Renda was not an ordinary Killer

  She was the founder and leader of the Weaver Club, its strongest member, and a legend of sadistic artistry.

  Her infamy was built on a foundation of defilement—the meticulous unraveling of a human being to the core of its existence, expressed in countless gruesome mediums. She was neither weak nor inexperienced.

  But what made her truly unusual was none of that.

  It was her origin.

  Renda was born from a diseased, desperate witchcraft user who, in a final bid for renewal, attempted to tear open her own womb.

  The plan was to seize the newborn’s body as a vessel, discarding her own ruined form. She failed. The mother died. The child lived.

  And the child inherited the unique, vile magic that had festered within the womb: Toxicity Magic.

  Taken in by the killer of her mother, Renda grew as a creature of corruption, her very biology intertwined with malignant mana. Her body was less flesh and blood, and more a solidified, sentient toxin.

  This inherent corruption was what the Purgatory Flame had instantly sensed and targeted with absolute, annihilating priority.

  It did not just burn her; it sought to purify the very concept of her, scouring away the layers of cursed energy to leave behind the hollowed, rotten shell now lying on the arcade floor.

  The flames burned through her essence with such speed and finality that it should have ended everything.

  To call what remained alive would be ludicrous. What persisted was a single, fading point of consciousness—a silent, agonized awareness trapped in a ruined vessel, yearning for release.

  If you thought she yearned for a quick end, you would be wrong. Just like the mother who tried to steal her life, Renda knew the methods to cheat death.

  Within Toxicity Magic exists a forbidden technique: Cursed Cooking.

  By feeding specially prepared human meat—infused with her own blood, tissue, and waste—to a subject, and performing a ritual, she could implant molecular-level maggots within them.

  These maggots lay dormant, a parasitic backup. Should her primary body die, her consciousness could jump to any infected host, consuming their blood, bones, and soul to reshape them into a new vessel.

  She could even approximate her original form. The only cost was diffusion: the more hosts infected simultaneously, the more diluted her power became. She could not fight at her peak, even from her original body.

  To Renda, this was no drawback. A safe backup was more valuable than a flawless victory.

  Wherever she went, she fed many. Her stolen café in Pipra had served hundreds. They were her insurance policy and her private gallery of future defilements, all wrapped into one.

  The moment the purifying flames engulfed her, that single point of consciousness did not despair. It activated.

  It began the silent, desperate process of severing from the burning shell and reaching out across the psychic link to her infected network, seeking a new host in Pipra.

  She hid this effort, masking it within the agony of the flame and the chaotic aftermath, a final, cunning play for survival.

  She would have succeeded, too. Easily.

  Her opponent this time, however, was not just any mage.

  It was Lucien Sinclair. And his perception saw more than truth itself wished to reveal.

  Just as Lucien laid eyes on Renda's ruined body, he immediately felt the abnormality— a lingering, seeking thread of consciousness.

  He closed his eyes, shutting out the physical world, and turned on his True Perception.

  He traced it.

  The connection Renda was trying to forge shot through the ether like a poisoned needle.

  Lucien moved, His speed at that moment was almost equal to the speed of sound, a silent rush of air as he sprinted down streets, slid effortlessly along walls, and leapt between rooftops without a sound.

  He followed the psychic trail to its destination.

  A third-floor apartment. A family of three—husband, wife, young daughter—huddled together in a single room, fearfully awaiting the end of the chaos outside.

  Lucien sensed the three infection points within them, the dormant maggots waiting to be activated.

  How should I deal with this?

  He summoned Purgatory Flame again, but this time he held it in his palm, studying its behavior, testing his control before acting.

  Inside the room, the little girl suddenly screamed, clutching her head. She coughed, blood speckling her small hand.

  A grotesque, maggot-like bulge pulsed under the skin of her neck. The mother shrieked in horror.

  Before the situation could escalate, Lucien acted. He didn't unleash the flame. He summoned only its essence—a concentrated wave of purifying warmth. It flooded the room.

