"Listen up, you mutts! Memorize these positions! As soon as our Lord summons us, we’ll move to these designated spots—especially the buildings marked blue. Those house humans without the stench of curses. Protect them at all costs. If we succeed, our Lord will praise us." The Lycaon squad leader barked orders to the hellhounds, pointing at a whiteboard that showed a hand-drawn map—marked with positions of both innocent civilians and dark mages. It was based on Fethan’s notes from Everland Domain.
"Woof (Boss is unusually intense today.)"
"Woof (His rival, that stinky rat Blothfang, soul-fused with our Lord!)"
"Bow (So the boss is jealous of the stinky rat!)"
"You two think I didn’t hear that?! I’m not jealous! Awooo!" Lycaon howled dramatically, tears forming in his wolfish eyes despite his denial. He’d come to accept Lumi’s frequent soul fusions with their Lord. Azrael was powerful—deserving. But Blothfang? That mangy rodent had only stealth and speed! The rat had earned status during the Shaman battle and was even promoted to leader of the Sewer Rat Village. Lycaon could swallow that... barely. But soul fusion? Becoming one with their exalted Lord?
Unforgivable.
"We’ll prove our worth! The Everland hellhounds will impress our Lord! Whoever messes up worst—I’ll exile you from the pack!" Lycaon roared, issuing a death sentence for failure. The once-casual hellhounds turned deadly serious.
Meanwhile, in the Cursed Prison’s warden’s office, the Shaman’s former minions gathered. Azrael’s hollow eyes pierced through the assembled wardens—each one personally trained by him.
"You are our Lord’s most vital military force. The one who brought us freedom and peace. Disappointing him is a sin worth ten thousand deaths. Do you understand what happens if you embarrass the prison?!" Azrael’s voice boomed with both reverence and threat. Everyone but Wurmwrath stood stiff as statues, fearful of the punishments that might follow.
Wurmwrath, formerly Richie, had once been Azrael’s cursed toy during purification. That trauma made his spirit tremble even now—but oddly, his face flushed red.
"Kill as many enemies as possible. Worst performance earns punishment. Best? Promotion to Deputy Warden."
"Understood!" The cursed wardens, bloodthirsty and eager, answered in unison.
"Don’t let those mongrels outshine us. They think serving the Lord first makes them special—but we’ll prove who’s truly indispensable."
Gray rings appeared above Lycaon and Azrael’s groups. Their consciousness was pulled into the real world, manifesting across the mountain-encircled Craftsman Village. Wolf howls echoed as the hunt for imprisoned innocents began. Hellhounds coordinated in teams. The cursed wardens scattered to exterminate dark mages. Fethan’s order—"bring me their heads"—burned in their minds.
At the gate, two guards chatting with Jordan were about to radio for help.
Jordan’s eyes turned blood red. Pain like a blade slicing through his brain made him nearly insane. Black aura enveloped him—foul, cursed.
No—please... Jordan pleaded inside. But it was too late. The Reaper’s hymn echoed in his head. The curse was eating him alive, turning him into a cursed spirit. His cursed fist crushed the radio.
Owen, a regular guy with minor abilities hired by Martin, stood confused.
Jordan screamed—a howl of torment and madness. Then he punched Owen in the skull. Owen’s karma was only in the low hundreds, but Fethan’s command had no room for mercy.
I’m sorry, Owen, Jordan cried inwardly. Moments ago they’d shared coffee. Now Owen’s skull was crushed.
The second guard drew a gun and shot Jordan point-blank. The bullet struck his heart—but Jordan didn’t bleed. He was no longer alive. His cursed fist shattered the guard’s heart.
Jordan trembled. I’ve been shot and I’m still moving. I’m not human anymore. I’m not even alive. What have I become?
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Summoned spirits had semi-physical forms—capable of fighting, receiving damage, and interacting with the living. But normal weapons and magic barely harmed them. Only holy magic or other dark arts worked. This imbalance gave dark mages a huge advantage.
To kill a dark mage, you needed another dark mage—or a holy mage.
But Fethan’s control over souls was terrifying. He didn’t just summon spirits—he converted the dead into cursed and guardian spirits on command.
This kid... if he matures, he might surpass Gamo himself. Jordan stepped out of the guard booth. There was no turning back. He sent his old friends to the Everland Domain—hoping Fethan might reward him.
The village was in chaos. Fethan severed his fusion with Blothfang and equipped the Ninetails sword on his right hand. He rappelled through a window.
Pale blue flames ignited along the white blade etched with red fox patterns.
Eastern Guardian Swordplay – Secret Technique I: Crimson Fox Flame
The flames turned crimson. A shrill fox-cry echoed as Fethan slashed, forming a crescent arc. On the velvet-covered vintage bed, a middle-aged man’s eyes snapped open—just in time.
The blades clashed midair. The sword didn’t even graze a hair.
Fethan and Lumi both froze.
