Chapter 7: Bad Luck 2

Darin’s stomach churned. He recognized the name—Bronze was the man who had tried to kill him that morning. But how had these mercenaries discovered what had happened? Bronze was dead, wasn’t he?

Before Darin could act, the gang had already pushed past the gatekeeper, forcing their way into the Meyes family estate. The leader, a brutish man, broke through the gates, spear in hand, and charged toward Darin with deadly intent. Just as he prepared to defend himself, something extraordinary happened. The ground beneath the leader began to shift, turning into sand that pulled him down like quicksand. The man fell from his horse, struggling as the earth beneath him swallowed him whole.

The other members of the gang panicked, trying to flee, but they too were caught by the shifting sand. In mere minutes, the entire gang was trapped, sinking into the ground while their horses stood unaffected. The leader and his men were soon consumed by the earth, which solidified back into its normal state as if nothing had happened.

Darin, having lost all patience, acted quickly and mercilessly. His fury had boiled over, and he killed them all within minutes. As he stood there, blood still hot with anger, he noticed the servants and guards watching him with fear. They were terrified of him. Darin didn’t want more trouble, but he knew the curse of bad luck that clung to him would attract even more problems soon enough. It was better to leave before things got worse.

He addressed the servants, “I’m going for a walk,” and left through the gates. None of them questioned his power or authority; they now understood that Darin, the young master of the Meyes family, was far stronger than they had ever realized. He had dealt with a notorious criminal gang effortlessly.

Once outside the palace, hunger gnawed at him. He reached into his pocket and felt the reassuring weight of a few gold coins. Spotting a small, ordinary-looking restaurant, he walked inside, hoping for a quiet meal. The place had a pleasant atmosphere, filled with the sound of families and couples chatting over their food. Darin surveyed the room, hoping nothing would disturb him. He just needed peace.

But then, to his shock, he spotted his sister sitting at a table with a man who looked to be around 40 years old. They were having lunch together. Darin’s mind reeled. The man was a servant from the Meyes palace—he recognized him instantly. But more disturbing than that was the way his sister gazed at the man, her eyes filled with affection. She was completely enamored with him.

Darin froze. His heart sank, and his mind went blank. How was this even possible? His sister, just 17 years old, was romantically involved with a servant nearly three times her age. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His chest tightened with betrayal, his thoughts spiraling out of control. The man, with his wrinkles and worn appearance, was nothing special. Darin couldn’t fathom why his sister had chosen him. Was there no one else outside the palace? His world felt like it was crumbling.

Unable to bear the sight any longer, Darin quietly left the restaurant, retreating to a corner outside. He collapsed, overcome with emotions, and began to cry. He didn’t know what to do. How had things become so dark? Even the wildest of stories wouldn’t dare tell a tale as strange as this—his sister, having a romantic affair with a servant twice her age. It was almost laughable, yet it felt like a nightmare. His heart ached, and his head spun with disbelief.

Darin’s body felt weak and drained. He spat out a mouthful of blood. The weight of the day’s events—the curse, the battles, and now this personal betrayal—was too much for him to bear.

Darin had been poisoned. The curse of health was already wreaking havoc on his body, his muscles aching, and his strength waning. The poison from breakfast only worsened his condition, leaving him barely able to keep moving. He spat out a mouthful of dirt, unsure what to do next. He glanced at the timer—only 1 hour and 15 minutes remained before his powers would return. He just needed to survive until then, but the pain and hunger were almost unbearable. He staggered forward, feeling his consciousness slipping.

As he stumbled through the streets, a familiar face suddenly appeared before him: the Poisoned Mercenary. With a sinister grin, the mercenary taunted him, “Why don’t you try some more of my poison?” Darin could see the malice in his eyes, knowing full well how deadly the mercenary’s toxins were.

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Without a second thought, Darin turned and ran. The Poisoned Mercenary laughed as he followed slowly, clearly enjoying the chase. “I’ll show you what real torture is,” the mercenary called out, relishing Darin’s fear.

Darin was in no condition to fight him—without his magic, he would stand no chance against the Poisoned Mercenary’s lethal concoctions. He cursed his bad luck, realizing he had crossed paths with the wrong man at the worst possible time. If he had his full strength, he could crush every bone in the mercenary’s body. But now, he could only flee.

His injured feet bled as he ran, his body on the brink of collapse. He rolled down a slope and fell into the basement of a ruined building. His breath came in ragged gasps as he looked around, hoping the mercenary wasn’t following him. The building was in shambles, with no stairs to escape back to the main hall. He didn’t know what to do, but he had to keep moving.

Suddenly, a sharp pain tore through his right shoulder as a sword pierced him from out of nowhere. He cried out in agony, barely able to comprehend what had happened. The basement was dark and confining, and he saw no way out. He fell to the ground, his strength failing him. When he looked up, he saw a silhouette—a knight, clad in expensive armor, his face hidden by a helmet with a red flag on top.

