A few minutes ago
The hall that Atticus had observed earlier through the roof was brimming with energy and bustling with intense activity. It was completely incomparable to the other areas he had infiltrated.
This expansive space was large enough to accommodate hundreds of people easily and was filled with a cacophony of voices. The clash of fists and the thud of bodies hitting the ground permeated the space.
The air was thick with the scent of sweat and blood, mingled with the acrid smoke from various bloodlines being activated.
The main fighting force of the Obsidian Order was engaged in combat, sparring with one another in vicious brawls, each hit more brutal than the last.
This was the inner section of the group, housing the most powerful and dangerous members of the entire settlement. The weakest of them were at the master- rank, and even they had years of battle experience under their belts.
Two men grappled near the center, their movements fierce and unrestrained. One of them, a burly fighter with a shaved head, threw a powerful punch that sent his opponent reeling backward.
“Come on, is that all you got?” he sneered, wiping the blood from his split lip. “You hit like my grandma, and she’s been dead for years!”
Nearby, another fight was brewing. A tall, lanky man taunted his opponent, ducking and weaving around him with a grin plastered on his face.
“What’s the matter, Gregor? Can’t keep up? Maybe you should go back to the kitchens with the rest of the weaklings!”
Gregor, a muscular brute with a face twisted in rage, swung wildly, but the lanky man dodged effortlessly, laughing all the while. “You’re too slow, old man! Maybe those five years of peace made you soft!”
The room was filled with similar scenes of violence and banter, each fight more intense than the last.
Unlike the scouts or hunters that Atticus had observed before, these men were entirely different. They were brimming with life, energy, and a thirst for combat that hadn’t waned despite years of inactivity.
They were the main fighting force—warriors who lived only for the thrill of battle. For them, fighting wasn’t just a necessity; it was an addiction. They fought for hours nonstop each day, and the only time they ever paused was when they were knocked out or were unable to continue.
Amidst all the commotion, a particularly brutal fight was unfolding near the far side of the hall.
Two men, both well-built and covered in scars, were going head-to-head. The first man, a hulking figure with a thick neck and fists like hammers, swung a massive punch at his opponent.
The second man, leaner but quicker, dodged the blow and countered with a swift uppercut that connected with a sickening crunch.
The crowd around them cheered, urging them on with shouts and jeers.
The hulking man staggered back, blood dripping from his nose, but he was far from done.
With a shout, he charged forward, tackling his opponent to the ground. They rolled across the floor, each grappling for control, but the leaner man managed to get the upper hand.
In one fluid motion, he pinned his opponent down and delivered multiple devastating punches to the face, knocking him out cold.
The hall fell into brief silence as the victor rose to his feet, wiping the sweat from his brow. He glanced around at the other fighters, a triumphant grin spreading across his face.
“Did you see that? I’m the strongest here! No one can fucking beat me!”
A ripple of murmurs spread through the hall as the others immediately reacted, some muttering challenges under their breath, while others yelled insults.
“You got lucky, bastard!” one shouted. “Anyone can win once!”
“Let’s see you try that against me!” another called out, rising from his seat, fists clenched.
For people who lived for the thrill of battle and had battled their whole lives, being openly challenged like this was not something they would take sitting down.
But before any further challenges could be issued, the hall suddenly fell into an eerie silence. They had all felt a familiar coldness, a feeling none of them could ever forget.
All eyes turned to the entrance as a man walked in, flanked by four others. The atmosphere shifted instantly, from chaotic and lively to tense and apprehensive.
The man who had declared himself the strongest moments earlier froze, his grin faltering as he realized who had just entered. Had he really just said that in the presence of this man?
The man walking ahead was calm and composed, his expression cold and unreadable. His very presence commanded the attention of everyone present, and the crowd instinctively parted as he and his crew made their way toward the center of the hall.
Whispers began to spread like wildfire among the gathered men.
“Isn’t that Erion, Grandmaster Alvis’s disciple?” one voice whispered.
“What’s he doing here? Shouldn’t he be in his private training area, enjoying all the best facilities?” another muttered, earning a few chuckles from those nearby.
“Maybe he got bored of having it easy,” someone else joked, but the humor was filled with tension.
Alvis, the leader of the Obsidian Order’s Sector 3 branch, was a man who believed in passing the mantle to the next generation, leaving a legacy.
This was why he wanted a disciple. Atticus had killed his first disciple back at the Raven camp, but Alvis had quickly found another. He was known for always searching for someone with incredible talent and a unique bloodline. And Erion fit all of these criteria.
Erion stopped a few paces away from the man who had declared himself the strongest. The man, now visibly shaken, gulped as he met Erion’s cold gaze.
The room had grown deathly quiet, the only sound being the occasional cough.
