Terror of the Slums
Reed had several concrete reasons for his boldness.
First, the boss of the Black Blade Syndicate whom he had run into earlier could not possibly be in good shape.
I detonated three Crystal Bombs right in his face. There's no way he walked away without a scratch.
A Crystal Bomb was not merely a matter of raw explosive power. Much like a fragmentation grenade, hundreds of shattered crystal shards ricocheted and collided against one another, charting chaotic trajectories that no human eye could ever track. No matter how extraordinary a fighter's reflexes were, dodging every single shard was an impossibility.
And what if he had somehow avoided them all?
Then nothing matters anyway.
If the man possessed that level of monstrous strength, there was no point in fighting, nor was there any point in running. Reed would end up dead regardless.
Therefore, Reed operated on the assumption that his opponent was wounded. And when an animal was injured, its instinct was always to retreat to familiar, safe ground. Reed was certain the man would be holed up inside his own hideout.
That brought him to the second point.
Could he ever anticipate me launching a surprise attack?
Reed was the one who had turned tail and run. Who could possibly predict that the same boy would suddenly spin on his heel and strike right back? Even if the thought crossed the man's mind, he would never expect a counterattack this swift. He had no way of knowing Reed had access to Smith Leak's intelligence network.
Which meant the enemy was careless right now.
Striking an injured, off-guard foe with a sudden, lethal blow—that was what it meant to hunt.
"Follow me," whispered the guide Smith had assigned them, leading Reed and Shaka forward.
They sprinted through the labyrinthine alleys of the northern slums. A vile stench hung thick in the stagnant air. Gaunt beggars slumped against crumbling walls, their hollow eyes gleaming with predatory hunger as they searched for anything they could pick off the newcomers. Even young children crouched in the shadows with hands tucked into their waistbands, leaking clumsy, murderous intent. There was almost certainly a rusty dagger hidden beneath those rags.
For a fleeting moment, Reed felt as though he had slipped backward through time.
Back to the days before he was a mage. Before he was a stonemason. Back to when he had no comrades, no future, and was utterly alone in the world.
What a wretched feeling.
What felt even more wretched was the sickening realization that, deep down, this filthy cesspool felt familiar. Comforting, almost. Like returning to an old home.
The darkness draped across the alleys seemed to murmur in his ear.
You belong here. Scavenging trash off the ground like a sewer rat, burying other people's rotting corpses—that is your proper station. A slave. An ignorant, useless orphan. That is all you are.
No, Reed thought, cutting the voice down without hesitation. I am not.
He was neither a slave nor a worthless orphan. And that was precisely why he could not run.
This was his proving ground. Today, Reed would obliterate the Black Blade Syndicate with his own hands, sever the shadow of his past, and prove what he had become. If he could not do even that, there was no future waiting for him.
"There. That house over there," the guide murmured, finally halting near the hideout.
Faint lamplight leaked through the cracked shutters of the dilapidated building. From within came the muffled sound of shattering bottles and drunken shouts.
Having fulfilled his duty, the guide turned to leave, pausing to whisper one last warning.
"Finish this as quickly as possible and clear out. If you drag this out, every local syndicate in the district will swarm the place. We won't be able to help you then."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Good luck."
The guide melted into the shadows.
Reed exchanged a glance with Shaka, then crept silently toward the hideout. Just as they drew near, the front door swung open and a man stumbled out. His face was immediately familiar—one of the scum Reed had crossed paths with several times in the slums of Asteritz.
The man ambled into a secluded alcove and began unfastening his trousers.
"Ugh, the boss is in a terrifying mood today... Mmph?!"
Shaka fell upon him like lightning, pinning the man against the wall and clamping a calloused hand over his mouth. Reed stepped forward, leveling the tip of his shovel straight at the bridge of the man's nose.
"Make a sound and you die. Understand? Nod if you get it."
Trembling violently in pure terror, the thug nodded frantically. Shaka pulled his hand back just enough for the man to breathe.
"Only answer what I ask. You're with the Black Blade, right?"
