Chapter 138: Disarmed

Zayne moved silently through the hall, invisible to all eyes.

The black-masked men led the three adventurers ahead of him — through long, polished corridors lit by cold blue crystals. The place was majestic, almost royal, but every few steps, muffled screams seeped through closed doors, turning grandeur into dread.

Zayne’s eyes narrowed slightly as he walked. The air was thick with the scent of blood and metal. Torture chambers… experiments… interesting choice of décor.

Then suddenly— crash!

A man flew out of a room, smashing against the marble wall. The masked escorts froze mid-step, their bodies trembling.

Zayne tilted his head, watching calmly as the door from which the man had flown creaked open.

From within, a voice, sharp and furious, echoed—

“Don’t give me excuses! I’m already angry that our plan at Astralis Arcanum failed!”

Zayne quietly stepped closer, listening.

The black-masked men dragged Daxon and the others forward, kneeling before the figure inside.

The man — Darron — stood in front of a dark throne, his red eyes burning with fury. His hand rested on his temple as if holding back his frustration.

“So those five idiots we sent are all dead…” he muttered. “Be careful what you say next. What did you bring me?”

One of the masked men stammered, “M-master Darron, these three intruders entered our base… from the northern gate teleportation station.”

Darron frowned. “That station isn’t connected to any branch. How—?”

“It’s possible they accidentally triggered the original ruin channel…”

Darron fell silent for a moment, then gave a cold nod. “Throw them into the prison. We’ll use them for experiments.”

The three adventurers were dragged away, despair covering their faces.

Zayne stood by the corner, still invisible, watching quietly.

So this organisation call itself Vassel and their attack on Astralis Arcanum fail, he thought, eyes glinting faintly. That means Boss handled it himself… and saved his students.

A small smile curved on his lips.

Guess I can kill them….!

They are experimenting on people anyway..

So killing them won’t stop or disrupts boss games right…?

Then Zayne thought,

how should I destroy them? I could shoot a spell from above and wipe this whole base out. Nah—people here are suffering too because of their experiments. He didn’t want to kill innocent people.

Hmm… let’s just start with him.

Zayne watched Darron mutter, Our plan failed… what will I tell my superior now… He weighed his options—blast the base from above, wipe them all out—but the screams behind closed doors told him innocents suffered here too. He didn’t want wholesale slaughter. Start with him, he decided.

Quietly, he undid his invisibility. The shimmer died and he stepped forward, pizza in one hand, soda in the other. “Oh,” he said, bright and casual, “you have a superior?”

Darron flinched, shock slashing across his face. Instantly his posture snapped to attack — a fist swung hard and fast at Zayne.

Zayne moved. He didn’t just dodge; he slid aside like water. The punch cut the empty air.

Darron snarled, breath ragged. “I don’t know who you are… but you’re going to die.”

Zayne’s smile widened a touch. “Then come on.”

Darron’s face hardened. He drew his blade in one smooth motion — a grey machete-saber with a red handle, the pommel carved into a snarling tiger. He planted his feet and asked, voice low and controlled, “What is your purpose here? How did you find this place?”

Zayne bit into his pizza, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, mockingly casual, “Me? I’m here to destroy you and this place. And how I found this place? You think I’d tell you?”

Darron’s jaw tightened. He didn’t shout—anger sat behind his eyes—but his thoughts were loud enough. What the hell is happening? First our mission failed… then from a useless north gate three adventurers stumble in… and now someone appears who can’t be sensed. Did they come with those three? This isn’t a coincidence. Someone’s feeding our location. There must be a traitor. I need to inform my superior…

Zayne’s voice cut through the man’s thoughts. “What are you standing there thinking for? Fight or not?”

“I am,” Darron spat.

The blade flared as Darron wrapped the machete in red flame—contamination streaking through it like black veins. The air around the sword hissed.

Zayne smirked, unbothered. “Oh—fire, huh?” His eyes glinted. “Fine. I decided I’ll also use fire element. I’ll kill you with it.”

A thought crossed his face — casual, almost bored. Should be fine with Crimson Ember Style. He’s only A-rank by the feel of his mana. I’ve killed much stronger—that Abyssals was far above him . But I don’t want to just kill him. I want to humiliate him.

He shifted into stance: relaxed but coiled, feet shoulder-width with one a step forward for balance and sudden movement. His body hung loose and fluid; hands rose mid-torso, fingers flickering faint embers as if the flame lived right under skin. His eyes were calm, unfocused — effortless confidence in every line. The fire inside him simmered, ready, controlled, not rushed — mastery without tension.

As the battle begins, Zayne stands relaxed, crimson embers smoldering around his fists, eyes half-lidded in quiet confidence. Opposite him, Darron’s arrival is colder—his blade dripping with black-and-red flames, dark energy crackling along its edge.