Erion’s voice was low and even, carrying a weight of authority that made everyone listen. “I would like to challenge you,” he said, his tone leaving no room for refusal.
The man across from him swallowed hard, his earlier bravado evaporating under Erion’s piercing stare.
Behind Erion, his crew members exchanged glances, their expressions shifting from amusement to indifference.
Erion, along with the crew members, were the strongest group in this settlement aside from the grandmasters.
The first to speak was a slender man with a katana at his waist. His face was gaunt, and his eyes looked deadened by countless battles.
“He’s in for a rough time,” he said, his voice as cold as his appearance. “Erion is undefeated against anyone below the Grandmaster- rank.”
His gaze flicked to the man across from Erion, and the hint of a smirk played on his lips, though his eyes remained lifeless. Only a truly sick man would be happy about the misery of another.
Next to him was a petite woman with a starkly gothic appearance. She was dressed entirely in black, her skin pale as porcelain, and her dark eyes radiated with a sinister light.
She had no visible weapon, but the aura around her was enough to make anyone uneasy. “I wonder if he’ll cry when he loses,” she mused, her voice lilting with dark, twisted humor. “It’s always more fun when they do.”
Beside her stood a towering man, his massive frame filled with muscle. He wore no shirt, and his trousers were torn and shredded, giving him a savage, primal look.
His laughter was a deep rumble that shook the ground. “I’ll bet ten million credits he doesn’t last one minutes,” he said, flexing his enormous biceps. “Erion, make it quick, and let’s battle! I’m itching for a fight of my own.”
Finally, the last woman in the crew remained silent. She had a cold and unapproachable demeanor, and many would think twice before trying to talk to her.
She was tall and imposing, her eyes cold as ice as they fixed on the man who had declared himself the strongest with a calculating gaze.
She said nothing, merely crossing her arms and waiting, as if certain that whatever happened next was already predetermined.
Erion stepped closer to the man who had challenged him, the circle around them tightening as the other fighters leaned in, eager to witness the brutal beating about to unfold.
“E-Eri… M-Master Erion, I didn’t mean what I said! It was just a slip—”
“A man who declares what he doesn’t mean is nothing but a coward. The Obsidian Order has no need for cowards,” Erion cut him off coldly.
The man felt a cold shiver run through his body as Erion spoke. The meaning of Erion’s words was unmistakable: if he didn’t fight, he would be killed.
‘I don’t have a choice,’
The man clenched his fists tightly, gathering a semblance of composure before hesitantly assuming a fighting stance.
The circle that had formed around them tightened. No one wanted to miss the fight.
They had rarely seen Erion in battle, as he and his crew usually trained at the mansion in the center of the village, close to Grandmaster Alvis.
Although Erion was known as the strongest, it had never been proven. They wanted to see it with their own eyes.
No starting signal was given. The ground buckled as the man disappeared and reappeared in front of Erion, his body dipping low before unleashing a supersonic punch aimed straight at Erion’s face.
However, Erion’s expression remained impassive and calm as his right hand moved.
Fist and palm met, sending an intense shockwave through the air that made the onlookers’ clothes flutter.
But the man’s eyes widened, his heart skipping a beat. Erion’s entire body, including his palm, hadn’t even moved an inch!
He immediately tried to pull back, but suddenly felt a bone-crushing grip on his fist. An intense pain shot through his body as he struggled to break free, but it was futile.
‘I have to use my bloodline!’
Red lines streaked across the man’s skin like glowing veins on a volcano, and his black hair began to radiate an intense red. His temperature spiked, and he erupted into a fiery blaze.
He focused all the heat into his palm, the intensity of the fire building. But still, Erion did not budge.
The man unleashed another devastating punch with his left hand, but it only ended up being caught by Erion’s other palm.
The sickening sound of bones breaking echoed through the hall as the man screamed in agony. With each passing second, the man suddenly began to feel weak.
‘What is happening!?’
His question was answered in the next instant.
‘M-my mana! He’s draining my mana!?’
The man felt his mana being siphoned from his body, an overwhelming weakness overtaking him. He soon fell to his knees, his flames extinguished as his mana levels plummeted.
Erion’s gaze remained calm, his expression unchanged as the man’s body lost all its vigor. After some time, Erion released his grip, allowing the man to collapse to the floor, unable to lift a single finger.
The entire hall was utterly silent. A Master+ rank had just been defeated so easily! It was so unbelievable that many had trouble accepting the reality of what had just transpired before their very eyes.
Erion stood tall, glancing down at the man on the floor with a look that screamed of insignificance.
“Weak,” he muttered.
Erion turned and began walking out of the hall, but he had barely taken two steps when a deafening sound echoed through the space.
“INTRUDER!!”
