The inferno raged, casting flickering shadows across the city as panicked screams echoed in the night. The fire had swallowed streets whole, turning homes, guild halls, and shops into little more than embers. Soldiers rushed about, desperately trying to control the spreading blaze, unaware that the true threat had already arrived.

Jim stood in silence, cloaked in black, his face hidden beneath the shadow of his hood. His form was still, his aura suppressed to nothingness. He was not a man. He was a specter of death.

"Master said to make it look like poison… but if their bodies are burned, no one will question it."

A cold, cruel thought. Jim had no reservations. He was here to kill, to wipe out the strong before they could retaliate. The fire was a distraction, and he was the executioner lurking within it.

His eyes glowed faintly beneath the hood as he leapt from his vantage point, a blur of darkness descending upon the barracks.

The first wave of death was silent.

A black mist curled from his fingertips, thick like smog, yet weightless like air. It did not spread wildly but instead slithered with precision, latching onto the ambient mana in the air—where the mages unknowingly breathed it in.

The reaction was instant.

The mages' bodies seized up, eyes bulging in horror as they collapsed to the ground, their flesh warping, twisting, decomposing from within. Their voices died in their throats before they could even scream. They twitched violently, foaming at the mouth as their essence was ripped away, leaving behind husks of what were once powerful spellcasters.

Only then did the soldiers notice.

A juggernaut—a heavily armored warrior—turned, his battle instincts screaming at him as he raised his greatsword. His mouth opened to shout a warning—

But Jim was faster.

With a flick of his wrist, fire surged from his palm, swallowing the barracks in a hellish blaze. The mages' corpses ignited, turning to ash before anyone could inspect them. The juggernaut let out a roar and charged, his armor gleaming under the firelight. He was a brute, a monster of muscle and steel, his aura thick with the experience of countless battles.

Jim didn't move.

As the warrior swung down, Jim extended his left hand. A wave of decomposition rippled outward in an unseen force. The juggernaut's weapon never made it to its target. The very air around him turned against him, corroding the steel of his blade, eating away at his armor, and then—his flesh.

The man howled, his own body betraying him as his skin peeled back, his bones blackening, his insides dissolving. He fell in pieces before Jim's feet, his eyes locked in eternal horror.

The scream had alerted the rest.

Jim exhaled, already in motion. With a single movement, he unleashed decomposition throughout the entire barracks, the black mist rolling out like a tidal wave. Men and women choked, their bodies crumbling in an instant. Some had time to realize what was happening. Some didn't.

One of the master wizards saw the wave and reacted, forming a brilliant golden barrier. A perfect defense. But Jim didn't care. He simply increased the output of his decomposition, flooding the room with raw, erasing energy. The shield groaned, cracked, and then—

It shattered.

The wizard inside never had a chance to react before he, too, was gone.

Jim took a step back, surveying the destruction. The barracks was purged. Not a soul remained. But there was no time to waste. He cast another fire spell, ensuring all evidence was consumed by the flames before he moved to his next target.

The city burned, but Jim's work was just beginning.

Hundreds of mercenaries, wizards, beastmen, giants, and assassins still remained. Their power meant nothing.

Jim struck first.

A blast of decomposition shot forward, the mist-like aura concentrated into a razor-thin stream. The first wave of mercenaries fell instantly, their bodies dissolving into vaporized remains. Those further away managed to react, scattering as the air itself became poison.

The beastmen came next. Fast. Powerful. Instinctual.

Jim met them head-on.

His hands twisted, morphing into monstrous claws, his fingers extending into jagged, serrated talons. The first beastman—a tiger-like warrior—lunged, claws extended.

Jim dodged, vanishing from sight with sheer speed. In the blink of an eye, he was behind his opponent, driving his monstrous hand through the beastman's back, bursting out of his chest in a spray of blood.

A wolf-like beastman howled and attacked from the side.

Jim countered with a lightning surge, the air cracking as blue-white energy ripped through the battlefield. The wolf-man convulsed, his body seizing as he burned from the inside out.

The assassins tried to strike next. Their blades were silent, their steps imperceptible.

But Jim's senses were beyond human.

A flicker of movement to his left—Jim caught the blade mid-swing, crushing the assassin's wrist with a bone-snapping grip before launching him into the burning wreckage. Another leapt from the shadows, daggers flashing—Jim pivoted, striking with a devastating sound screech, a sonic shockwave rupturing the assassin's organs before he could even land his attack.

Jim moved seamlessly between hand-to-hand combat and his decomposition ability, his form a black shadow of death. A giant charged at him—Jim met him with a focused decomposition blast, reducing him to nothing. Wizards tried to cast—Jim launched poisoned mist, suffocating them where they stood.

They were insects before him.

And one by one, they fell.

The massacre continued until the city's strength had been gutted. Every resource, every weapon, every stronghold belonging to Heron was burned, stolen, or destroyed.

Jim finally arrived at the grand gambling house. A place of luxury. Of power.