  The temperature spiked violently. To the family, it felt as if they had been stripped naked and thrown into a desert under a merciless sun.

  They broke into an instant, drenching sweat. The heat was agonizing, burning not their skin, but something inside. The corruption within them sizzled and died, purged in an instant.

  As the maggots were incinerated, the unbearable heat vanished, leaving them gasping and bewildered on the floor, unharmed but deeply shaken.

  Lucien had foiled Renda's first attempt.

  He knew she would try again. He closed his eyes, found the next thread, and launched himself after it.

  The pattern repeated. Another house. Another floor. Another person saved. But Lucien noted the intervals between Renda's attempts were shrinking.

  Her response time was increasing. He still had to find the location, summon the flame, and direct the warmth—a sequence that was beginning to lag behind her accelerating efforts. It was becoming risky. Annoying.

  He remembered the form—the state of heightened focus and merged energy he had adapted from Liam's Thunderlord manifestation. An idea crystallized.

  He stopped in the middle of a deserted street. Placing his hands together, he focused. He summoned Purgatory Flame and merged it not with an object, but with his own aura. Will, flame, and life force reacted, merging into something new.

  His appearance transformed.

  His black cloak ignited into a brilliant, burning tapestry of red, woven with threads of gold and white, etched with shifting, intricate symbols of Purgatory.

  His boots became solid flame. His pants darkened to a controlled, smoky shadow within the radiant cloak. Beneath it, his clothing glowed with the same red-gold-white fire.

  His eyes shifted from their usual composed peridot to a blazing, molten gold-red.

  His hair remained black, but it seemed to ripple with contained heat.

  Gloves of brilliant red, marked with golden sigils, formed over his hands.

  From a third-person view, he was no longer a man. He was a contained, walking bonfire.

  He moved again, leaving a trail of shimmering red after-images and a wake of cleansing warmth. To foil Renda's jumps now, he didn't need to repeat his action again and again.

  His mere presence, with a fraction of his focus directed at a target, was enough. If he found multiple infections in an area, he could purify the entire zone at once.

  Renda, her consciousness scrambling through her network, found no host.

  No matter which thread she pulled, a wave of purifying warmth met her at the other end, severing the connection and sterilizing the vessel before she could take root.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  By now, he didn't need to follow her traces. He could see the infections directly—pulsing points of corruption scattered across the town like a dark constellation.

  He followed her anyway, making sure she couldn’t use this as an opportunity to slip away through someone else while he was busy with a different target.

  The numbers were staggering. She had hundreds of potential hosts stored in Pipra, a ready-made army of spare bodies.

  Who is doing this? Renda's fading consciousness snarled in furious, trapped disbelief. Who is capable of this? How… how annoying!

  Renda changed her strategy. To escape Lucien's relentless purge, she began a frantic, chaotic hopscotch across her network.

  She would target a host on the far south side of town, then, just as Lucien moved to intercept, she would vanish from that thread and instantly target another on the opposite north end.

  She skipped over nearby hosts, choosing the farthest points possible, creating a dizzying, non-linear pattern designed to confuse, delay, and exhaust.

  All I need is one whole minute. Even half would work. I just need to distract him. In the end, it looks like I'll have to push a little, make false traces… There's no way he can differentiate. Whoever you are… enjoy this pain.

  She executed her plan.

  Lucien immediately grasped her intent. It was a tactic he'd anticipated, but it was still bothersome—annoyingly so.

  For someone like her, he was being forced into a reactive chase across the entire city.

  If he broke off to proactively seek out and destroy the maggot implants, she could use the distraction to slip into a host and escape. He could not do both at once.

  Only if there were a way to reach every part of this town at once.

  A dangerous idea surfaced.

  What if I do it? Should I? It would draw a lot of attention… He weighed the risk. No. What if it does? My real identity won't be exposed. I could perhaps use that attention… differently. It could work as the start of something brilliant.

