‘Sh*t, I finally killed this b*stard.

Between the two, he’s the more dangerous. This is why I hate fighting opponents head-on when there’s a clear disparity between our cultivation levels. Though, I’m confident fighting one of them one-on-one, fighting another coupled with a multitude of their forces is a massive undertaking that even my often questionable conceit will find a problem.

Damn it, I will never do this again.’

Elysian stood tall amidst the carnage, his posture radiating an effortless confidence. Inwardly, he felt as if he'd been fighting for an eternity. Every breath was a struggle, every movement a negotiation with his battered body. Yet, to the onlookers, he appeared as fresh as if he'd just stepped onto the battlefield.

To those watching, it seemed impossible that this youth had single-handedly faced an army of thugs, let alone emerged victorious. Yet here he stood, his very presence a silent proof to anyone who might doubt his capabilities.

Elysian, at that moment, had become a living legend on the streets of Ironspire—a figure of fear and known for ancient, deadly skill. His calm demeanor in the face of such overwhelming odds only served to heighten the terror gripping the hearts of his remaining opponents.

Bran's jaw hung slack, his eyes wide as saucers. The color had drained from his face, leaving him pale as a ghost. He blinked rapidly, as if trying to dispel an illusion, but Elysian remained before him, very much alive.

Osric stood frozen, his hand still gripping the hilt of his undrawn sword. His knuckles had turned white from the force of his grip, yet he seemed unaware of it. A slight tremor ran through his body, a physical manifestation of the shock coursing through his system.

Thomas, usually quick with a quip or a curse, found himself utterly mute. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, no sound emerging. His eyes darted between Elysian and the fallen bodies of Warren and Damon, struggling to reconcile the impossible scene before him.

Sybil's legs gave out beneath him and he sank to his knees. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, as if he'd just run a marathon. Such an extreme reaction was born of relief, disbelief, and a cocktail of emotions he couldn't begin to name.

Amara's hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp. Her eyes, wide with a mixture of awe and fear, never left Elysian's form. She swayed slightly on her feet, as if the shock had left her dizzy.

The group stood in a tableau, a living portrait of astonishment. Not a word was spoken, not a move made. The only sound was their collective, ragged breathing as they grappled with the reality of Elysian's miraculous survival and masterful deception. They don't know if they might smack him at that moment for making them worry so much.

Elysian's gaze, sharp as a hawk's, locked onto Damon's prone form. With casual disdain, he stooped to retrieve Warren's severed head, handling it as one might a discarded toy. As he straightened, the hood of his cloak fell back, revealing his face in full.

Gone was the noble youth. In his place stood something... other. Elysian's lips curled into a smile that never reached his eyes—those orbs now wide and wild, glinting with an inner madness that sent chills down the spine of all who beheld it.

He turned that gaze on Damon with the severed head of Warren dangling from his grip like freshly slaughtered meat from a butcher. The message was clear: Warren's fate was but a trifle, a mere appetizer for what was to come.

Damon's eyes darted between the head and Elysian's face, his mind reeling. The boy's smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed sharp for some reason. In that moment, Damon saw not a child, but a monster wearing human skin.

A whimper escaped Damon's lips. His earlier bravado evaporated like morning dew, leaving only primal terror in its wake. His body, wracked with pain and drained of blood, should have been beyond movement.Yet fear was a powerful motivator.

With a strangled cry, Damon scrambled to his feet. His wounds screamed in protest, fresh blood gushing from reopened gashes. But he paid no heed. His eyes, wide with animal panic, saw only escape.

He ran.

Each step was agony, each breath a labor. But still he ran, driven by the instinctive need to flee from the horror behind him. In that moment, Damon was no longer a hardened criminal, but a prey animal desperately trying to outrun a predator far beyond its comprehension.

And all the while, Elysian's laughter, high and cold, echoed through the ruins.

‘Run you f*cking b*stard, run! Tsk. I can’t let him live. I need to kill him or else he’ll just make trouble.

Sigh, I do not want to fight anymore. All I want is to sleep.’

A tremor rippled through the ground, halting Elysian’s Shadowstep . His eyes narrowed, senses on high alert as the vibrations intensified.

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Suddenly, the earth erupted. Bony fingers, yellowed with age, clawed their way to the surface. One skeletal hand latched onto Damon's ankle, eliciting a shriek of pure terror.

Damon stumbled, hitting the ground hard. Panic lent him strength, and he lashed out, his foot connecting with brittle bone. The grip loosened, and he scrambled to his feet, legs pumping furiously.

But the earth wasn't done. More hands burst forth, a macabre garden sprouting from cursed soil. They grasped at Damon's legs, his clothes, anything they could reach.

His pace slowed, each step a battle against the grasping dead. Damon's face contorted with effort, veins bulging as he pushed his aura to its limits. But it wasn't enough.

His strength, already sapped by blood loss, began to fail. His desperate sprint became a stumble, then a crawl. Finally, overwhelmed by the relentless assault, Damon collapsed.