It was the last beacon of wealth untouched by the fire. But not for long.

He moved in, killing without hesitation. The guards, the criminals, the nobles—they all met the same fate. He swept through them like a shadow, burning, tearing, erasing. Gold and treasures were taken, stored in Umbra's space.

Then he found the underground slave house.

A room filled with caged souls—men, women, children.

Jim didn't care. He had no orders for them. They were nothing to him.

But then—a boy. Brown-haired. Blue-eyed. A child barely eight years old.

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Unlike the others, he was not shackled.

He had taken the keys from a fallen guard and freed himself and others. He along with the other ran—fleeing into the night, escaping before the flames could claim him.

Jim didn't stop them.

Both party barely acknowledged him.

His mind was already set on his final target.

Heron's mansion stood before him, untouched by the chaos.

Jim's body ached slightly—using full decomposition had damaged his hands. But they regenerated within minutes.

"So, I do have limits… but I recover fast. I need to know more about my abilities. It also looks like my absorption ability only trigger when i am in monstrous form"

It was a thought for later.

Right now, there was only one thing left to do.

Jim lifted his gaze.

Heron's kingdom had already crumbled.

Now, it was time to finish the job.

Jim moved silently through the dimly lit corridors of Heron's mansion, his presence a whisper of death. The guards, mages, and stationed soldiers never saw him coming. One by one, they fell, their bodies collapsing without even realizing their fate. Their remains smoldered in the wake of his passing, reduced to nothing but charred bones and scattered ash.

His target lay ahead.

But then—

"7th Circle: Crimson Tower."

A deep, commanding voice rang out.

Jim's instincts screamed.

A crimson pillar of raw magical energy surged forward, tearing through the air like a beacon of annihilation. Jim barely twisted in time, dodging the full impact, but the sheer force of it still grazed him, searing his left hand down to the bone.

A second attack followed instantly.

A blade, silent as death, carved through the air. The sword's edge glowed with a faint, sinister hue—an aura meant to cut through even the strongest flesh.

Jim felt it before he saw it.

A sharp pain—his leg.

His left leg severed just below the knee.

Blood splattered across the marble floor as his foot tumbled away.

Jim landed in a crouch, stabilizing himself. His eyes flicked to the side.

Two figures emerged from the darkness, their auras sickeningly thick, steeped in arrogance.

The first was the old mage, a man draped in black robes adorned with silver embroidery, his face gaunt yet sharp, eyes glowing with crimson malice. Wrinkles creased his forehead, but his body showed no signs of frailty. He carried himself with the confidence of someone who believed himself untouchable.

The second was the swordsman, a towering, broad-shouldered man with graying hair and a chiseled jaw. His weapon still dripped with Jim's blood. He sneered.

Footsteps echoed. A third figure entered.

A woman, draped in elegant black lace, her presence unnervingly calm. Despite the gentle smile on her lips, there was something rotten in her expression—something inhuman in the way she looked at Jim, as if he were a stray dog soiling her floors.

The Founders of Silence Blade had finally stepped forward.

The mage spoke first, his voice like sandpaper against steel.

"Who might you be, young man? Perhaps you're behind all the ruckus going on out there?" His lips curled into a condescending smirk. "Did that wretched woman, Countess Redwood, send you? Hah, if so, tell me—" He folded his arms. "A few days ago, my precious student and daughter were sent to kill her… and some brat. They have yet to return." His red eyes narrowed, his tone suddenly venomous. "If that wench is still breathing, does that mean my pupil failed?"

The swordsman scoffed, shaking his head.

"Failed?" He spat on the ground, his voice thick with disdain. "Tch. No way. They must've used some cheap trick. There's no way our disciples—our successors—would lose to some nameless rat and a washed-up noblewoman." He cracked his neck, his grip tightening on his blade. "Those two should've died screaming."

The woman sighed dramatically, placing a delicate hand on her chest.

"Oh, how it saddens me to not see my darling children for so long…" She tilted her head, feigning sorrow, but the malice in her voice was unmistakable. "I'm sure they've been captured. That bitch Redwood must be torturing them even as we speak, yes?" She turned her eyes to Jim, her voice turning sickly sweet. "Don't you agree? Ah, but don't worry, we'll take care of her soon. And that child—" Her lips curled. "Oh, we'll make sure he regrets ever being born."

The mage nodded, his voice laced with malice.

"Yes, yes. Redwood must be reminded of her place. I'll burn her entire estate to the ground. Her men, her maids—every single soul there will be ripped apart."

The swordsman laughed darkly.

"We'll hunt them like pigs, hang them by their guts, and let them rot in the streets. That woman's been a thorn in our side for too long. It's about time we sent a real message."

The woman giggled, stepping forward. "And that child…" She licked her lips. "That little brat who somehow survived? Oh, I'd love to see his face when we carve out his little heart."

Their laughter echoed through the grand halls. Self-indulgent. Arrogant. Rotten.

Jim stood still. Silent. Expressionless.

They continued, their voices dripping with cruelty, bloated by their own perceived superiority.