  The potential collateral damage from the arcade flickered in his mind, but he dismissed it. His control was far sharper now, and in this form the act of channeling power felt as natural as breathing.

  Even so, he opened his True Perception, letting it spread across the surroundings to deepen his understanding. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of his lips.

  With both hands raised toward the sky, fire around him surged. An immense, terrifying volume of Purgatory Flame erupted upward, condensing into a single, brilliant point high above Pipra.

  It became a miniature sun.

  It pulsed once, then expanded, still small in the sky but impossibly bright.

  In an instant, day arrived in the middle of the night.

  Not a single alley, room, or shadow in Pipra was untouched by its clean, relentless light. It was afternoon sunlight given sentience and purpose.

  And with its light, its heat, its very presence, it erased every trace of corruption.

  Every dormant maggot, every psychic thread, every potential host in Renda's network was incinerated in a few seconds of absolute, silent purification.

  Lucien held the sun aloft for five seconds more, just to be certain, ensuring no speck of her malice survived.

  Then, with a snap of his will, the sun disintegrated.

  Pipra was plunged back into night, the sudden darkness feeling deeper and more silent than before.

  What would Max have said at this moment? Lucien mused internally, the fiery mantle around him cooling. Yeah… that's what I call settling the score.

  With that spectacle, the lingering shame from the arcade's clumsy burn was gone, overwritten by a successful, calculated application of overwhelming power.

  He had learned, adapted, and executed flawlessly.

  I have to make sure that woman dies here tonight. She has seen or felt too much. Her life cannot be allowed.

  He reappeared before Renda's ruined body, still cloaked in his crimson and gold form, the air around him shimmering with residual heat.

  Inside the charred shell, the last flicker of Renda's consciousness shrieked in abject, final despair.

  No. No no no no. This can't be happening. That's not possible. I can't… I can't fail. I CAN'T FAIL!

  Her silent scream was her last thought.

  Lucien didn't hesitate. With K17's stolen sword in hand, he passed effortlessly through Monica's small barrier as if it weren't there.

  The blade, still faintly glowing with fire. He ended Renda's life, once and for all.

  [A Few Minutes Before The Mini-sun]

  The Yellow Weaver attacked the Red Cape with the frantic, vicious energy of a feral cat, all technique abandoned for raw, tearing fury.

  Red Cape caught the onslaught on the haft of his spear, holding it with both hands, muscles straining as he was driven back.

  Before he could shove the Weaver off, two more predators joined. K2 and K5, their swords a blur of cold intent, aimed to cleave him from both sides.

  He spun his spear in a desperate, sweeping parry, metal shrieking against metal.

  He channeled a jolt of lightning through the shaft, hoping to numb their arms, but they absorbed the shock with barely a flinch.

  K2 drove a sharp, precise kick into his ribs. At the same moment, K5 locked an arm around his neck from behind.

  Gasping, Red Cape dropped his weight and rolled, using K5's own momentum to hurl him into K2's path. He scrambled back, reclaiming his spear—

  But the Yellow Weaver was faster. A hand wreathed in flame shot out, seized the spear shaft midair, and crushed it. The reinforced wood splintered; the metal core bent.

  A follow-up punch, burning with contained detonation, slammed into Red Cape's chest and hurled him across the street.

  He hit the ground hard, rolled, and came up in a crouch, his stance stable but his breath coming in ragged pulls.

  Red Cape glanced at the two broken pieces of his spear. "That makes twice my weapon is broken today," he called out, his voice strained but holding a thread of dark humor. "And both times because of your clown circus. I hope you're planning to reimburse me for that."

  He assessed the situation with cold clarity. Three against one. He was already weakened—the city-wide lightning ritual had drained him to the marrow, and the single potion had only brought him back from the brink.

  Even now, he was running on fumes.

  He wasn't truly holding them off. They were toying with him. K2, especially, was a problem.

