But then Mo Hamus's gaze fell back into silence.
A man who had seen too much death, who had personally ended too many lives, could not be felled by a momentary fear.
His chest heaved with heavy breaths; the metallic stench of blood hit his nostrils and sharpened his mind in a strange way. Death was never something he ran from.
From the moment he stepped into the world of shadows, he had known that one day he too would lie in a pool of blood like George now.
What annoyed him… was that all his efforts felt like a farce… exactly like when he still lived within the clan.
His eyes were dim, yet a final glint lingered—the light of someone who had walked his path to the end.
Not the light of hope. But a calm that belongs only to those who have grown used to the boundary between life and death.
He lifted his head and looked at Gen, a strange smile twitching the corner of his mouth. "If that's the case, then don't waste any more time. I've killed hundreds before and I want to know… what it feels like to be killed by a monster."
"But do you think killing me or George will end everything?"
Mo Hamus suddenly took on a teasing tone.
"If George is gone, someone else will take his place. Remove the tiger and the wolves will come to rule. What if George holds this town? What if George considers himself the underground emperor? It's still better than chaos if George's gone."
Gen was silent for a moment. Then he answered slowly, his voice low and flat to the point of being frightening: "You speak as if evil can be legitimized simply because it keeps worse people outside the gate."
Mo Hamus snorted: "That's reality. George keeps order. Without him, this town would have been swallowed long ago."
"Order?" Gen repeated, his eyes ice-cold. "You call ruling over civilians with blood 'order'? A chained beast isn't saved; it's just waiting its turn to be slaughtered."
Mo Hamus fell quiet; the smile on his face faded.
Gen continued—not from anger, but from contempt: "George builds fences to keep the wolves out, yet he was the first to feed on the people of this town. You think that's protection?" No. "That's the shameless power of someone who lets others do the dirty work."
Silence fell like death.
Mo Hamus clenched his hands, but in his eyes there was no longer resistance—only a strange emptiness.
"You… speak as if there's something cleaner than him in this world."
In that moment, Gen looked at him—not with a judge's gaze, but with the indifferent look of a passerby.
Whether Mo Hamus or George was cruel mattered little to him. He did not save the world; sometimes he reacted because of old memories his body still carried.
A fleeting image passed through his mind—Emi, with her bashful smile. Then a more distant memory surged back…the face of his little sister, small and fragile, smiling at him just the same.
The world back then had been laughably simple.
For a moment, maybe he could not bear to see that smile trampled. Not out of pity, but because he could not stand to watch something rare and beautiful snuffed out in this filthy world.
Even a demon sometimes bows before a pure soul.
Gen set the hammer down on the stone floor and propped his chin with one hand, thoughtful.
A curious idea flashed in his head.
His gaze skimmed over Mo Hamus with a casual air, like someone choosing from a menu.
"You know Mo Gang?" His voice sounded suddenly, the words punctuated as if the question barely mattered.
Mo Hamus widened his eyes, then shut them tight; his face contorted for a brief instant. He tried to hide his embarrassment with a brittle laugh, pretending he had never heard the name.
But that expression said everything.
"…Mo Gang… is my nephew." He swallowed dryly; his lips trembled. "How do you—why do you know his name?"
In the end, Mo Hamus had to admit it.
Gen curled his mouth, as if smiling over a small secret.
"I just want you to know I know where Mo Gang is right now." He answered coldly.
The words sounded casual, but each syllable fell like a needle. This was a threat; Mo Hamus was all too familiar with this kind of sentence. He stiffened—not from fear for himself, but because a familiar face flickered in his mind.
Gen didn't rush. He gave Mo Hamus time to digest it. He accepted that Mo Hamus had blood ties to Mo Gang, but whether Mo Hamus valued that was another matter. After all, making a threat cost nothing.
He stepped closer, bent down, and brought his eyes level with Mo Hamus. His voice turned icy: "You chose the path of someone who trades violence for reputation. You're willing to die for your trade. I understand. But tell me honestly—would you be willing to have your nephew pay for your stain with his life?"