"Y-yes! Yes, sir, that's right! Wait... You're... the Gravekeeper? Why the hell are you—"
"I told you to only answer what I ask," Reed cut in, his voice freezing. "Is your boss inside right now?"
The thug's eyes darted frantically before he nodded. Reed gave Shaka a single glance. Shaka clamped his hand back over the man's mouth and drove his spear cleanly through his heart.
The thug collapsed in a limp heap. In Shaka's pale yellow, reptilian eyes, there was not a flicker of emotion.
Good. They're all huddled inside together.
Reed held out his palm, conjuring an orb of crystalline earth. He poured time and effort into swelling the sphere until it was as large as he could manage, channeling his mana into its core. He compressed the magic again and again, cramming it past its threshold into the dense crystal shell.
It demanded staggering concentration. Maintaining Property Change ― Crystallization with one hand while simultaneously manipulating and compressing raw mana into its interior was like forcing his left and right hands to perform completely independent, intricate crafts at the exact same moment.
Yet the grueling training he had endured never betrayed him. The countless hours spent sweating and straining in the stonemasons' courtyard—every drop of that labor was embedded within this sphere.
Reed lifted the crystal orb, which cast a faint, translucent gleam through the gloom, and rolled it smoothly beneath the gap at the base of the door.
The sphere clicked against the threshold, rolling inside with a quiet rattle.
Reed raised his shovel. The rune carved into the iron blade flared with violent light.
A concussive roar ripped through the night, rattling the very foundations of the hideout as a billow of dust and debris burst through every seam.
Now it's a race against the clock.
As fast as possible. And with absolute certainty.
Reed conjured another crystal orb, rolled it through the blasted doorway, and triggered the detonating rune once more.
The structure finally gave out under the second blast. The walls buckled, the timber groaned, and the entire roof collapsed into a smoking heap of rubble. Reed stepped forward, scanning the fresh smears of blood painting the shattered stones.
The ambush worked.
Most of the thugs inside had undoubtedly been crushed or torn to shreds. But Reed did not drop his guard for a second. He immediately prepared his next spell.
Sure enough, a section of the collapsed timber shifted. A figure shoved his way out of the debris.
"You filthy son of a whore!"
It was a dark-skinned man from the southern territories. Battered, bruised, and dripping blood from countless lacerations, he howled in furious agony. Reed couldn't catch the dialect, but the pure venom in the man's voice left no doubt about what he was screaming.
Judging by the man's twisted snarl, the pain was excruciating.
Reed kept his distance, shovel held at the ready, feeling a prickle of genuine bewilderment.
"Who are you? Another lackey of the Black Blade?"
"You dog bastard! Born from an unwashed pig and a sewer rat! Yes, damn you! I am Hashid of the Black Blade!"
"How are you still alive...? Wait, is there another top-tier fighter besides your boss?"
Reed felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach.
The Black Blade Syndicate really is something else.
He supposed it made sense. A fierce hound rarely sired gentle pups. Under a boss who possessed such terrifying martial pressure, it was only natural that the lieutenants would be formidable.
Hashid coughed up a spit of blood and roared, "Damn it all! Which outfit sent you?! What kind of syndicate keeps a battle mage on a leash?!"
"Syndicate? I came on my own. Where is your boss hiding?"
"On your own? No, wait... What the hell did you just say?"
Hashid had naturally assumed this was a targeted hit orchestrated by a rival organization. Why else would a mage of this caliber ambush their safehouse without a word of warning? But as the words sank in, he realized the conversation was turning bizarrely sideways.
"Hiding?! I just told you! I'm Hashid of the Black Blade!"
"I know you're with the Black Blade. Just tell me where your boss crawled off to. Or are you trying to buy time?"
"You deaf piece of shit! I am the boss! I'm Hashid!"
After all, the syndicate took its very name from Hashid's infamous moniker.
Reed froze. His brain ground to a dead halt as he blinked stupidly at the bleeding man.
"...You're the boss?"
"Yes!"
Reed tilted his head, his face a portrait of utter perplexity.
"...Why?"
"That is the single dumbest question I have ever heard in my entire miserable life!"
"Then who was that guy with the long sword who came looking for me earlier?"