The sword that had slashed him floated back to the knight, who now advanced toward Darin. The knight’s imposing figure was terrifying, far stronger than Darin could handle in his current state. Darin glanced at the timer—only 25 minutes remained. But how could he survive for that long?

The knight’s presence reminded Darin of the Heavenly Warrior, radiating an aura of immense power. He wanted to run, but his leg was injured, and his body was too weak to escape. Desperate, he summoned his fire magic and hurled a fireball at the knight. The fire hit the armor but didn’t leave a scratch. In a panic, Darin thought of using poison but dismissed the idea—without immunity, he would only kill himself. Instead, he used wind magic to push himself further away, buying a few precious seconds.

The knight, unfazed, continued to walk toward him. Darin threw every spell he had—fire, wind, water—but they only delayed the knight by mere seconds. The relentless warrior kept advancing. Darin checked the timer again—21 minutes left. He was running out of time and options.

Desperate to slow the knight down, Darin used his last bit of strength to summon roots from the ground. The roots coiled around the knight’s legs, binding him in place. For a moment, Darin thought he had bought himself some time. But the knight effortlessly slashed through the roots, his sword cutting them apart as if they were nothing. Darin was almost out of breath, his body on the verge of collapse. His magic was nearly spent.

The knight closed in, and Darin’s vision blurred. He had only 13 minutes left, but he was powerless to stop the knight. As the armored figure approached, Darin noticed small holes in the knight’s helmet—likely for him to see through. It was his last chance.

Summoning all his remaining strength, Darin pulled out the bottle of poison he had taken from the Poisoned Mercenary earlier that day. He aimed for the holes in the knight’s helmet and smashed the bottle, sending the poison through the air. Some of the liquid seeped into the helmet. The knight staggered, rolling away, but Darin could tell it wasn’t enough. The poison had affected him slightly, but the knight was far more powerful than Darin had anticipated.

Darin’s leg throbbed from the injury he had sustained while fleeing, and he could barely stand. He limped on one leg, trying to escape, but the knight recovered quickly. The sword returned to the knight’s hand, and Darin knew then—this was no ordinary warrior. The poison had barely fazed him. He was a powerful being, far beyond the strength of a regular surpasser.

Darin looked at the timer again. It was ticking down, but survival seemed increasingly unlikely.

As Darin limped on one leg, he couldn’t get far from the knight. His body, weak from injuries, finally gave out, and he fell to the ground. Gripping a small knife in his hand, he frantically searched for any weak spots in the knight's armor. The knight was getting closer, towering over him, ready to deliver the final blow.

Darin knew this could be the end. The knight stood right in front of him, raising his sword high to strike. In a desperate move, Darin raised his knife to block the slash. The impact rattled his arm, but he had no strength left to hold off the blow for long. He rolled to the side as fast as he could, just narrowly escaping the deadly strike. The knight was gaining momentum, and Darin knew he couldn’t keep dodging forever.

Summoning the last bit of his strength, Darin used wind magic to push the knight away. It worked—the knight was thrown back several meters. But the brief relief faded as the knight got to his feet and started running toward him. Darin gulped nervously, wishing for anything to help him survive the next few minutes. He checked the timer—only two minutes left. He was on the edge of unconsciousness, his body failing him, but he had to fight on.

The knight charged at full speed. Darin, determined to make one last stand, took aim at the small opening in the knight’s helmet. As the knight came within striking distance, Darin lunged forward, thrusting his knife into the gap. The blade pierced through, and the knight collapsed to the ground. Darin gasped for breath, his right hand cramping from the exertion, barely able to move. His whole body ached, but he had no choice but to keep going. For a moment, the knight lay motionless, and Darin hoped it was finally over.

But then, the knight’s upper body slowly lifted from the ground. Darin’s eyes widened in horror. The knight pulled out the knife from his helmet, revealing not blood but a strange blue fluid. He wasn’t human. Darin wondered if he was facing a monster, a zombie, or something worse. With only 45 seconds left on the timer, he knew he had to survive just a little longer.

The knight got up and charged again. Darin, with barely any energy left, pulled out his last knife. Using wind magic, he slid between the knight’s legs, narrowly escaping the attack. The knight, surprised, turned to face Darin once more. But Darin was exhausted, barely able to stand, leaning on his injured leg for support. He checked the timer—only 13 seconds left.

As the knight dashed toward him, Darin made his final move. He grabbed the knight’s sword with his bare hand, the blade slicing deep into his palm. Blood poured from the wound, but Darin fought through the pain, using his remaining strength to drive his knife into the gap in the knight’s neck. Both of them fell to the ground in a heap.

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