Mo Hamus gripped the short-dagger's hilt.
A parade of faces flashed through his mind: his aging mother in the village, Mo Gang still young and inexperienced. He had left the clan out of hatred and failure with Mo Gang's father; he had awaited death as a fitting end. But one thing would not leave with him: a small duty to his blood.
Gen drew out his words, slow and clear as if carving a condition into the air: "I give you two choices. First, I end your life here, as it should be. Second, you live—but live to atone. Stay in this town, quietly, work for me: protect, purge threats, crush anyone who would in George's name repeat his crimes. If you betray me, I won't just kill you. I will kill Mo Gang. I will make your name a stain on your family's bloodline."
Mo Hamus's breath went dry. He, who once smiled at the cries of his victims, found his throat tight at the image of his nephew being killed for his sins. A lonely, meaningless death had been something he had not feared. But to let kin be punished for his mistakes—that was different.
"You… use my nephew to threaten me? You sure know how to dig where it hurts." Mo Hamus let out a bitter laugh.
Gen returned a thin smile like a blade: "I'm not digging. I'm offering a realistic choice. You'll either live and atone with blood and sweat, or you'll die and drag others to pay for you."
Silence dropped like a weight. Outside, the murmur of the crowd echoed faintly; in truth, no one knew what had happened. They merely guessed and passed their guesses along.
Mo Hamus bowed his head, his hand trembling as he lowered the dagger's hilt. His voice was quieter, stripped of mockery: "I… will stay."
Not because he feared death. Not because of the threat. But because of what remained: that his nephew should not be the one to pay for an adult's sins.
Mo Hamus closed his eyes and swallowed the pain and shame. When he opened them, a cold resolution lay in their depths—different from the readiness to die he once had. This was a resolve to atone through action.
"Good."
Cinders and Corpses
Gen let the hammer drop with a dull thud.
Everything had strayed far from his original calculations.
His first intention was simple and brutal: kill Mo Hamus, kill everyone involved, expose their crimes before the crowd, and let the news spread like wildfire — until the law itself would be forced to act.
But what Mo Hamus said wasn't wrong.
In fact… it was painfully true.
After all, his initial plan had been nothing but naïve.
Eliminate George, yet the roots of power would remain.
Cut off one head, and another would quietly grow in its place. Changing the ruler wouldn't fix the rot beneath. The town could replace the man on the throne, but the seat of power itself would never turn pure on its own.
So Gen reconsidered his path.
Instead of turning this square into a loudspeaker of truth and walking away, he could leave behind a watcher — a "guardian." He could keep George's right-hand man alive — a man who once stood close to the heart of authority — and repurpose him, forcing him to serve a new goal: to protect this town from threats beyond its walls.
It wasn't mercy.
It was calculation — better to use an old pawn than remove it and leave an empty space that would soon be filled by something worse.
The reason was simple.
Gen had once served in the Imperial Army. He used to believe in the justice written in books.
But he never trusted those who wielded that justice.
Laws might be born from good intentions, yet the nobles knew well how to rewrite them with their own pens.
He had once seen a drunken noble kill a soldier — and the next day, it was the innocent gatekeeper who swung from the gallows.
He had seen a small village burned to the ground for daring to protest unfair taxes, and the report sent back to the capital merely read:
"Rebellion successfully suppressed."
And so he understood — certain nobles would never let go of such a fat piece of prey sitting at the border.
The thought took shape, and Gen immediately made his decision.
Before he could think about the future, he had to clean up the mess in front of him.
Hundreds of eyes watched from the edges of the square, whispers spreading like cold smoke through the air.
Many of those eyes were fixed on the body lying between him and Mo Hamus.
They whispered a name — George.
A name no one in town could claim not to know. Not because they'd seen the man, but because of his son — Callum.
Callum, the one who ruled this town like his own kingdom.
Arrogant, self-proclaimed master of everything he desired, carving out districts as if they were his personal territories.
People had spoken up before.
They had reported him to the mayor, begged for justice.
