The air was bitterly cold. Snow drifted down in lazy spirals, blanketing everything in white. It wasn’t the usual weather for that time of year, but around here, near the Wall, the rules didn’t quite apply. Just beyond that colossal barrier lay the Ice Wastes, a frozen desert of constant snowstorms. Crossing into that deathtrap was suicide.

Scott moved through the base with quiet purpose. It wasn’t large, but it was theirs. He and his gang had managed to grow a lot since the Renegades vanished. Marshall had died in a fight with Bastion, all because of his obsession with Bartholomew. Stupid. If he had just let that vendetta go, he could’ve kept on living.

“Where’s Nash with the food?” Kevin grumbled, sitting at a table, carving something into a block of wood.

“How the hell should I know?” Scott replied, rising to his feet.

Their base was built into the Wall itself, half stone, half reinforced scrap. They had inherited it from the Renegades after the group was wiped out. Scott knew the place inside and out. He used to work for them, after all.

Passing a narrow window, he glanced outside.

“No lights after sundown,” he reminded one of the guards posted at the front door.

“As always, boss.”

“Last time you idiots forgot to dump the sewage, I got a nasty surprise.”

“That was… different,” the guard muttered.

“I’m done with excuses.” Scott turned and headed back inside.

Beneath the base, the old dungeons were still crawling with the undead. That whole wing had been sealed off, the corridor leading down collapsed. Even so, every time he passed it, a chill crept up his spine.

Nothing grew in that area. The trees stood like petrified corpses, twisted and bare. Even the rare ones that still held onto a single green leaf looked frozen in time, never blooming, never rotting. Just… paused. It was like the winter there had sunk its teeth into time itself.

That edge of the camp was dead. Beasts avoided it. Wardens stuck to the city beyond the Safe Zone. The only things left wandering the place were the undead, shambling out of the gaping holes in the earth that led to the dungeon.

They had tried to seal some of those holes in the past. Gave up quick. There were just too many. Eventually, they decided to treat the undead like a natural defense, dumb enough to ignore you unless you got too close, perfect for keeping intruders out.

Around the camp’s perimeter, they had built up wooden barriers and crude spike pits. The undead didn’t even approach. Most just stood there, staring off into the distance, lost in their own mindless trance.

Scott made his way back to the main room where Kevin was still at his carving.

“I’m going back to my reading. If any of those bastards return, let me know.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Scott headed for his room. Food was always a problem out here. They had to send men far out to hunt since no beasts came near the cursed ground. Thankfully, they had three storage artifacts between them. That made hauling the meat back easier.

Still, scarcity was the name of the game out here. Supplies were limited. Scott could try heading into the Safe Zone to trade, but his face was plastered on too many wanted posters for that to be a real option.

Inside his quarters, he went straight to the desk and sat down, pulling out a book. The room had once belonged to Marshall. Most of what Scott owned had originally been his. The old bastard had hoarded plenty of things in the storage chest that still sat tucked into the corner.

Notebooks lay scattered across the desk, pages filled with scribbled routines, soldier patrol schedules, hideout locations, contingency plans. Eight years’ worth of experience and survival instinct, all carefully recorded, now belonged to Scott. His men called him a genius, but the truth was simpler. Most of his ideas came straight from the mind of the Renegades’ old leader.

Scott had claimed everything left in Marshall’s storage chest and transferred it into his own storage item. Safer that way. Only he could access it now.

Marshall had always been cautious to a fault. He never trusted storage items for anything truly important. Said they could be stolen or destroyed. If someone died while carrying one, the entire contents could vanish. Instead, he preferred to bury backup chests all over the Wild Zone, scattering his secrets like landmines. It was overkill, but it worked.

Disciplined man. A tactician through and through. But Scott knew the truth.

“The old bastard was a pervert,” he muttered, laughing as he flipped through another notebook.

Mixed in with all the tactical brilliance were… drawings. A lot of them. Crude at first, but surprisingly well done the further he went. Pornographic sketches. And not just random smut. No, Marshall had a fixation.

Always the same woman.

Naked. Cracked skin like fractured marble. Four arms, two wings, one of them broken. Her pose never changed. Two hands raised in prayer, the other two covering her lower body.

And of course, just one breast exposed.

“Why the hell only one?” Scott frowned, staring at the sketch. “Come on, man. Could’ve at least drawn both.”

Every time, it was the same pose. Same missing details. No matter how vivid the rendering got over the years, Marshall always covered her genitals with those lower hands like it was some sacred ritual.

Scott groaned.

“This guy was insane.”