With a sharp step forward, Darron unleashes a wide, sweeping slash—corrupted flames surging outward, leaving decay in their wake as they howl toward Zayne.

Infernal Blade:Darkfire Cleave.

Zayne shifts his body and used dash.

As he slides aside in a blur, a trail of fading embers marking the path of his swift movement. In the blink of an eye, he closes the gap.

Crimson Ember Style: Ember Dash.

Darron raises his blade high and brings it down in an overhead slash—but Zayne’s hand, wrapped in vivid red flame, snaps up. He catches Darron’s machete-like saber between just two fingers of both hands, stopping it cold.

A shockwave erupts, blasting outward and shattering the walls of the room.

Darron grits his teeth, straining against Zayne’s effortless grip.

Zayne smirks.

“You can do better than that…”

Darron replies through clenched teeth, “I know!!!”

Both jump back.

Zayne glances up with a small smile.

“Let’s take it outside.”

With that, he shoots upward, tearing through the roof.

Darron follows, fueled by rage, sword blazing.

Zayne lands outside with an effortless tap, while masked watchers around the area stare in disbelief—barely understanding who or what just dropped from the sky.

Their confusion doesn’t last. Darron crashes down moments later, hitting the ground hard enough to crack it open, the shockwave throwing the masked men aside like leaves in a storm.

Zayne moves the instant Darron lands, closing the distance and launching a rapid flurry of fiery blows.

Crimson Ember Style: Flare strike.

Each strike bursts into small explosions on impact, forcing Darron onto the defensive. But the corrupted blade drinks in the flames, hissing out black smoke each time it absorbs the heat.

Zayne’s eyes narrow slightly.

This mana … similar to that Abyssal I killed. But weaker. It’s like normal mana mixed with that dark, smoky type. Looks like this organisation is somehow connected to Abyssals .

A slow grin forms on his lips.

All the more reason to kill them…

Darron’s saber flashed again.

Darron lunged forward, his eyes wild, blade dripping with corrupted energy as he used—

Infernal Blade: Shadow Ember Thrust.

A deadly, precise thrust, dark flame spikes erupting along the edge as it tore through the air, aimed straight for Zayne’s heart.

Zayne just smiled.

His right hand ignited—flame mana condensed, glowing a bright, molten red. He stepped in, extended his palm, and calmly met the attack.

Crimson Ember Style: Searing Palm.

His heated hand caught the tainted blade just barely, redirecting the incoming thrust as a spray of sparks burst around them.

But he wasn’t done.

With fluid motion and the momentum of the twist, Zayne’s left leg flared alive, wrapped in fire.

Crimson Ember Style: Blazing Whirlwind Kick.

A spinning, flaming roundhouse ripped through the air. Darron, too slow to defend, took the full force.

The kick smashed against his face — he shot away like a ragdoll, tearing through several smaller buildings and burying a crowd of black-masked men under rubble.

Zayne blinked, a little awkward.

“…Did I use too much force?”

From the rubble, Darron emerged—burn marks across his face, fury contorting his features. His grip tightened on the saber, knuckles white, and he pointed it directly at Zayne.

Zayne coolly tilted his head, watching.

Darron snarled and roared—

Infernal Blade: Corruption’s Breath.

A violent eruption of dark red flames burst from the saber’s tip, a dragon’s exhale of toxic fire spreading across a massive area, sizzling the ground and warping the air.

Zayne squinted, confused. “How is that a saber technique? That’s literally a spell.”

But the heat had already reached. Zayne covered his hands in dense flame mana and swiped—

Crimson Ember Style: Searing Palm.

The flames broke away at the contact of his fiery palm, pushed aside like liquid.

But from within the burst—Darron was already there, blade raised high. Black-red flames condensed at the edge.

Infernal Blade: Eclipse Ember Strike.

“Take this!!” Darron shouted, bringing the strike down with full force.

Zayne didn’t flinch.

His left hand flared brighter—pure flame condensed tighter than before as he caught the descending blade mid-swing.

The impact unleashed a colossal shockwave, the floor rippling—walls cracked—all ground within reach collapsing into a wide crater.

Darron’s eyes went wide. “Wh-what the—”

Before he could pull back, Zayne moved.

Still gripping the saber with his left hand, he pulled in mana to his right, and—

Crimson Ember Style: Flare Strike.

Zayne drove a burning fist right into Darron’s gut.

The effect was immediate. Darron’s eyes bulged; it felt like molten lava had been poured into his stomach. He shot backwards like a broken doll, ripping another shockwave through the hideout as he smashed through stone and bodies alike.

Zayne remained still, staring calmly. In his left hand, the saber’s edge was still held. And in that same grip—dangling—was Darron’s right hand, still clenched around the hilt.

Zayne raised a brow.

“Looks like you’ve been disarmed.”

He casually tossed the severed hand toward the direction Darron had flown.

“Here—take this back.”

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