The man sprang up, hand extended. A sword flew into his grip like Thor’s hammer. A 26-inch dark steel blade with jagged, shark-like teeth. Cloudy eyes focused on the intruder. He swung.
Their swords met. Fethan’s arm shook from the impact.
"This old bastard sleeps armed?!"
Martin smirked. His blurry eyes locked onto Ninetails.
"You never know when a dumbass worker might try to murder you in your sleep. Honestly, I didn’t expect an outsider," Martin said, finally getting a clear look at Fethan. He stripped off his shirt, revealing enchanted armor.
"Incredible. This guy thinks his employees are more likely to kill him than invaders. Definitely a contender for Worst Boss of the Decade," Lumi snapped.
Fethan activated Reaper’s Eye.
[Name: Martin Robinson] [Level: 54] [Race: Half-Dwarf Human] [Class: Black Magic Smith (A)] [Titles: Dark Arts Craftsman, Black Market Merchant, Martin the Stingy] [Karma: 124,899] [Mana: 191/191] [Spirit: 80/80] [Endurance: 40] [Strength: 51] [INT: 30] [Perception: 20] [Agility: 22] [Sanity: 29] [Spirit: 16]
Skills:
- Master Craftsman (S) LV6: Legendary-level weapon, armor, accessory creation.
- Weapon Mastery (A) LV5
- Blessing of the Smith God (A) LV8: +10% to all equipped gear effects.
- Knight of the Sea Swordplay (B) LV3
Spells:
- Weapon Explosion (A) LV2
- Weapon Enchant (B) LV10
- Emergency Repair (B+) LV9
[Equipped Weapon: Black Shark Fang Sword] [Attack: 280 | Durability: 770 | Magic ATK: 25]
- Properties: +30% spell amplification, +40% damage resistance, -60% enemy gear durability, auto-dispels Rank 1 spells.
- Special: Increases gear damage dealt to enemies. Converts 10% to own equipment durability.
[Armor: MT-XVII Fusion Gear] [DEF: 110 | Durability: 1200 | Magic Res: 30 | Curse Res: 45]
- Properties: Self-repair, +40% damage resistance, counters magic bullets, auto-dispels Rank 1 spells, increased resists as durability drops.
- Special: Bonuses stack with set pieces.
Blue panels kept popping up as Fethan read Martin’s equipment specs. The sheer number of equipped items was dizzying. Armor pieces flew from storage to lock onto Martin’s body, transforming him into a radiant ironclad warrior.
His stats spiked: [Endurance: 80] [Strength: 76] [INT: 40] [Perception: 35] [Agility: 32]
Damn it. Fethan’s eyes widened. Martin now felt like a level 70, not 54. That armor was built to counter dark mages.
He has 30 Magic Res... I need over 30 mana to break through. His sword alone has 30 magic attack, and amplifies by 30%. Where’s the GM? I’m reporting this! Lumi raged. Her Ninetails was elite-tier, but Martin’s weapon was a counter weapon—designed to break enemy gear.
"Don’t know who sent you, but no dog’s gonna kill me! Not while I’m armed with my masterpiece!" Martin’s voice crackled with crazed vigor. He sounded younger than fifty.
He swung the shark blade. Fethan parried with Ninetails, but the backlash from the hidden anti-magic properties made his sword tremble. Martin flowed like a winter wave—swordsmanship heavy and elegant.
"You can’t win, Fethan! His raw power’s leagues above yours. Ninetails won’t hold up! We need a new strategy!" Lumi cried. Even with muscle training, Fethan couldn’t match a lifelong blacksmith’s brute strength.
CLANG!
The sword’s weight strained Fethan’s academic-built frame. Ninetails, made for a woman, was light and thin—it cracked against Martin’s full-force assault.
Fethan winced, watching Ninetails’ durability plummet. Martin smirked, crouched, and unleashed a sea-colored aura.
Knight of the Sea Swordplay – Undersea Wave
The shark blade cut with terrifying grace. Fethan channeled fire into Ninetails—blue to crimson.
Eastern Guardian Swordplay – Secret Technique I: Crimson Fox Flame
One clash. A hidden shockwave rocked Fethan’s insides. He nearly vomited blood.
Ninetails cracked. A masterwork forged by the Sterling Clan—snapped in half. Lumi’s eyes widened. Her rage hit Fethan’s heart like a spear.
But he was too hurt to respond.
He crashed into the wall. Blood dripped from his nose.
"Pathetic. I thought that sword was decent—but it broke like cheap glass. My backup gear is better than that. Let me guess—woman’s blade? Looks familiar, but who cares. She was probably a nobody," Martin sneered.
Fethan stared up, drained.
A sword that shattered enemy gear. Armor that nullified spells and curses. Swordplay that shattered organs with pressure waves.
His weapon was gone. He was at a massive disadvantage.
How the hell do I beat this guy?