Jim said nothing, he didn't react. He didn't flinch. They were beneath him.

Finally, after two long minutes, he spoke.

"…Is that all the information you have to give?"

A pause.

Then—

" I've wasted two whole minutes here."

Before they could react, Jim moved.

Death descended.

The black mist erupted from his body, thick and suffocating, curling around the trio like the grasping hands of the damned. But this was no ordinary decomposition.

This was pure agony.

Their flesh did not simply rot. It peeled—layer by layer, exposing muscle, sinew, and raw nerve endings. Their bodies convulsed violently, spasming like puppets with severed strings.

The swordsman howled, his legs crumbling beneath him. His fingers twitched, trying to grasp his sword, but his hands had already dissolved into nothing but exposed bone.

The mage screamed, his once-confident eyes bulging as his ribs became visible, his body slowly breaking apart from the inside out. His aura flickered—desperately trying to resist—but it was meaningless.

The woman shrieked the loudest.

Her beauty melted away, her skin sloughing off in sheets as her fingers clawed at her own face in sheer horror. "N-NO! NO, NOT LIKE THIS—!!"

Pain. True, unfiltered pain.

They had inflicted suffering their entire lives—now, they finally felt it for themselves.

Their punishment was absolute.

The last thing they saw was Jim's cold, unfeeling gaze.

Then, their bodies evaporated into nothing.

Jim stood still, his leg already regenerating. His hand, once damaged, had fully healed. The pain was already forgotten.

The room was silent.

Their arrogance. Their cruelty. Their twisted laughter.

Gone.

Jim turned his head toward the grand stairway.

Jim moved swiftly, his steps precise, his mind razor-focused. The failure of his surprise attack meant only one thing—Heron would attempt to flee.

That was unacceptable.

His mission could not afford failure.

His master demanded results.

His body blurred through the mansion halls, his form like a phantom. Any guard, mercenary, or wizard that dared cross his path was erased without thought. His decomposition lashed out like an invisible storm, their bodies breaking apart before they even realized death had come for them. He didn't slow down. He didn't look back. Their screams were nothing but background noise to him now.

But time was slipping.

Thirty minutes had already passed.

He had thirty minutes left to end this.

Jim thought quickly.

Interrogation was pointless. The men he killed knew nothing. Heron was too smart to share escape routes or safe houses with mere subordinates.

He needed to find Heron now.

And then—

His gaze landed on three familiar faces.

Three figures chained like dogs, beaten and bloodied to the point of unrecognizability.

Jim slowed his steps.

For the first time that night, he stopped moving.

The sight of them pulled at something old—memories long buried beneath layers of rage and evolution. Vance, Marcus, Gareth. Once Gafnar knights elite mercenaries.

Jim remembered them well.

They had been his "seniors"—if that word could be used for the wretched existence he endured beneath them.

They mocked him.They humiliated him.They turned his every moment into misery.

Jim wasn't paid for his time in their ranks. He wasn't given a share of victories.

He was only given blame.

Every failed mission? His fault.Every missing ration? His fault.Every setback? Every mistake? Always his fault.

And when no one else was around, their cruelty took new forms.

"Hey, kid, you wanna eat tonight?" Vance had once grinned, holding up a piece of stale bread. "Go clean our boots with your tongue first."

Jim had refused.

They had beat him senseless.

He went two days without food after that.

"You wanna be strong?" Marcus had laughed, shoving him onto the training grounds. "Then fight us, weakling. Prove you can handle a blade."

Jim had picked up a sword.

They had beaten him to the ground before he could even lift it properly.

"Too slow! Too weak! What a joke!"

Then they had forced him to clean their swords with his bare hands until they shone.

"Why don't you just give up, huh?" Gareth had smirked one night as Jim lay in the dirt, bruised and aching. "You were born to be at the bottom."

Jim had clenched his fists. He had sworn he would grow stronger.

They had laughed at him.

And when the time came for battle?

They had used him as a meat shield.

When gold was handed out?

He received nothing.

When punishment was required?

He was the first to be blamed.

And now, those same men sat before him.

Beaten.Bruised.Shackled.Dogs in a cage.

Vance stirred first, his swollen eyes barely opening. "Who's… who's out there? Who—" His voice cracked.

Gareth didn't move. He was too far gone.

Marcus groaned weakly, lifting his head just enough to meet Jim's gaze.

For the first time, there was no mockery in their eyes.

Only pain.

Jim knelt down, staring at them. His expression remained unreadable.

They had deserved suffering.

They had deserved to rot in this place.

But this?

This wasn't his justice.

This was Heron's cruelty.

And that meant—

Jim exhaled. A thin wisp of poison slithered from his fingertips, entering their systems effortlessly.

A painless death.

A mercy they never gave him.

Vance barely had time to react.

Marcus's breathing hitched—then slowed.

Gareth didn't even notice as his final breath left him.

Jim rose to his feet.

"Tch."

He turned away.

He had no time for ghosts.