Chapter 92: Steps Toward a Buried Sin

Walking out of the Crimson Arc Guild headquarters, every remaining guild member instinctively turned their gaze toward the Grim Reaper.

Their expressions were grim, their breaths shallow.

Did he kill our guild master?

What are we supposed to do now?

I knew it! Getting close to a monster like that could never end well.

Each of them wrestled with conflicting thoughts, yet not a single person dared to voice them aloud.

Fear clamped down on their minds like a vice, squeezing out courage and reason alike.

Many of them stared fixedly at the heavy wooden door behind Thoren, barely blinking, as though they expected blood to seep through the cracks at any moment.

Some swallowed hard, already preparing themselves for the worst. Their guild master had been slaughtered inside, or worse, turned into one of the undead servants that now followed Thoren like loyal shadows.

If anything remained of him at all.

Yet, contrary to their expectations, the wooden door creaked open once more.

Arin stepped out.

He walked calmly, his posture straight, his expression composed. Not a scratch marred his body.

No blood stained his clothes.

He looked… perfectly fine.

“What—?”

A ripple of shock ran through the gathered members.

Their eyes widened in disbelief, jaws slackening as the impossible sight registered in their minds.

Our guild master is alive!

The unspoken exclamation echoed through their thoughts almost in unison.

Several guild members surged forward instinctively, their steps quick and uncoordinated, as though afraid the image before them would vanish if they didn’t confirm it immediately.

A few even reached out hesitantly, desperate to touch Arin’s arm or shoulder to prove to themselves that their eyes were not deceiving them.

Arin halted, momentarily baffled by their reaction. He looked at their burning gazes and stiff movements, then frowned slightly.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice even. “Why are you all staring at me like that?”

“Hahaha! It’s nothing at all,” the vice guild master replied quickly, forcing a bright smile onto his face.

Others immediately followed his lead, nodding vigorously and laughing awkwardly, as though nothing had ever been amiss.

Could they possibly tell their guild master that they had already assumed his death?

That they had prepared themselves for his corpse?

Never.

That thought would be buried deep in their hearts, never to see the light of day.

Arin studied their faces for a brief moment.

He could tell something strange was going on, too many forced smiles, too much relief but he couldn’t be bothered to pry.

His thoughts were already elsewhere.

There was a far more pressing issue at hand.

“Let’s move,” Arin said suddenly, turning away. “We need to follow Thoren to a particular place.”

“Guild Master, where are we going?” one of the members asked cautiously.

“When we get there, you’ll find out,” Arin replied, already walking ahead.

Several members exchanged confused glances, but none dared question him further. They quickly fell into step behind their guild master.

As for Thoren, he was already far ahead.

He paid no attention to the quiet commotion behind him, nor did he care about the awkward charade the Crimson Arc Guild members had just performed.

His silver hair shimmered faintly under the sky brightness, his deep blue eyes fixed forward.

The ten hooded figures followed him in perfect silence.

As they walked through the streets, the few awakeners who had remained in town, those who had not ventured out on hunts, froze in place when they saw Thoren approaching.

Their bodies trembled instinctively.

Rumors about Thoren and his ten hooded followers had already spread like wildfire throughout the town. Whispers circulated in taverns, alleys, and guild halls alike.

Many believed those figures were the ten strongest beings under his control.

Others claimed they were not undead at all, but powerful awakeners who had been captured, broken, and turned into living puppets, forced to carry out Thoren’s bidding against their will.

With every retelling, the rumors grew darker, more grotesque.

The truth twisted and warped as fear fed imagination.

Before long, word spread that Thoren had left the Crimson Arc Guild headquarters.

Unlike the early morning, when most awakeners had still been in town only a handful remained now.

Even so, the news traveled fast.

Where is he going this time?

Is he going to start another massacre?

Fear crept into every corner of the town, settling heavily in people’s chests.

Tension hung thick in the air, as though the entire town was holding its breath.

Inside the Federation Police building, reports of Thoren’s movements had already been submitted.

Yet, the station was eerily quiet.

No one spoke of pursuit.

No one suggested arrest.

After their earlier failure, many officers had conveniently found reasons to leave town, claiming they needed to “increase their strength.”

Elric had sealed himself inside his office, the door locked tight. Orders had been given that he was not to be disturbed, unless the matter had absolutely nothing to do with Thoren Starfall.

At the corner of a narrow street, hidden within the shadows, a boy with ash-gray hair and hollow eyes stood silently. His gaze was fixed in the direction Thoren was heading.

He narrowed his eyes.

“Is it possible… he’s going after them?” he muttered under his breath.

He shook his head almost immediately.

’They’ve been hidden for so many years. How could he possibly find them?’

The thought felt absurd and he pushed it behind his mind.

“I need to find her,” he whispered, his gaze sharpening. “Where could she be hiding?”

No matter how well you hide… I will find you.

A sardonic grin slowly crept across his face.

His eyes swept across the nearly deserted street one last time before his figure blurred and vanished from sight.

Deep beneath the town, inside the Slave Trade Guild’s hideout, chaos reigned.

Gilbert stood inside a dimly lit chamber, his movements frantic as he stuffed important documents and artifacts into his inventory.

Sweat trickled down his brow.

“I hope they can destroy everything before he arrives,” he muttered, his hands moving faster.

’How did that bastard even find our hideout?’

The question gnawed at him, but he forced himself not to dwell on it. Panic would only slow him down.

Elsewhere in the hideout, men rushed through corridors, smashing rooms and tearing down walls in a desperate attempt to erase evidence of their crimes.

Even amid the destruction, the truth could not be fully hidden.

Human body parts lay scattered among the rubble. The air reeked of blood, both old and fresh.

Shattered bones littered the floor, cracked and splintered.

Broken barrels lay overturned, their jagged pieces smeared with remnants of human tissue.

Before they could destroy more evidence, a deafening explosion echoed from outside the hideout.

The ground shook violently.

“No—!” one man screamed.

“How can he arrive so quickly?” another shouted, his voice trembling with terror.

“We don’t have any more time,” someone cried. “We need to leave…now!”

Outside the Slave Trade Guild hideout, Thoren came to a halt.

He frowned, his brow knitting together as an oppressive aura washed over him.

“What a thick undead energy?!” he murmured coldly.

****

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