But buried beneath the perversion, something else lingered, something unsettling. Under one of the better-drawn pages, there was a scrawled note in Marshall’s handwriting: ‘If I can pull her out of this world… the last one left in the multiverse… will that God really bring my son back to life? Where is she?’

Scott read it, then leaned back in his chair, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Freaking old man.”

A sudden knock on the door broke the silence.

“Who is it?” Scott snapped.

“It’s me,” came Kevin’s voice from the other side. “Can I come in?”

Scott clicked his tongue in annoyance. He quickly gathered Marshall’s things and shoved them into his storage item. By the time he reached the door, he’d composed himself.

“Did the scouts return?” he asked as he unlocked it.

“No. I actually came to give you this.”

“What are you—”

Kevin’s arm jerked, a flash of steel cutting the sentence short. Scott staggered backward, eyes wide as a blade sank deep into his throat.

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Panic set in.

“Ke-Kev…?” he gasped, choking on his own blood.

Desperately, Scott reached into his inventory and pulled out a wand. But before he could aim, Kevin kicked it out of his hand. It clattered across the floor. Scott raised a trembling palm and fired a crackling bolt of lightning. Kevin dodged easily, darting behind a chair.

“Ke…” he tried again, but his arm went limp, the strength draining from his body like water through a cracked jug.

“It’s taking effect,” Kevin said coolly. “My disease blade.”

He lunged again, this time stabbing Scott in the stomach. Once. Twice. Over and over. Scott collapsed, vision swimming. His blood pooled on the floor, soaking into the old wood.

“There was no other way to deal with you,” the figure continued. “You’re a high-level thunder mage. But in the end, it all worked out.”

Kevin leaned in close.

“Oh, and I’m not Kevin. He’s dead. Laying in pieces on the other table.”

With that, the man brought his hand to his face and began peeling the skin away. The false face sloughed off in a wet shimmer, melting into a red liquid that dripped down his chin.

“One by one, I’ll wipe you all out,” he said, voice low and venomous. “For Angelica.”

***

Jonathan stood over Scott’s corpse, his gaze cold and unmoving. This place had once been a Renegade hideout. Even if Scott hadn’t been one of the main members, everyone here had played a role in Angelica’s death. Every last one of them.

He opened his status screen and eyed the notification.

**Your class [Plague Mercenary] has reached Level 34! (Class Bonus Points Acquired)**

He was growing stronger, bit by bit. Killing humans granted far more experience than beasts. Especially when they had professions.

“Mages are always a pain,” Jonathan muttered, eyes still fixed on the mangled body.

But the strategy had worked. A high-level thunder mage, brought down with barely a struggle. No wasted mana. No chase. In his left hand, something red began to ripple and take form. A blood slime, his familiar. A mimic creature, more useful than it looked. When Jonathan entered a cave in the forest, guided by the Hanged Man, he had encountered a massive centipede. Slaughtering it had earned him a rare drop, one that brought him into contact with Blight, his cursed blade.

[Plague-Touched Grayblade (Rare)

Description: Forged in bitterness and soaked in forgotten diseases, this weapon was made for vengeance. The edge carries centuries of festering hatred, spreading sickness with every strike.

[Basic Infection (Rare)]: Wounds inflicted with this blade are magically infected, dealing ongoing damage and severely hindering regeneration.]

But it wasn’t just the centipede he had killed. Clinging to the monster’s underside like a parasite had been something else. A second soul. A second death. One that earned him a Familiar Rune. Now, standing before Scott’s lifeless body, Jonathan sent the blood slime crawling toward the man’s face. It slithered up and began dissolving the skin, not burning it, but absorbing it.

Once it finished, it slinked back into Jonathan’s palm. He activated his skill. The slime hardened, reshaped, and formed a fleshy mask. Scott’s face, copied in unsettling detail. The mimic was pathetic in a fight. Only one usable spell. But Ronan had seen the real value in it. Jonathan could steal the faces of his victims. Wear them. Become them. There were limits, of course. He couldn’t copy women, or people with wildly different builds. If the height was off, if the shoulders were too broad or too narrow, someone would notice. He had to choose carefully.

Jonathan knelt and stripped off Scott’s robe.

“His bracelet’s gone…” he muttered.

Destroyed. Which meant it had been a storage item. They always vanished when the owner died.

A voice behind him snapped his focus. “Looks like you’re getting better at this.”

Jonathan spun, blade drawn and ready.

“Relax,” the voice said, amused. “What, did you see a ghost?”

Kruger. Of course. Jonathan clicked his tongue but lowered the weapon. One of Kruger’s men entered the room, dragging a bound captive behind him. Caleb.

Kruger pointed at the body. “That Scott?”

“I-I’m not sure. His face… it’s missing,” Caleb stammered, terrified.

