Chapter Eighty-One: Rekindling Past Affection II

Wilson Graham.

This name has grown somewhat unfamiliar to the youth of today, though once, it belonged to him—eleven years ago. Perhaps it was the erosion of his will by demonic influence, or perhaps the emotion exposed by sudden upheaval; whatever the cause, the young man who once moved in the shadows as an information broker fell briefly into reminiscence. But it did not last. Only a few breaths passed before the owner of those blood-red eyes was clear and resolute once more.

"Help me," he said. "I'm not his match, and neither are you."

There was a peculiar resonance among demons, even those created artificially, even the half-finished. Now, having undergone a higher transformation, he felt more keenly the gulf between himself and the others. The killer was not an enemy to be overcome by resolve or sacrifice; it was despair incarnate, shrouded in shadow, with no weakness and no blind spot.

There was a difference in capability.

As expected... I am only a half-finished product.

He thought this, but his mood remained steady; the truth had been clear to him since eleven years ago. That failed experiment had left him incomplete, whether as one of the Glorious or as a demon—always a half-measure, separated by an unbridgeable chasm from the truly powerful, whether Glorious or high demons.

But still—

Even so, there remained enemies that had to be defeated.

His blood-red gaze shifted from the mist-like, shapeless killer to the Glorious at his side. Sensing his scrutiny, the black-haired, black-eyed youth cautiously kept his distance and began to retreat, quietly and without drawing attention.

"No other way," Wilson mused.

Amy Ulysses' refusal did not surprise him. To them, he was an untrustworthy demon—though to demons, he was no less human.

So, he could only rely on himself.

He clenched his fists. No hesitation, no doubt, not even the barest warning. He launched his attack.

"Boom!"

Only when the air vibrated and the killer's form twisted did the Glorious and swordbearer, lingering at the edge of the battlefield, realize an assault was underway.

Had the enemy been mere flesh and blood, that blow might have secured victory. But the Mist Night Killer, who had ravaged the lower district a century ago, possessed not only a near-immortal body but flawless combat instincts. Even a perfect ambush, exploiting the power's convenience, achieved little; the damage inflicted was negligible.

A troublesome foe, offering no opportunity for victory.

But victory was required—

In the name of the father.

Once the outcome was clear, there was no time for hesitation or doubt. Wilson dashed forward—not toward the killer, but away from it.

As a failed creation, he was no match for the Dark Guild's masterpiece; he had known this from the start. As a weak, flawed being, defeating the strong required exploiting every possible resource—including, of course... the enemy.

Yes, the enemy.

In his eyes, Amy and the swordbearer from the Order were both enemies.

Enemies that needed to be killed.

But even among enemies, there was a hierarchy—a priority. The swordbearer girl was formidable, and Amy Ulysses, in concert with her, could threaten his life. Yet compared to the Mist Night Killer, the nightmare of an era, their threat was insignificant, almost negligible.

Therefore, let them entangle the killer first.

—And then finish them!

From a tactical perspective, the plan was sound. But reality unfolded contrary to Wilson's expectations: the ghostly killer did not attack the Glorious or the swordbearer along his path, but focused relentlessly on closing the distance to him.

Perhaps it sought to annihilate the strong before the weak.

Then, there was no choice... Decision flashed in an instant. The blond youth spun on his heel, the slender rapier in his hand dispersing the thin mist again, shining like moonlight upon the killer's pale mask.

Then—

Split in two.

Yet Wilson's face betrayed no joy at vanquishing a powerful foe; only emptiness. It was as if he had sliced through water, through air, through a void that had never truly existed—he felt almost no resistance against the blade.

So, retreat!

He withdrew without hesitation, but it was too late.

The killer’s form twisted like mist, then coalesced, the two curved blades spinning in its hands, slashing down in a great cross, faster than lightning.

Scarlet blood sprayed in an instant.

Wilson stepped back, the solid earth beneath his feet providing some support as he steadied himself.

Blood dripped from his hand.

The blond, red-eyed youth lifted his head; his monstrous claws locked the two curved blades in place.

"Got you," he said, then activated his power—

Atmospheric Control.

Unlike the swordbearer, who was better at manipulating wind through pressure, his control lacked destructive force but was more precise. He could manipulate air pressure to induce suffocation or hypoxia, and if he pushed further, he could create an absolute vacuum—something theoretically impossible in the open air.

But the vacuum could not kill this monster.

The Mist Night Killer, upon sensing the attack, dissolved into insubstantial mist, diluted to the extreme within the vacuum, but... it survived.

"Damn it," Wilson cursed quietly, releasing his power.

If the vacuum could be maintained, it might not kill instantly, but it could imprison the foe. Yet none of the Glorious, swordbearers, Dark Lords, or high demons were perpetual motion machines; all were limited by physical strain and stamina. The duration and effectiveness of their abilities had a limit—a boundary known only to the user.

His atmospheric control, when used merely to induce hypoxia in battle, carried little cost or burden. But further manipulation, creating high or low pressure in an area, increased the strain dramatically, especially as the target area grew larger, farther away, or more open. The backlash intensified accordingly.

Even at close range, as just now, the strain was considerable—not surprising, since whether as Glorious or demon, he was but a flawed specimen.

He felt a certain resentment—not because he accepted it, but because it was the truth.

Wilson thought thus, unleashing another facet of his demonic self.

Black scales spread from beneath his battered coat, devouring his body at a visible pace. Bone, under the influence of some inscrutable evil force, began to proliferate, forming savage claws and barbs. His blood-red eyes widened, pupils stretching into reptilian slits.

He opened his jaws, now reshaped into a maw, and spat a long stream of fire.

—Draconic Transformation.

Meanwhile, the killer, now reconstituted in the low-pressure zone, offered no words or sign of surprise; the twin curved blades gleamed like moonlight as they cleaved the air.

Then—

"Clang!"

The monster, neither human nor beast, neither dodged nor defended. Yet his deep black scales served as perfect armor; the killer's blade crashed down, sending sparks flying and ringing with a metallic clang.

The killer's silver-gray hair and black eyes contracted sharply—then retreated.

But too late.

The draconic monster lunged, dragon claws snatching the killer's throat like an eagle seizing a chick. Without a moment's hesitation, his fingers closed into a fist.

"Boom!"

The killer’s body exploded like smoke, then re-formed nearby.

"Nice feel," Wilson remarked, watching the fleeing killer. His twisted dragon claws flexed and relaxed, his maw splitting to reveal jagged teeth in a grimace that was not quite a smile. "But... just a little short."

"Only this once," the mouth beneath the mask curled in a cold arc.

Wilson did not reply, for he knew the killer spoke true. A trump card was a trump card because it was secret and powerful. Unleashing his demonic side had greatly increased his resistance to cutting, his strength, and his speed—but gave him no way to defeat the mist form. Even now, he could do nothing to the killer.

His current power was illusory; beneath its strength, the seeds of defeat had already been sown.

What now?

The draconic youth pondered his options.

But found none.

Neither sturdier defenses, greater strength, nor swifter speed could help him overcome this foe—they merely maintained a stalemate. As time passed and exhaustion mounted, this borrowed power would be depleted, and he would once more be helpless prey—an outcome as inevitable as fate.

Hmm... variables.

The dragon-man narrowed his eyes, suddenly remembering—there was a third force on the battlefield, an unpredictable variable.