"How the fuck should I know, you lunatic?!"
Reed stiffened.
Only then did the full, horrifying absurdity of his mistake dawn on him.
Wait... so that middle-aged man had nothing to do with the Black Blade Syndicate? And I lobbed three Crystal Bombs at an innocent stranger? Uh...
Cold sweat beaded on Reed's forehead and trickled down his neck. He had caused an unmitigated disaster.
Well, what was I supposed to think when he stood in an alley leaking that ridiculous amount of murderous pressure?!
He had already been on edge after hearing Harlock's warning, and then he was confronted by a swordsman of absurd skill. His thoughts had simply frozen into tunnel vision.
A wave of sheer embarrassment washed over him. He had arrived here with an iron resolve, ready to sever the dark chains of his past—only to realize the entire buildup had been based on a catastrophic misunderstanding.
It was awkward on every conceivable level.
Yet looking at it from another angle, relief took over.
Either way, this bastard still needs to die.
The swordsman from earlier radiated an aura so overwhelming it made Reed's hair stand on end. But Hashid? No matter how Reed looked at him, the man wasn't even in the same league. Honestly, it was a massive weight off his chest.
Watching Reed's expression shift into visible relief, Hashid's temper flared with venomous irritation, even if he couldn't grasp why.
"Bastard... Don't tell me you blew up my hideout by mistake and expect to call it an accident?"
"No. There's no mistake there. I'm the Gravekeeper you've been hunting."
"What...?"
Hashid's eyes widened in disbelief.
It was impossible to fathom. The wretched orphan boy they had been chasing had returned as an earth mage to slaughter them in their own den?
Yet Hashid knew no one would invent such a lie in a moment like this. He let out a hollow, bitter laugh.
"The world really has gone completely mad."
"Thanks to you and your thugs tearing the slums apart, I lived every day in terror," Reed said, tightening his grip on his shovel. "Wondering if I'd starve. Wondering if I'd freeze. Even after coming all the way to Morasil, I had to look over my shoulder, dreading your revenge."
Reed leveled the blade toward Hashid.
"Let's end it here. Once you're gone, I think I'll finally be able to sleep through the night."
"Hah! You should've flung another spell instead of wasting your breath, brat. Did you suddenly convince yourself you're an honorable knight?"
Sneering coldly, Hashid pushed himself to his feet. Sharp crystal fragments were embedded deep across his flesh, and blood continued to flow freely from his wounds. Yet having bought enough time to steady his breathing, he drew a pair of daggers with a reverse grip. They were pitch-black, matching his epithet.
In the next instant, the intricate tattoos etched into Hashid's torso flared with a dim, oily light.
Like a cube of sugar dissolving into water, Hashid's physical form melted away into the surrounding shadows.
It was the hidden art of a southern assassin—the very technique that had made Black Blade Hashid the terror of the slums.
His trump card!
Reed detonated another crystal charge without hesitation. But the Explosion Rune was an expansive burst; in an open space like this, its concussive force dissipated rapidly. It wasn't enough to secure a kill.
Certain the man was still alive, Reed spun around, his senses straining.
There was nothing. No sight, no sound, no scent. Even the trail of blood that had been dripping onto the stones had vanished without a trace.
An assassin had always been the natural predator of a mage. Faced with an invisibility so absolute, Reed took a steady step backward.
Did he run?
Impossible. A cutthroat like Hashid would never flee after watching his entire crew get slaughtered right before his eyes. He was creeping through the darkness, biding his time to deliver a single, fatal strike.
What was Reed supposed to do? Blindly barrage the area with magic and pray a stray blast hit?
No.
You never relied on luck when your life was on the line. Leaving your fate to chance was reserved strictly for the desperate, final breath.
Hashid's stealth technique was seamless, but it had one inescapable limitation: in the end, he was still a creature of flesh and blood walking upon the earth.
Reed dropped to one knee and pressed both palms flat against the dirt.
He closed his eyes. Vision was useless here anyway. So were his ears and his nose.
All he needed was the information the earth could provide. Pouring every ounce of his concentration downward, Reed reached out into the soil.