Jonathan held up the skin in his hand. “His face is right here.”

Caleb paled instantly, clearly believing Jonathan had peeled it off with his bare hands.

“Y-yeah… th-that’s him.”

Kruger clapped his hands once. “Great. This is your new home now,” he told Caleb. “Start by cleaning up the corpses and fixing this place up. Your new friends will be moving in soon.”

Caleb was hauled away by the soldier, leaving just the two of them standing in the silence. Jonathan hated working with Kruger. He despised working under Bartholomew. But he didn’t have a choice. If he wanted to find Luke, he needed their soldiers. Needed their eyes. Their reach. And in the meantime, hunting down bandits and mopping up what was left of the Renegades was making him stronger, slowly but surely.

“I don’t like what you’re planning,” Jonathan muttered.

“You don’t have to like it,” Kruger shot back. “You just have to do what you’re told.”

Jonathan clicked his tongue. “You’re building a new gang. A powerful one.”

“And it’ll be under Bartholomew’s control,” Kruger said with a shrug. “End of the day, you’re still killing trash and leveling up, aren’t you? All for your precious… Angelica.”

Rage surged through Jonathan. “Don’t you dare say her name.”

He lunged, blade flashing, but Kruger vanished before the strike could land. Across the room, the assassin reappeared, laughing. Jonathan charged again, but a bolt from Kruger’s crossbow clipped his leg, sending him crashing to the ground, right on top of Scott’s corpse.

Kruger’s laughter echoed in the room.

“If it were anyone else trying that on me, you’d already be dead,” he said, strolling closer. “But you? You’re so pathetic, it’s entertaining.”

Jonathan clenched his jaw as Kruger stood over him. As much as it hurt, he couldn’t deny the truth in those words. He wasn’t strong enough. Not yet.

“And this is how you plan to kill Luke?” Kruger sneered. “No wonder he beat you the first time.”

With that, he turned and left, still chuckling to himself.

Jonathan stayed where he was, seething in silence. He didn’t hold back because he feared Kruger. He held back because he knew he’d die in a fight like that. And if he died now, there’d be no one left to avenge Angelica.

Not yet.

Gritting his teeth, he yanked the bolt from his leg. Blood soaked through the cloth, but he forced himself to stand. Hate burned through every inch of him. He wanted to kill Kruger. Kill Bartholomew. Wipe Bastion off the map. And more than anything, he wanted to kill Luke.

But this was a long game. He knew that now. He’d picked up a few things about how the system worked. If he could reach the pinnacle of his rank, if he could push his class far enough, he’d unlock something greater. Powerful new skills, maybe even a Rank Skill. Then, when the time came, those “untouchables” from Bastion wouldn’t be untouchable anymore.

Outside, the snow had begun to fall harder, blanketing the ground and the makeshift camp now crawling with Kruger’s assassins. Jonathan walked through it quietly, head down, lost in thought. Some days it felt like he was just walking in circles. There had been no sign of Luke. Not a trace. Not a rumor. Nothing.

Part of him helped Kruger’s plan just to gain access to the other bandit networks. If Luke had joined up with any of them, they’d know. But deep down, sometimes he wondered if Luke was already dead. If Bartholomew had killed him and was now just stringing Jonathan along. That’s what it felt like most days, like chasing a ghost. Like marching in endless snow with no destination in sight.

“Maybe killing Luke would be too easy,” Jonathan muttered, staring up as the snow drifted down onto his face.

Finding the bastard was already proving hard enough. But then what? After everything, after all the blood he’d spilled lately, he couldn’t help but wonder. If he finally got his hands on Luke and ended it in a single strike, would it even be satisfying? Would it hurt Luke the way Angelica’s death still burned in him? No. Not even close.

“I’ve been too blinded by the idea of killing him,” he murmured. “But maybe… making him live like me is what he actually deserves.”

What would truly break him? How could he make Luke suffer enough? Then it hit him, the realization so obvious it made him let out a dry, humorless laugh. A snowflake landed gently in his palm.

“He might’ve abandoned the Haven, but… there’s no way he feels nothing for her,” Jonathan said, eyes locked on the tiny flake before crushing it in his fist.

“That’s exactly what I’ll do before I kill him. I’ll do to him what he did to me.”

His voice was low, tight with venom. “I’ll kill Allison right in front of him.”

The answer had been in front of him the whole time. Only then could he be sure Luke would truly suffer. And once that was done, he’d finish it with his own hands. No mercy. No shortcuts.

He glanced at his blood slime. A new face began to form, skin knitting over like flesh grown from memory. Jonathan took it and pressed it to his own.

“When the time comes… when he least expects it… I’ll rip everything away from him.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep