Chapter 37 — The Edge of the Waterhouse
The morning sun glared down on the broken streets, spilling light across shattered buildings and twisted beams. The air was heavy with the stench of blood and dust, carried by a faint breeze that swept through the ruins.
A blur darted between the wreckage—a figure moving too fast for the eyes to follow.
Seth.
His blade flashed, and the world seemed to split in half.
A single swing carved through the air, the edge of his sword stretching unnaturally as he invoked his skill. The blade expanded—its dark metal lengthening in a shimmer of power—and a line of beasts exploded apart before they could even scream. Flesh, bone, and gore painted the crumbling walls red.
The sound of tearing wind faded.
Seth landed lightly, his eyes calm, the oversized blade shrinking back to its normal form. Around him, dozens of beast corpses fell in unison—some still twitching, others reduced to chunks.
The mob never ended.
From every direction, behind crooked buildings and rusted cars, initiates poured toward him—wolves with skeletal frames, horned boars covered in scales, crawling insectoid horrors with spiked carapaces. Their screeches filled the air, shaking the broken city as they charged.
Seth didn't flinch.
He stepped forward instead, his body blurring as he swung again.
BOOM—!
The impact sent a ripple through the ground, a shockwave that shattered nearby windows and split the cracked asphalt. The front line of beasts disintegrated into mist and fragments, their remains scattering in the wake of the strike.
He moved like a storm. Every motion precise, efficient. No wasted effort, no hesitation.
The beasts couldn't even react. His speed, boosted by his strengthened physique, made him a ghost among them. To them, his movement was a blur of death. By the time their senses caught up, they were already dead.
The SP notification was endless forcing him to turn it off.
Yet he didn't rush recklessly.
Each time the pressure mounted, he would pull back into the shadows of the half-collapsed buildings. The beasts would swarm into the empty space, howling and tearing at the air—only for Seth to appear in another location cutting down another dozen before going to another place.
The smell of blood grew thicker. It coated his skin, his sword, and the ground beneath his feet.
Still, he pressed on.
Every kill fed his SP. Every hunt made him stronger.
He could have run through the horde in seconds—his body fast enough now that none of the initiates could have touched him even if they saw him coming—but SP was what he wanted, not survival. So he stayed, patient and methodical.
He wanted them to come.
And they did.
Drawn by the sound, by the blood, by instinct.
Seth's grin widened as he swung once more. The sword skill roared to life again, the blade swelling to twice its normal size, then thrice. A dark arc tore through the crowded beasts, cutting down nearly twenty in one motion. The sound that followed was deafening—a raw, heavy shock that echoed across the ruined district.
Chunks of earth and bone rained down like a crimson storm.
When the mob began to close in too tightly, Seth blurred backward, slipping into a side alley. His movements were almost playful, like a predator toying with prey. The horde charged after him, but his figure flickered and vanished, reappearing behind them again to carve another swath through their ranks.
Hours passed like this.
A ceaseless rhythm of slaughter, retreat, and slaughter again.
By the time the sun began to lean westward, the streets near the Waterhouse were littered with bodies. The earth had turned a dark, dried red, and the buzzing of flies filled the silence between battles.
Seth exhaled slowly, running a hand through his blood-streaked hair. His shirt clung to his skin, torn in places but unbothered by wounds. His breathing was steady—too steady for someone who had killed so many.
In the distance, the Waterhouse loomed larger now.
He had finally reached the outer perimeter—the place where the initiates dared not tread.
The atmosphere changed instantly.
The moment he stepped closer, a heavy pressure rolled through the air, making the ground tremble faintly beneath his boots. He could feel the difference even without seeing them.
And then he did.
At the far edge of the street, just before the cracked plaza that marked the Waterhouse's gate, stood a new kind of threat.
A gathering of novice-ranked beasts.
They came in all forms—feral wolves with bones protruding from their backs, armored boars with molten eyes, sleek reptiles glistening like wet obsidian. A massive bird perched on a toppled tower, its feathers tipped in metallic blue. Even a colossal snail with a shell that looked more like mountain rock and bone sat motionless, faintly radiating heat.
Each one radiated power, their combined aura so dense that the nearby air shimmered.
The initiates kept their distance. Not one dared approach this silent boundary.
But Seth's eyes gleamed, and a grin crept back onto his face.
He could feel it—the pull of challenge, the hunger for progress, the thrill of something worthy.
"Finally," he muttered, his tone edged with excitement. "Something that might actually be worth my time."
He tightened his grip on the One Sword, the metal humming faintly in his hands.
For a few moments, he simply watched. Studying their movements, their spacing, their reactions to sound. A hunter analyzing his prey.
Any careless move here, and the entire pack would turn on him at once.
He had no interest in dying just yet.
But when he finally moved—his body lowering slightly, eyes narrowing—it was with purpose. His plan already formed.
The grin returned, sharper this time.
"Let's see what a real hunt feels like."
And with that, Seth slipped forward—silent as shadow, lethal as steel.