Chapter 489: Anti-Magic

Dasha never thought he would have to sit and rest in the Slums. Yet here he was, doing just that. This place was not for the weak. It was not for the strong either. It was for those that survived. It was one thing to understand it; it was another to live in it. After a whole day of constant attacks, rest was necessary.

All he did was kill, kill, kill. His hands were bathed in black, red, and yellow blood. Demons and humans and species of insects and animals he did not understand.

Dasha flourished in this environment. There were no rules. He saw a shadow, he attacked. He caught a demon or human resting, he slaughtered them.

Nobody blinked. Nobody considered it inhumane.

Here in the Slums, the Great Sin blossomed.

He was officially Level 66.

His Qi Sense was constantly active. His Foundation Establishment Peak Stage was perfected. He had officially adapted.

’My original mission was to go to the kidnapped children at the Serpent Cult. I still am. However…’

Dasha caught a wrist. A winged bat known as the Camazotz that were said to serve the goddess Ereshkigal. He crushed it without looking.

’These constant attacks are slowing my journey.’

If there was one, there were a dozen. If there were a dozen, then there were everywhere. That was how Dasha had to live in the Slums; always on alert, always killing. Rest was a luxury.

***

The Slums were never silent.

Even in the dead of night, they murmured with life. The creak of rotting wood, the distant shouts of a brawl, the scuttling of unseen vermin in the shadows. The city was a living, breathing entity—one that fed on the desperate and the lost.

Dasha Pang walked through the filth and decay, unfazed by the thick stench of sewage, sweat, and blood. His cloak fluttered soundlessly behind him, his boots stepping lightly on uneven ground. He had learned to move without weight, to be a specter in places where men like him were hunted.

He had learned a lot in one day. Dasha stopped.

His fingers twitched. His breath slowed. Every nerve in his body screamed at him.

He felt—nothing.

No Qi. No atmospheric pressure. No life.

Just a void.

His eyes snapped upward.

’Another god…!?’

At first, he saw nothing but the skyline—dilapidated towers and the skeletal remains of buildings long since abandoned. A his vision adjusted, he realized the truth.

There was something there.

Something wrong.

His Qi Sense had deactivated the moment he stepped within range. His body—his very existence—recoiled from it, unable to perceive it in the way he perceived everything else. For the first time in decades, he felt blind. His sight, his hearing, his taste, everything was just gone.

It was like staring into a black hole.

The void faded and at the center of it, the origin of it, was a woman.

She was perched atop a broken rooftop, her white Templar armor gleaming dully under the sickly Slum lights. The insignia on her chestplate was that of a red cross and her shoulder-length black hair framed a face of perfect stillness.

She was watching him. Finally, she spoke, calm and measured and disembodied upon the first words.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

Dasha remained still, his mind racing.

This pressure…could this be a goddess? No. This was different. Gods were overwhelming, but they were still perceivable. They carried an undeniable weight. But this woman? He had not even noticed her until his eyes could physically see.

Anti-magic.

Anti-existence.

His expression was unchanged. Casually, he shifted his gaze two buildings ahead. A well-kept structure. Reinforced walls. No decay. A base. No, not a base, that sounded too formal. This was not, he deduced.

His voice was neutral when he spoke. “I am investigating the case of missing children. A serpent cult has been stealing them away and I have been tasked to find them.”

“Why should I believe you?”

Dasha did not blink. “Because you must be a player if you don’t know.” He tilted his head slightly. “I work for Old Rocco.”

A lie.

A blatant lie.

But a reasonable one. Old Rocco was a known figure in the Underground—one of the few organizers of crime rather than a participant. If Dasha claimed association, then it gave him a legitimate reason to be here.

The woman was silent.

Her eyes bore into his, searching for something.

“I have no idea who Old Rocco is.”

Ah. Fascinating. That proved it. ’This woman is a player. Not just any player but a player with a special Class.’

Could it be…?

His own Qi flared up and rammed against this monster of anti-magic. Her stoic expression broke ever so slightly. A twitch. Her hand snapped to the pommel of her sheathed sword. She understood that a battle between them would be…

“You are the first to actually converse with me and…circumstances force my hand,” the anti-magic woman ended up saying. “I have no choice but to trust you.”

She leapt down.

