"Like a wisp, I can absorb light directly into my body, plunging the area into darkness. Also, consuming light is like eating food, so there’s a limit—I can get full," Maryk said. "And in the absence of light, the place tends to get colder."

Could be useful for assassinations, Karl noted with a solemn expression.

Maryk continued, "Burn immunity makes me tougher against fire, but not completely immune—it just takes longer for fire to hurt me."

Karl had already deduced that from the state of his body. The Dead Flame gang must have tried to burn him at first but switched tactics once they realized he was resistant, using more conventional methods to leave scars.

"And lastly," Maryk added, "Shadow movement is probably the only really useful ability of a shadow wisp—except for light theft... in certain situations, of course." He paused suddenly as if realizing he’d been speaking too formally to his leader. His demeanor shifted to apprehension.

Good, Karl thought.

"It allows me to turn into a shadow and move along certain surfaces. But the power doesn’t work in places with strong light; it only works if there are enough shadows or dimness to move in... Sometimes the ability is called shadowed."

Useful in many ways. I could have him stalk targets, gather information, then kill the lights and make the strike. But beyond that, his usefulness ends. His evolution doesn’t really provide offensive or defensive abilities... although shadow movement could be defensive if used wisely. But his opponents won’t always fight in dim places with enough shadows for him to move around in.

Karl’s gaze shifted to the other thug, the one carrying a small sword. The man shuddered under the scrutiny, his voice shaking as he said, "I haven’t evolved yet."

A frown tugged at Karl’s lips. He glanced at the bloated woman and asked, "What is this?"

The woman looked flustered and quickly replied, "That’s not what he meant. He hasn’t evolved, but he’s a freeblade!"

A freeblade? Karl thought. A swordsman who’s turned rogue but still retains some skill. He eyed the man. Freeblades often spoke of the purity of man, rejecting evolution as a taint. But was this one strong enough to back up his ideals? The answer was likely no. Compared to the people Karl had encountered in recent days, none of these thugs could even hope to reach that level, not even in their wildest dreams. This one was probably not even in the advanced class, and even if he was, he certainly wasn’t an elite.

But for the sake of appearances...

"What can you do with it?" Karl asked.

Gaining a bit of confidence, probably from the woman’s defense of him, the thug shakily drew his blade. He held it tightly, but compared to the bizarre man who had killed so many beastmen at the farm, this one was far weaker—his aura smaller and less dangerous. Karl was certain he could kill this man with the same amount of power he had used when dealing with the roadside thug who had led him to Harrison.

Lost in thought, Karl barely focused as the thug began to move. But soon, his attention snapped back to the present, just as the thug raised his sword. He closed his eyes, preparing to execute some kind of powerful move. Then, he exhaled deeply. With Karl’s enhanced senses, the breath sounded like a gust of wind, unnatural and forceful.

Does he have powerful lungs?

At that moment, the thug brought down his sword—so fast that Karl nearly flinched. A gust of wind followed the swing, blowing across Karl’s face and sending his hair fluttering. Even some dust that had been tracked into the room, experienced a violent shake.

The room fell silent afterward—the risen dust, setting down gradually.

What the... Karl reevaluated his earlier thoughts. If he had faced this person before he gained his current strength and durability, there was a good chance he would have lost his life. The sword was incredibly fast. Of course, Karl had caught a glimpse of it, so it wasn’t beyond his current abilities to counter, and with his superior speed and stamina, the freeblade wouldn’t stand a chance.

I suppose these are the strongest three for a reason, Karl mused. After a moment of consideration, he asked, "What breathing style do you practice?"

Fredrick had read to him something about breathing styles—techniques passed down by swordsman towers, each one enhancing the swordsman’s abilities in different ways. Karl didn’t know the specifics, but he knew they existed.

The thug hesitated but eventually answered. "The Violent Wind Breath."

"More," Karl said, his voice cold.

The freeblade took a deep breath, visibly calming himself before replying. "It’s paired with the WindStance, and together they form a sword style that’s as violent and destructive as a storm of the middle year. But I haven’t mastered it—I can only perform three of the ten sword forms."

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And you left to become a freeblade? You must have had some lofty ideals for that. Karl mocked silently but felt no stirring of emotion. Good.

He turned to the last man, who spoke up without prompting, seemingly bolder than the others. Perhaps he was the stronger of the two?

"I’m an accountant, and my evolution is Netherdrake. I’m an ordinary class, but I don’t know the name of the creature I evolved into. It allows me to count numbers very quickly, both mentally and externally. I’m also incapable of forgetting anything I’ve ever seen." The man fell silent after that.

That’s it? Karl nearly frowned at the accountant’s utter lack of useful abilities. Worse, the man had spoken with such boldness, as if he had something truly significant to offer. Deadweight, Karl thought, then said, "You, leave."

The man froze, confused by the sudden dismissal. After a moment of processing, he snorted angrily. "What? Just because my powers are like that? Don’t you see my value? Harrison did! But heh, what should I expect from some kid."

Karl stared at the ranting man, a smile almost tugging at his lips. This is good—excellent, even. He had always thought he needed another "demonstration," and now, one had presented itself.