The world bloomed in his mind.
He could sense the tangled roots of weeds digging deep into the packed ground. The tiny insects squirming beneath the loam. A frantic rustling through a narrow burrow—a mole, perhaps?
Things invisible to the eye revealed themselves clearly through the earth. Reed pushed the boundary of his awareness outward. Farther. Further still.
Then, at the outermost fringe of his perception, a patch of loose soil dipped slightly downward. As though trodden upon by a foot.
Right. No matter how thoroughly you erase your presence, you can never erase your own weight.
The footsteps were drawing closer. The distance between them was already dangerously short. Reed scooped up a fist-sized stone from the dirt and hurled it with all his might directly at the empty air.
Startled by the sudden projectile, Hashid burst from his approach and charged straight forward. He had mistaken the stone for an incoming spell, having already felt the horrific power of the Crystal Bombs burned into his memory.
In his panic, Hashid's movement became direct and linear. Exactly as Reed intended.
Simple motions were easy to predict.
Reed rose, swinging his shovel with full force.
A sharp metallic clash rang out as the iron edge intercepted the twin black daggers. The sudden impact broke the illusion, and Hashid's figure bled back into reality, his face twisted in utter shock.
He saw through my stealth?!
It defied reason. Even seasoned knights struggled to pierce the sensory-scrambling arts of the south. Yet this boy had parried him clean. How? He couldn't fathom it. That rock from earlier hadn't been a spell at all—it was a bluff. A trick to lure him into making a move.
He had danced right into the wretched brat's trap.
So what?!
The fact remained that he had closed the distance. It was common knowledge that mages were pathetic in close quarters. Now that he was within arm's reach, all he had to do was carve the boy to ribbons with his daggers.
How should he butcher him? A quick death was far too generous. Should he gouge out his eyes first? Or maybe slice out that clever little tongue!
Just as Hashid felt the surge of imminent victory, he caught sight of Reed's eyes.
The boy was looking at him with terrifying calm. Cold. Detached.
Reed parted his lips and uttered a single, quiet word.
"Behind."
"What?"
The dull thud of tearing flesh shattered the night.
A spearhead burst through the center of Hashid's chest from behind. Rising from the shallow trench of dirt where he had lain completely submerged, Shaka stepped forward.
Hashid's eyes fluttered wildly as his strength drained away. The black daggers slipped from his trembling fingers, clattering uselessly against the cobblestones. He stared back at Reed in profound disbelief.
"...Since when?"
"From the very beginning," Reed replied smoothly. "I actually planned that tactic for the older gentleman, but it worked out."
What Reed had prepared was never a duel. It was a hunt.
A predator was never more vulnerable than the exact second it believed the kill was secured. A flawless ambush sprung in that sliver of complacency—that was the essence of hunting.
Hashid finally understood that he had been dancing across the palm of Reed's hand the entire time. From the devastating initial strike to the deliberate banter meant to fix his attention, and standing motionless even as Hashid lunged in—every single beat had been calculated.
"Cunning... little bastard."
"Did you want a fair fight? Did you mistake yourself for an honorable knight?"
With a wet rip, Shaka wrenched the spear free. His heart pierced clean through, Hashid crashed face-first onto the earth.
It was a fatal wound. There was no hope of survival.
Hashid's mouth worked weakly, spitting up dark frothing blood as he gasped out a dying curse.
"Heh... Hehehe. Even if you beat me... you're still just... a sewer rat. Cough! Scavenging through garbage... You'll live a pathetic life, and you'll die... just like me!"
Reed merely looked down at him with dull apathy. If he had been the type to shudder at empty deathbed curses, he would have perished in the slums years ago.
"Is that the best you can do? Your life is ending. Shouldn't you leave behind something a bit more meaningful?"
Hashid's eyes were already losing their focus. With the last dregs of his fading breath, he rasped into the dirt.
"Brothers... forgive me."
It was an astonishingly pathetic end for a man who had once ruled the back alleys through terror.
"Haah."
Reed felt no grand sense of catharsis. If anything, a hollow emptiness settled into his chest.
