Chapter 95: Pain That Teaches Obedience

The five members of the Slave Trade Guild swallowed hard. The lumps in their throats felt dry and heavy, like stones lodged deep inside, refusing to move.

Cold sweat dripped down their cheeks, tracing shaky paths along their faces before falling to the ground below.

Their breathing was uneven, shallow, and ragged, each inhale scraping painfully against their lungs.

One of them opened his mouth to speak. No, to threaten him, that had been his intention.

Yet no words came out.

His lips trembled, parting uselessly as his gaze locked onto the silver-haired young man standing before them.

The Grim Reaper was nothing like any other awakener they had encountered.

He did not posture.

He did not hesitate.

He killed without regard for consequence, without fear of retaliation.

And now that their hideout had been discovered.

Their crimes were in the open.

So, did he even have the right to threaten him?

Thoren was completely unbothered by their stunned, desperate expressions. His gaze was cold, detached, as though he were looking at lifeless objects rather than living men.

Without raising his voice, he issued a silent command.

The undead servants moved immediately.

At the sight of the two towering undead advancing toward them, shields raised and blades lowered, the Slave Trade Guild members trembled violently.

Their instincts screamed at them to retreat, to flee, to run as far as possible but there was nowhere to go.

The space behind them was too small.

After only a few panicked steps backward, their backs collided with the cold stone wall. The rough surface scraped against their armor, grinding dust and blood into the cracks.

Thud.

Thud.

Heavy footsteps echoed through the corridor like war drums, each step pounding mercilessly against their ears. Their hair stood on end, goosebumps crawling across their skin.

They were the ones who usually inflicted pain.

They were the ones who barked orders while others begged.

They had believed themselves immune to fear.

Until now.

With only a few feet separating them from the undead, the group exchanged glances. Something dark and desperate ignited in their eyes.

If death was inevitable, then…

However, before they could complete whatever final plan they had concocted, the two undead bolted forward.

Their speed was terrifying.

Bang!

A shield slammed violently into two of them. Their body was rammed into the wall with such force that stone cracked on impact, spiderweb fractures spreading outward.

The shock rattled their insides, their organs trembling as though they had been knocked loose from their proper places.

Blood sprayed from their mouth.

Another raised his head just in time to meet a horrifying punch.

His vision exploded into white stars as his skull slammed into the cold, unforgiving ground. A dull thud echoed as his body went limp.

The second undead did not remain idle.

Its heavy shield swung in a brutal arc, smashing into the chest of the last standing Slave Trade Guild member. A sickening crack resounded as several ribs snapped inward.

Cries and screams filled the corridor.

Standing off to the side, the Crimson Arc Guild members stared in stunned silence, their jaws hanging open.

The battle that had nearly taken their lives had ended in less than five seconds.

And most horrifying of all was that only two undead servants had moved.

The remaining undead stood behind the Grim Reaper, unmoving, silent, like living sentinels guarding a sovereign of death.

One by one, the Crimson Arc Guild members sucked in sharp breaths, cold fear crawling down their spines as they watched Thoren step forward.

He stopped a few feet away from the wailing figures sprawled on the ground.

“Where is your leader?” he asked flatly.

His voice carried no anger.

No impatience.

“I won’t ask again.”

One of the men struggled to lift his head, his mouth drenched in blood. Teeth clinked weakly against one another as he forced out a hoarse reply.

“Just… kill us,” he rasped. “We won’t tell you a single thing.”

Now that they had fallen into his hands, they understood the truth.

Escape was impossible.

What was waiting for them was death.

And afterward, they would likely be turned into undead servants.

With their fate already sealed, they saw no reason to betray their guild.

Thoren did not respond.

He simply stared at the man.

His silence was heavier than any scream.

Just then, one of the undead servants stepped forward.

It gripped the man by the jaw and lifted him off the ground, slowly, deliberately, stretching the moment into agonizing torment.

His feet dangled uselessly in the air, kicking weakly as his body convulsed.

Many believed they understood fear.

They believed fear was merely an illusion of the mind.

They believed pain could be ignored, overridden, conquered.

They believed their bodies could be trained to disobey agony.

They were wrong.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

A soul-rending scream tore through the corridor.

It was primal.

Raw.

Unfiltered.

The Crimson Arc Guild members shuddered violently as they watched. Cold sweat soaked their backs, their hands trembling as the sheer brutality of the scene unfolded before them.

It was slow and merciless as the undead forced the man’s mouth open.

Then it began pulling out his teeth.

One by one.

Blood poured freely, splattering against the stone floor. His eyes bulged, veins bursting as he tried to scream, only for a guttural, broken sound to escape his throat.

The hollow eye sockets of the undead blazed with soul fire as it carried out its master’s command with perfect obedience.

Bang!

Suddenly, one of the remaining Slave Trade Guild members lunged forward, attempting to bite down on his own tongue, to commit suicide.

Unfortunately, he was discovered.

Thoren’s eyes flickered.

The second undead moved instantly, closing the distance in a blink. It seized the man’s jaw, forcing it open without ceremony, and tore his tongue free.

Blood splashed.

“In my presence,” Thoren said calmly, his voice devoid of emotion, “you do not have the luxury of committing suicide.”

The remaining men collapsed inward.

Their faces twisted in pure despair.

A nauseating smell suddenly filled the air.

All eyes turned toward its source.

One of the Slave Trade Guild members had soiled himself.

But then, no one laughed.

“P-Please…” the young man whimpered, his voice shaking uncontrollably. “If I tell you where our leader is… can you give me a clean death?”

Right now, he wanted nothing more than for this nightmare to end.

Thoren did not answer immediately.

He stared at him.

The pressure of his gaze was unbearable.

“At the end of the hallway… to the right,” the man blurted out desperately. “He should be there… preparing to escape.”

Thoren turned away.

“Bring their bodies outside,” he said as he began to walk. “Let people see.”

The Crimson Arc Guild members nodded, releasing heavy sighs of relief.

They thought the horror was over but they were wrong.

Another agonizing scream echoed.

They turned sharply.

The two undead servants had not left.

With brutal efficiency, they stomped down on the broken bodies, crushing bones, flattening muscle. The Slave Trade Guild members wailed from the depths of their souls as pain consumed them entirely.

One by one, they lost consciousness as they were barely alive.

With that, the undead departed, following after their master.

Thoren had decided not to kill them immediately.

Instead, he left them with pain so profound that they would pray for death.

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