Now that she was closer, Dasha could see her details more clearly. She was quite tall, a little under six foot, and she was lean. Speed over power, he suspected. ’Because anti-magic is near absolute.’

She walked with absolute precision—no wasted effort, no unnecessary motion. Her presence was… wrong. Even with her standing before him, his Qi refused to register her.

She was a walking paradox.

“My name is Yoon Sun-young,” she said, stoic as himself. “Follow me.”

She turned without hesitation. Dasha did not move immediately. His Qi Sense still was not working and now that she had come so close, he seemed to have found the origin of it. Her sword.

’This woman…she must possess the War Class. She must be the Anti-Magic Swordsman of our generation.’

So this was the power of a War Class. It was far more frightening than he had anticipated.

***

The camp was what Dasha expected.

Not a structured operation—no barracks, fortified walls, patrols, or a semblance of order in the chaos of the Slums. Instead, it was nothing more than a collection of makeshift tents, half-broken buildings, and scavenged materials haphazardly arranged to create some illusion of safety.

The people here were tired. Skeletal. Desperate. Most of them wore rags, their faces hollowed from hunger. Children sat in clusters, their eyes too vacant, too knowing. A few scattered fires burned in the open, providing little warmth, but their mere existence was proof that these people still clung to something.

Dasha studied everything.

The placement of supplies. The condition of weapons. The escape routes.

There was no organization here. No tactical planning. These people were alive only because of her.

Yoon Sun-young.

She moved without hesitation through the camp, her presence acknowledged with wary glances and whispered prayers. Some tried to reach for her—a hand on her sleeve, a desperate plea in their eyes—but she kept moving. Not cruelly, but with a purpose too great to be slowed by gratitude.

Dasha followed.

Finally, she led him into a half-collapsed building where a worn-out wooden table was the only thing that resembled furniture. She sat down, motioning for him to do the same. He did not. Instead, he leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

“You are alone,” Dasha stated.

Sun-young nodded. “Yes.”

“You protect this place. You feed them.”

“Yes.”

His gaze flicked to the entrance, where a child peeked in, only to vanish just as quickly. “And you intend to get them past the Great Wall. Into the main Underground.”

Sun-young was quiet.

Dasha had to play a character. He had to scoff. “Impossible.”

She did not argue. She knew.

“You would have to kill one of the four giants to open up a gate,” he continued. “Are you capable of slaying an ancient Greek giant, player? You must be one given how foolish you are.”

Again, Sun-young did not immediately reply. “We Templars go on missionaries in order to become Class II Knights,” she said suddenly, almost as if speaking to herself. “It is my job to help these people.”

“You are too compassionate. All you people from the modern era are.”

“…”

“Although I suppose your compassion has taken you to heights you wouldn’t have otherwise. You climbed the Great Wall.”

“It took me many weeks,” Sun-young admitted.

Impressive. Even for someone with a War Class.

“What about you?” Sun-young asked. “What is your name?”

“My name is irrelevant,” he replied. “I work for Old Rocco.”

Sun-young tilted her head slightly as if to ask, “Should I really know him?”

Dasha layered truth with lies. “Old Rocco owns La Bocca Vecchia. His power extends toward the Maryana, Darya, and Mira neighborhoods.” That was a truth. “I am among his greatest warriors.” A lie.

Not that she would know. She was a player like him and so the nuances and details of history and people were not known to her. She did not question it.

“Old Rocco runs an orphanage,” Dasha said. “Children were stolen from him.”

“How many?” she asked.

“Two boys. Two girls.”

Sun-young exhaled, looking down at her hands. “Three parents here have also lost their children. Taken by a serpent cult. It seems we are searching for the same thing.”

Hence why she chose to trust him. “I know their location. I was heading there.” He glanced at her. “Do you wish to join me?”

Sun-young stared off into the distance, thinking deeply. “I…must.”

Dasha observed her for a moment before tilting his head toward the camp outside. “And these people? How will you protect them?”

For the first time, Sun-young’s lips barely parted in what could have been amusement.

“There is someone here,” she said, “who, although insane, will fight for justice.”

“I see.” Though curious, Dasha did not wish to waste too much time on these people. He had a goal. “Then it seems we have come to an agreement. Let us save those children, Madame Sun-young.”

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