Was this creature truly the mastermind who had terrorized Reed and made life an endless nightmare for everyone in the slums? If Hashid had been an overwhelming warrior—like that middle-aged swordsman from earlier—perhaps Reed would have felt a surge of triumph. He might have hated the scum while at least acknowledging that the man possessed the strength to command such fear.
Yet Hashid was merely an ordinary, vicious thug. A lonely, wretched mortal who whimpered for his brothers the moment death took him.
Realizing that the root of his long-standing fear had been so utterly insignificant was not an enjoyable experience.
As Reed stood there in silence, a sudden commotion broke out.
"Over here!"
"Who the hell dared?!"
A swarm of armed men poured into the ruined courtyard from every direction. Their ragged attire and brutal faces made it immediately clear that they were another gang carving out territory in this corner of the slums.
They took in the sight of the dead Hashid and the leveled hideout with momentary shock, but their gazes swiftly locked onto Reed, baring their teeth.
"Was it you? Creeping into our territory and making a mess without permission?"
Reed raised both hands in a placating gesture.
"This was strictly a personal feud between me and this man. I have no quarrel with any of you. I apologize for trespassing on your turf."
A woman who appeared to hold some rank stepped forward, shaking her head with an unsettling, wicked grin.
"No, no, don't be like that. No need to apologize. As it happens, we were just looking for an example to make. Lately, too many bastards have been treating us like a joke. If we chop off your head and hang it high for everyone to see, don't you think people will finally show us some proper respect?"
It seemed there was no room for negotiation.
Reed cast a troubled glance around the ruins. There were well over a hundred men surrounding them. He was already breathing heavily; while his mana reserves were still ample, his physical stamina was another matter entirely.
He could sense the grueling battle ahead.
Right. This is how the slums really work.
A lone, absolute ruler was an anomaly here. Countless mediocre rats circling one another, waiting for the slightest opening to tear away a chunk of flesh—that was the true ecosystem of the gutter. They had likely been lurking nearby all along, waiting for Hashid and Reed to butcher each other.
Now that the prey is bleeding, the hyenas come to feed.
The thugs took a synchronized step forward, closing the ring around Reed and Shaka. Clinging to his fraying focus, Reed leveled his shovel once more.
Could they win? He didn't know. But even if he went down, he swore he would drag as many of these bastards into the dirt with him as humanly possible.
Just as Reed braced himself to unleash everything he had left—
A sound like silk shearing through the air cut across the courtyard.
Every single approaching thug froze mid-stride. As if time itself had halted, their legs stopped, their mouths hung open, and silence fell like a heavy shroud.
A heartbeat later, razor-thin crimson lines blossomed across their necks.
A wet succession of sickening thuds echoed through the dark. Blood seeped from the seams, and then, one after another, their heads tumbled cleanly from their shoulders.
Not one or two, but more than a dozen heads hit the stones at the exact same instant.
Their headless torsos stood upright for a bizarre, lingering second, as if unaware they had been decapitated, before crumpling limply into the dirt.
It was a scene beyond reason. Far more surreal than any magic Reed had ever witnessed. Was he dreaming? The sheer absurdity of the spectacle struck Reed, Shaka, and the surviving thugs dumb, freezing them where they stood.
Through the heart of that frozen charnel ground, a figure came strolling forward.
He wore a neatly trimmed beard, and at his hip hung an impossibly long sword.
It was the very same man Reed had fled from earlier.
Looking completely pristine, without a speck of soot to suggest he had ever been caught in a magical blast, the man cast a wary, sidelong glance at Reed. He seemed genuinely concerned that the boy might whip out another Crystal Bomb. But seeing Reed standing there in dumbfounded shock, the swordsman strode right up to him and stopped.
He offered a warm, genial smile and extended a hand.
"Well met! You're the young fellow known as the Gravekeeper, aren't you? Ahem, to finish the introduction we couldn't conclude earlier—my name is Arivalt."
Speaking in a light, cheerful tone, Arivalt added with a proud grin,
"I was knighted by the hand of Duke Evergreen himself, and I have come to repay the debt we owe you."