For a moment, no one moved.
The captain's body stood still—then collapsed with a dull thud, a wet sound following as blood pooled beneath him. A gaping hole marked where his heart should have been.
The blond boy stood behind the corpse, his form now fully visible as the shimmer of stealth faded. His hands dripped with blood, a crooked smile carved across his face.
Silence devoured the surroundings. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Their eyes met his—wide with disbelief, fear, rage, confusion. A storm of emotion that none of them could name.
They had never fully trusted the boy before them.
From the moment he joined their group, something about him had always felt off.
But who could've imagined that in the brief moment they'd let their guard down—just seconds of celebration over the drop—their captain, the strongest among them, would be dead?
The dark-skinned archer's grip tightened around his weapon, knuckles whitening. The red-haired mage stumbled back, trembling.
"Y–you…" the girl with the spear managed to stammer, her voice shaking.
The blond tilted his head slightly, amusement twisting his expression. He licked a smear of blood off his thumb, eyes half-lidded, voice light.
"Mmh," he murmured, voice dripping with satisfaction. "Still warm."
Then—he vanished.
The air rippled, his figure melting into nothing.
"Shit!" the dark-skinned archer barked. "He's gone stealth!"
The red-haired mage reacted instantly. Raising her staff, she muttered a rapid chant under her breath.
A bright pulse of white mana exploded outward, washing over the area.
The air shimmered—and the blond's outline flickered into view, right beside the spear girl, dagger poised.
"Tch." His face twisted in irritation. "Annoying."
Before he could vanish again, the spear flashed toward him. Steel sliced through air. He twisted aside effortlessly, but as he ducked, an arrow hissed through the air, forcing him to deflect it with his dagger. Another arrow followed, striking deep into his shoulder.
He staggered back, hissing in pain—then smirked. "Now you're just pissing me off."
He grabbed the arrow's shaft, yanked it out—and the wound sealed before their eyes. Skin knitting together. Blood fading.
The group froze.
"What the hell…?" the archer whispered.
The blond stretched his neck, rolling his shoulder as if testing it. "Better." His grin sharpened. "You can't kill me. Just lay down and die quietly."
The mage shouted, launching a flurry of fireballs toward him. The explosions tore through the dirt, sending smoke and embers flying.
When the haze cleared, the blond's smile was gone—something dark and evil clouded his face.
"You first," he said coolly.
He blurred forward.
The spear girl rushed to intercept, thrusting desperately, but her spear only grazed his sleeve. He sidestepped with predatory grace, sneering, "You think that'll stop me?"
In a blink, he was before her.
The mage's eyes widened—he was coming straight for her. "No—!"
She threw up a glowing barrier at the last second. His dagger slammed into it with a deafening crack, sparks flying.
For a heartbeat, she saw his face through the shimmering wall—a wide smile, eyes bright with sick joy.
Crack! Crack!
The barrier splintered.
"W–Why?" she whispered, tears welling.
The wall shattered. His dagger flashed once.
Blood arced through the air.
Her body fell silently.
"NO!" the spear girl screamed, charging again—but it was useless. Without the mage, they couldn't counter his stealth. He disappeared mid-charge, and by the time she turned, the archer beside her was already falling, a blade through his throat.
Moments later, the spear girl joined him.
And then there was silence.
The blond emerged from the shadows, wiping his dagger on his sleeve. His boots crunched over broken debris as he moved from corpse to corpse, collecting glowing loot orbs into his inventory.
When he reached the center of the field, his gaze fell on a ring lying where it had dropped. He crouched, picked it up, and examined it.
It glimmered faintly under the sunlight, golden lines running through black metal like veins.
"…Doesn't look like much," he muttered. His expression soured. "That guy made it sound like the key to godhood or something."
He studied the ring for a while, as if trying to uncover its secret, then gave up with a shrug. "Not my problem."
He slipped it into his inventory.
Task complete.
He raised his left hand, and for an instant, the illusion over it faded.
A grotesque glove covered it—dark and wrinkled like rotten flesh stitched together. Veins pulsed faintly beneath its skin-like texture.
Then, as quickly as it appeared, it vanished again, blending seamlessly back into his hand.
That glove—the gift from the masked figure who had approached him a few days before he entered the Tower.
The instructions were simple: find the goblin settlement, retrieve a certain "special" item, and deliver it.
In return, they gave him this—this evil-looking glove.
It fed on life itself, devouring the life force of those he killed, which he could then use to heal his injuries or gain a temporary surge of power.
But what made it truly evil was that it didn't work on beasts. Only humans. Almost as if it were made specifically to hunt them.
Not that he cared.
The memory of that power—the rush of strength, the instant recovery—was intoxicating.
He grinned, tongue running across his teeth. "I could get used to this. With this, I'll be unstoppable."
The wind whistled through the ruins as if in affirmation—then came the faint crunch of footsteps.
He turned sharply.
A few meters away, the porter stood frozen, trembling violently. His eyes were wide and glassy with terror. A wet stain spread down his leg.
The blond's grin returned, slow and cruel. "Oh. You're still here."
He wiped the remaining blood from his dagger and began walking toward the boy, unhurried.
The porter stumbled backward, hands raised, voice breaking into stammers.
"P-please! D-don't come any closer! I didn't see anything—I swear! I won't tell anyone! Please!"
The blond chuckled low. "Promise?"
The boy nodded frantically, tears streaming down his face.
"That's cute." The blond tilted his head. "But promises only matter when you're alive." He raised the dagger. "The dead don't tell secrets."
The porter whimpered, shaking, eyes darting wildly—until they caught movement behind the blond.
Someone else.
His lips trembled as hope flickered in his eyes. He stretched out a hand toward the shadowed figure emerging from behind the broken walls of the goblin base.
"P–Please! Help me! I don't want to die!" he screamed, voice raw with desperation.
The blond froze mid-step, turning sharply toward the sound.
Footsteps echoed softly as someone emerged from the mist.
A young man, roughly their age—maybe eighteen. His standard-issue government gear was scuffed and worn, his boots caked with mud.
But his posture was calm. Steady.
The blond's eyes narrowed, then gleamed with excitement.
"Well, well…" he said, smirking. "Another one comes to die. Come on then —" he lifted his gloved hand, the faint shimmer of corrupted energy dancing around it— "feed my growth."
---
Meanwhile, Grimm on the other hand after following the sounds of battle arrived at the clearing at the heart of the goblin settlement. His expression was unreadable as his gaze swept across the carnage: the bodies, the blood, the smell of burnt flesh.
He stopped when he saw the trembling porter.
Then his eyes drifted to the blond, standing among the corpses, grinning like a wolf.
For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them as Grimm's mind pieced together the scene before him. Then a simple sigh escaped his lips as he muttered under his breath—
"…Fuck me."