.
His face was a bloated ruin. Sunken, piggish eyes peered out from deep within rolls of fat. Thick, wet lips worked constantly—chewing, swallowing, breathing. What remained of his chin melted seamlessly into his neck.
Stubby, swollen fingers moved with surprising deftness, tearing into the feast before him.
Rip.Crunch.Slurp.
The wet sounds echoed through the hall like the last gasps of something living.
A lone operative approached with careful, measured steps, as if crossing a minefield. He stopped several meters away and bowed deeply, his voice tight with fear.
"L-Leader… the scouting team…"
No response. Only the relentless chewing.
He swallowed hard.
"They're dead, sir. All of them. Eliminated in minutes. The target was protected by—"
He hesitated. Even the name tasted like a curse.
"—Kael Vanderbilt."
For a moment, nothing changed.
Then the chewing quickened. Not with hunger. Something far darker.
The leader's breathing grew labored. Grease and blood smeared across his face as his nostrils flared. His tiny eyes widened slightly, a sharp intelligence flashing within the fat—recognition, fear, and rage twisting together.
His massive hand slammed onto the table.
BOOM.
Plates jumped. Goblets toppled. One cook nearly collapsed.
At last, he spoke. His voice was thick, wet, each word forced through layers of flesh and phlegm.
"…Stop."
The room froze.
He leaned forward, his body shifting like slow-moving landslides of fat.
"Order everyone… to fall back. Immediately."
The operative blinked in disbelief.
"Sir…? But the target—"
The leader's eyes locked onto him. Cold. Final.
"There is no way… we can get close to that sword demon."
Silence swallowed the chamber. Even the dripping walls seemed to hold their breath.
Deep beneath the earth and sin, Nightfang had chosen survival over ambition.
And far above, Kael Vanderbilt moved unseen—like a blade the world had already forgotten was pressed against its throat.
***
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