And every time, the matter sank into silence.
No punishment.
No justice.
No one dared to speak again.
From then on, everyone understood — without ever saying it aloud — who stood behind Callum.
The name "George" became something whispered only in hushed tones, as though invoking the ghost of power itself.
No one knew what he did, only that even the mayor feared him.
And now, that man was dead.
A body lay there — stripped of authority, stripped of mystery.
Many fell silent — not out of grief, but out of uncertainty.
No one knew what would come next.
Gen tilted his head slightly, his gaze drifting toward Mo Hamus — kneeling, soaked in blood, yet still managing to stay conscious.
"You're still alive. Good. Heal yourself. I don't need another corpse."
His voice carried neither pity nor anger — only a flat, commanding tone.
Then he hoisted the hammer onto his shoulder, stepped over George's body, and walked toward the shattered doors.
Outside, hundreds of eyes awaited — townsfolk, adventurers, guards, merchants.
No one spoke.
But the air was thick — heavy with fear and curiosity, almost tangible.
Gen stood there.
He didn't need to shout or threaten; one look from him was enough to silence the crowd.
"There's nothing more to see," he said slowly, his voice echoing through the square. "Disperse."
No one answered.
Only the crunch of boots followed, as groups of people quietly melted away.
The townsfolk withdrew, wide-eyed and trembling, not daring to ask who he was or to look again at the corpse behind him. They retreated like witnesses of a forbidden ritual they wished they hadn't seen.
A few adventurers lingered, but the moment they met his eyes, they bowed slightly and turned away.
Adventurers — people who lived by instinct and respected strength above all else — understood perfectly well:
Anyone who could kill in broad daylight like that wasn't an ordinary man.
In their world, the strong had the right to live.
The weak had only the right to stay silent.
And today, everyone silently acknowledged — a true power had just emerged in this town.
What remained were faint murmurs, whispers scattering like sparks, ready to ignite into rumor.
As the last adventurers drifted away, an eerie silence settled over the square.
When Gen returned to the mansion hall, Mo Hamus was there, ordering servants to clean the mess. His body still trembled, his breath uneven.
Seeing Gen approach, Mo Hamus stepped forward.
"…If you're not busy," he rasped between breaths, "there's a place I'd like to take you."
The defiance in his eyes was gone. He bowed slightly, voice lower than before.
"It's where George used to manage… everything that happened in the shadows."
Gen glanced at him.
Though he had already drunk a recovery potion, the whip marks still bled faintly, the skin around them darkened, glowing weakly. The wounds refused to close, as if something resisted the healing.
"You haven't recovered?" Gen asked, his tone cold.
Mo Hamus exhaled harshly and shook his head.
"Not quite. That weapon… it's strange."
He raised his arm, revealing deep lash marks that shimmered faintly with a cold violet light, the glow seeping into his veins.
"I've seen many types of magic tools, but none that could nullify a recovery potion like this."
He paused, eyes narrowing as they flicked toward the whip in Dolly's hand, trying to recall something.
"That violet glow… it might be Darklight Enchantment, or something close to it. That type of magic usually suppresses natural regeneration."
Gen stared at him silently for a moment.
"You seem to know a lot."
Mo Hamus gave a dry, humorless laugh.
"I used to trade magic relics for George. That color… it only appears in artifacts sealed since the Ancient War."
Gen's reply was a glance colder than steel.
"As long as you can walk, that's enough. Lead the way."
He didn't call for Dolly to follow. He simply left it standing there.
Of course — he only intended to cast [Umbral Avatar], leaving behind a shadow clone to monitor Mo Hamus and take George's place.
The Avatar would handle everything here.
He himself would take Dolly and leave the town behind.
Mo Hamus nodded, drawing a ragged breath.
Every step burned, the violet glow in his wounds still pulsing faintly — a reminder that he had survived something he was never meant to touch.
(Ps: The reason there haven't been any new chapters these past few days is because I'm currently unemployed and running around looking for a job. I'm sorry, everyone.)