Originally, he had planned to indirectly provoke the important members of the gang, then deal with any who showed signs of violence in the most brutal way possible. This would solidify their fear of him. Of course, Karl could have taken a different approach—earning their respect or loyalty—but why take the high road when the alternative was so much easier? Besides, it seemed to unlock something within him each time he took this path.

Raising his piercing gaze, Karl was about to speak when he heard a sound—a surge of violent wind. A gust flew through the air, and in the aftermath, Karl frowned.

The accountant stood headless.

Karl glanced at the only one who could have done it: the swordsman. His speed was greater than Karl had initially estimated. Could he react in time if the man attacked him unexpectedly? Karl didn’t like the possibility, but he suppressed any visible emotion.

Eyeing the man, Karl asked, "Why?"

The freeblade remained silent for a moment before replying, "I never liked him—even when Harrison was in charge. He’d always stick close to him, whispering, acting like he actually contributed something to the gang. We did the fighting, and all he did was count numbers. Black even," he glanced at the bloated lady, "could have done it." She looked horrified at the body still standing, blood spurting from the headless neck, streaming down the white shirt and staining it a deep red.

So, they weren’t on good terms, and he used this opportunity to eliminate him. That works for me, but the fact remains—he killed someone in front of me. Even though I might have wanted him dead, he acted on his own without my permission. That sends the message that anyone can walk all over me, and I can’t allow that.

After a few moments, Karl heaved an audible sigh. "I don’t accept that."

The freeblade frowned. "But he insulted you. I was defending your honor."

Swordsmen and their honor, Karl almost sighed. "That doesn’t matter."

The freeblade seemed ready to argue, but before he could say a word, Karl vanished, reappearing inches from his face with his fist clenched. Then—bang! The freeblade was sent hurtling backward, crashing into the opposite wall with a groan of pain.

Karl glanced at the man sprawled against the wall and looked away. He knew his actions could eventually lead to betrayal. After all, no matter how powerful someone was, when enough people gathered, rebellion was always a possibility. But he wouldn’t be around when that happened. The Poison Fang gang was just a stepping stone for him—he had no long-term plans to rely on them. They were merely a practice run before he secured a real faction to claim as his own.

He returned to the bed and sat down, though he noticed that his shoes were now stained with blood from stepping on the accountant’s corpse. He glanced at the bloated woman. "Clean this up afterward." She had already proven herself capable of handling such tasks.

She nodded, though somewhat apprehensively.

Now, on to the main issue. Karl watched as the freeblade staggered to his feet—likely with a few broken bones. Once he managed to stand, Karl said, "Aside from flame powers, is there anything else noteworthy about the Dead Flame gang?"

The remaining thugs exchanged glances, clearly still remembering his earlier declaration.

The first to speak was the thief. "They primarily use flame powers. But sometimes, their leaders seem to use flames of different colors, and they act very... strange. Like black flames that don’t make any sound and, once they start burning, never stop."

Karl recalled the strange flames Jean had used. Could one of their leaders be a vixen like her?

The thief continued, "These flames can also make things completely disappear. Although, we’re not sure if the flames are disintegrating them entirely or burning them to the point that nothing remains—not even ashes." He shuddered, then composed himself. "There are also green flames that don’t cause any visible injuries. But after being burned by them, a person gradually weakens over hours, days, or weeks, until they lose the energy to keep functioning. And nothing can heal it—not potions or anything else."

So there’s no way to defend against it. Best not to get hit by it in the first place, Karl thought. I wonder how shard armor would hold up against it. I suppose I’ll find out later—after Aurelian either kills one of their gang leaders or dies. Should I warn him? No. It’s best to let him find out the hard way.

Shifting his attention back to the thief, Karl listened as he continued, "They’re also physically strong—able to keep pace with a speeding black-scaled lizard."

Those aren’t particularly fast, Karl noted, but then realized that compared to a normal human, the creatures were indeed fast.

Knowing this, Karl realized the Dead Flame gang was indeed strong. So why had Harrison chosen the Poison Fang as his base? Surely the Dead Flame would have been a suitable choice as well. Unless something stopped him. Perhaps the Dead Flame has some connection to a faction, and Harrison avoided them because of that. What Karl knew about Harrison was that he had access to soul bombs and was a member of the Order of Newmans. As for his true involvement with the gang, Karl still wasn’t certain. But based on how events had unfolded, it seemed Harrison had made a deal with the gang in exchange for the soul bomb. Could that be what the Poison Fang intends to steal from the Pure White?

But if that were the case, and what Harrison needed was manpower, he should have chosen the Dead Flame. Unless they were enemies. According to Frederick, factions could be enemies. In a way, the Pure White was a faction, standing against all others. Perhaps the Dead Flame is one such rival faction?

Realizing he had been silent for a few moments—three seconds, to be exact—Karl pulled his thoughts together. Then, he said, "I suppose the Dead Flame has been terrorizing the gang for a while now."

The duo, along with the bloated woman, nodded.

With a mischievous smile, Karl added, "How long will that last, I wonder."