  Her fighting style is unnerving—strikes that bypassed my guard to deliver deep, bruising internal damage with terrifying efficiency. Every blocked blow still sent a shockwave through my organs.

  How annoying, he thought, the calculation final. But I guess I have to use my trump card after all. From the very beginning of this fight.

  He took a slow, centering breath, his eyes hardening behind his helm. The play was over. It was time to raise the stakes.

  His hand snapped to his waist, fingers closing around the hilt of the sheathed sword—the weapon he had never once drawn any battle yet.

  He had avoided it for a single, simple reason: he knew its nature. To draw it meant death for his opponent.

  As his fingers touched the grip, the Yellow Weaver lunged. A claw-like swipe, wreathed in concussive flame, aimed to gut him.

  Red Cape twisted aside, the heat searing his side. The Weaver didn't let up, triggering a series of small, sharp explosions along Red Cape's dodging path.

  He couldn't avoid them all; impacts rattled his bones, but he kept his feet, his focus locked on the sword.

  Then, from behind, K2 struck.

  "Whirligig Dance!"

  A hurricane of brownish, grinding force erupted, swallowing Red Cape whole. The vicious, swirling energy tore at him from all sides.

  The Yellow Weaver snarled, "Hey! Why did you do that? I didn't tell you to—"

  "I felt something dangerous," K2's voice was flat, cutting through the roar of her technique. "I believe we've had enough fun. It's best to finish him quickly."

  "I agree," K5 stated, his weapon ready for a final, decisive blow.

  The Weaver, still furious at the interruption, gathered a Fire Spear in his hand, ready to incinerate anything that emerged.

  Suddenly, the hurricane… split.

  It didn't dissipate; it was cut open, severed along a clean, impossible line. But Red Cape wasn't where he had been.

  He was already moving, a blur of black and crimson. He shot toward the Yellow Weaver.

  K5 intercepted on instinct. Their weapons met in a shower of sparks. The Red Cape absorbed the brutal impact, letting it drive him back a step, and in that same motion, his sword flashed out. It didn't cut; it brushed against K5's thigh, drawing a faint, almost insultingly shallow line of blood.

  That was all he needed.

  He used the recoil to pivot, meeting the Yellow Weaver's explosive fist on one side and K2's darting "Hornet Sting" on the other.

  He dropped low, the attacks passing over him, and his sword flickered out again—a grazing touch against K2's arm, drawing another pinpoint of blood.

  He didn't wait. He didn't hesitate.

  He chanted a single, guttural word.

  "Feast."

  The sword at his waist changed. The polished metal turned a void-like black.

  A grotesque mouth lined with jagged, metallic teeth ripped open along the blade, a long, whip-like tongue lashing out.

  It tasted the two droplets of blood—K5's from the thigh, K2's from the arm—on its surface.

  A grating, metallic voice boomed from the weapon.

  "COME TO ME."

  The sword flew on its own, hovering midair. Its maw distended, becoming a vast, darkness-filled portal.

  An unimaginable suction force erupted, on the very essence of the two marked knights.

  K2 and K5 had no time to scream. They were wrenched off their feet, not by wind, but by a voracious, targeted hunger.

  They were dragged into the widening mouth, their forms visibly crumpling and compressing as the metallic teeth closed over them. For a horrific second, their shapes could be seen inside the blade, chewed apart by grinding, unseen forces.

  A muffled, metallic cacophony of crushing armor, snapping bone, and final, swallowed shrieks echoed briefly.

  The Yellow Weaver stared, his furious momentum shattered by pure shock.

  He unleashed his prepared Fire Spear at the monstrous sword. The blazing projectile struck the black metal and vanished without a sound, absorbed into the same bottomless hunger.

  A second later, the sword gave a final, audible GULP.

  The mouth sealed shut, the blackness receding. The weapon, now slick with a faint, oily sheen, flew back and slotted itself into Red Cape's scabbard with a soft, definitive click.

  The street was suddenly, terribly quiet. Only two combatants remained.