‘F*ck, where did these come from?’

Elysian’s eyes grew round in disbelief at what he just witnessed. This was something that came from fables and stories, and not from reality.

Blood pooled beneath him, a crimson tribute to the hungry earth. His eyes, wide with horror, darted frantically as more skeletal hands emerged. Reality seemed to fracture around him, his mind unable to process the nightmare made flesh.

A scream tore from Damon's throat, primal and raw. It echoed through the ruins, a final, terrible testament to his fate. As the hands dragged him down, that scream transformed into something inhuman—the wail of a soul confronting its own damnation.

Then, silence fell. Where Damon had been, only disturbed earth remained, as if the ground itself had swallowed him whole.

‘Sh*t!’

Elysian's eyes widened, his usual composure cracking for a moment as he stared at the spot where Damon had vanished. His hand tightened on his weapon, knuckles turning white.

Around him, the air filled with gasps and choked exclamations. Bran stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet and landing hard on the ground. He remained there, mouth agape, unable to tear his gaze from the disturbed earth.

Osric's face had drained of all color, his complexion ashen. A visible tremor ran through his body, causing his armor to rattle softly. He blinked rapidly, as if trying to dispel an illusion.

Sybil's legs gave out, and he sank to his knees. His eyes, wide with disbelief, darted between the ground and his companions, seeking confirmation that he wasn't alone in witnessing this impossibility.

Even Amara, typically composed, couldn't hide her shock. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a cry. She swayed slightly on her feet, as if the very foundations of her reality had been shaken.

The ruins fell into an eerie silence, broken only by the ragged breathing of those present. The air felt thick, heavy with the weight of what they had just witnessed. No one moved, no one spoke—each person locked in their own private struggle to comprehend the inexplicable horror that had unfolded before them.

‘Sh*t, sh*t!’

Thomas's reaction stood apart from the others. His face paled, but his eyes held a glimmer of recognition rather than pure shock. His hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his weapon, muscles tensing as if preparing for a fight he knew all too well.

The remaining thugs' reactions mirrored Thomas', a collective shudder of recognition rippling through their ranks. Hardened criminals transformed into wide-eyed, trembling wrecks in an instant.

One scarred veteran dropped his weapon, its clatter lost in his hoarse whisper: "Not again... not here."

Another thug, his face ashen, frantically fumbled with a charm hidden beneath his shirt. His lips moved in silent prayer, eyes darting wildly as if expecting skeletal hands to emerge from every shadow.

A younger member of the gang stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet in his haste to put distance between himself and the disturbed earth. "We gotta run!" he hissed, voice cracking with panic. "They'll come for us all!"

Weapons were abandoned, alliances forgotten. Some men huddled together, seeking safety in numbers, while others edged towards the exits, ready to bolt at the slightest provocation.

Their fear of Elysian paled in comparison to this new threat. Faces that had sneered at death now contorted with primal terror, eyes haunted by memories of horrors they'd clearly encountered before.

The thugs' reactions spoke volumes: this was no mere ghost story come to life, but a nightmare they had hoped never to face again.

‘Sh*t, sh*t. Sh*t!’

A chill wind seemed to whisper across Elysian's skin, raising goosebumps and sending an involuntary shudder down his spine. The air itself felt heavier, tainted with an ancient, putrid scent that made his stomach roil.

Elysian's mind reeled, desperately trying to reconcile the gruesome tales he'd heard with the nightmarish reality unfolding before him. His vast experience, accumulated over a long life, suddenly felt woefully inadequate.

His fingers trembled slightly as they tightened around his weapon. For the first time in years, Elysian felt truly vulnerable, as if the veil between life and death had grown gossamer-thin.

The world seemed to narrow, tunnel vision setting in as his senses heightened to a painful degree. Every shadow held potential menace, every whisper of wind became the rattle of ancient bones.

In that moment, Elysian understood with stark clarity what it meant to face one's own mortality. It was as if Death itself had reached out with spectral fingers, brushing against his very soul and whispering promises of eternal slumber.

‘Why… Why is Eshkand here? …underneath Ironspire…’

Elysian's heart hammered against his ribs. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but he couldn't lift a hand to wipe it away. His muscles coiled, screaming at him to run, to fight, to do something—anything. But his feet might as well have been encased in concrete. He could only stare, mouth agape, as chaos erupted around him. The screams of the dying filled his ears, yet he remained frozen, a statue amidst the frenzied dance of death.

A sudden grip on Elysian's shoulder sent him whirling, his body moving with fluid precision. The knife in his hand flashed upward, its tip halting a hair's breadth from Thomas's throat.

The thug's Adam apple bobbed as he swallowed. He inched backward, palms raised, eyes flicking between the blade and Elysian's face. "We gotta move. Now. Or we're dead meat."

The urgency in Thomas's voice cut through Elysian's haze. He blinked, his gaze darting from Bran's wide-eyed stare to Amara's taut expression. A quick nod, Elysian said, "Let's go."