A Disaster-Level Assassin Has Been Freed

Chapter 100: Underground Arena (6)

“…….”

Harang’s face stiffened.

It wasn’t just his face. His entire body froze, as if time itself had stopped, and he stared at Ulrik’s head with dark eyes.

Covered in dust, blood, and wooden splinters, it looked anguished. Indeed, Ulrik’s expression was contorted in pain.

Why?

I couldn’t comprehend it.

Why was he here?

And not even in one piece—his head severed, rolling toward me in agony.

What was this?

What was this situation?

No matter how hard I tried to understand, my mind refused to function.

Unconsciously, I bent down to pick up Ulrik’s head.

Clang!

That’s when it happened. The drugged man, who had been flailing aimlessly until now, landed his first successful attack.

The heavy iron club he swung struck its target’s head with a resounding thud. A refreshing sound, as if clearing away pent-up frustration, made the man chuckle, Hehe.

But only for a moment.

Sensing something amiss, he looked down at his wrist.

Snap.

“…Huh? Uh, ugh, aaaaah!”

The iron club fell to the ground—along with the hand that held it. Blood gushed belatedly from the cleanly severed wrist. The man’s face twisted in pain and terror as he screamed loud enough to shake the inn.

But that, too, lasted only a moment.

Boom!

It was invisible.

No one saw the drugged man being attacked.

Yet it had already happened. As the man’s head shattered and he collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut, the members of the underground arena felt a chilling sensation, their hair standing on end.

Fortunately, the one who seemed responsible for this didn’t immediately act again.

“Hey, Badin…”

“…Wait for now.”

Gulp. Badin swallowed hard.

Even he hadn’t caught Harang’s movements.

It was astonishing. Though it hadn’t been long, he, too, had stepped into the realm of a Graduate. For him to miss a movement, even if caught off guard, could only mean the opponent was far superior—several levels above him.

Perhaps… Shakin really believed he couldn’t win and forfeited the match.

Regret came too late. He should’ve investigated more thoroughly. Or at the very least, planned more meticulously.

No, no. It’s enough as it is. There are dozens of meat shields left to drain his stamina, and he’s already poisoned. If we wear him down, there’s a chance. No, we’ll definitely win!

Shaking his head vigorously, Badin steeled himself.

Yes, a moment of panic had weakened his resolve, but the situation wasn’t that bad. He’d take some losses, but that wasn’t a big deal. The lowlife members were just replaceable parts, after all. So, so…

I need to… give the order to attack…

Why, why wouldn’t the words come out?

Genuinely flustered, Badin questioned himself, but no clear answer emerged.

Woooooo…

He didn’t know it, but the area around the inn was now completely engulfed by Harang’s subtle aura.

A gloomy, chilling, damp, and bone-numbingly cold energy.

A technique called ‘Ghost Play,’ combining the attributes of darkness and water, was one Harang only revealed when fighting at full strength.

Once unleashed, those within its range with weak spirits could no longer make sound judgments.

Their actions would falter, rendering them incapable of proper responses. It was an effect akin to the ‘Absolute Domain’ said to be favored by ancient demons.

“Badin, your orders…”

Thud!

“Shut up!”

One of his subordinates, questioning the prolonged silence of the underground arena’s master, had his head smashed in. It was Badin’s doing, consumed by rage. He was mentally cornered.

Wheeee—!

His mind, filled with all sorts of grim thoughts, conjured the worst possible scenarios.

Attacking would lead to disaster, and retreating would be no different. No matter what decision he made, death awaited at the end. Paralyzed by overwhelming fear, Badin could neither act nor decide, wasting time helplessly.

Meanwhile, Harang was struggling to sort through his own tangled thoughts.

…Why.

Why was Ulrik, who was supposed to have left, still here?

Had he deceived me again?

If not, had he been captured by them that night we parted?

If so, wasn’t his death not entirely his fault, but also mine for being careless?

No, before that, why did they kill Ulrik?

Because he’d placed proxy bets for me and earned a commission?

Sure, in this dark city, gold was worth more than a human life, but still… for that alone?

“Was that really the reason?”

Harang’s gaze sharpened, locking onto one spot.

It was where Badin, the master of the underground arena, stood. Receiving the black-haired reaper’s piercing stare, Badin couldn’t even step back and blurted out an honest response.

“N-no, that’s not it…”

“Then why?”

“It’s…”

I’ll die.

If he truthfully explained why Ulrik was killed, he was certain—absolutely certain—he’d die. That fear made him hesitate. Despite the terror, it sealed his lips shut.

But it was futile.

Woooo—!

The aura, which had spread like mist at dusk, began to converge in one place—toward Badin. Like sharp thorns, like an assassin’s blade coated with deadly poison, Harang’s dangerous energy started to threaten the underground arena’s master.

“Ugh, ugh… It’s…”

He couldn’t hold out.

If it were the usual Badin, he wouldn’t have been this helpless. He’d have summoned his aura to protect his mind and body, drawn his sword, or perhaps retreated to fight another day.

But not now.

In a state barely different from mental collapse, consumed by the eerie energy Harang had unleashed, he foolishly revealed his true intentions.

“Using a comrade’s corpse to provoke the opponent… it’s more advantageous in a fight… It’s also easier to poison a Graduate-level swordsman faster…”

“…That’s it?”

“….”

“For that alone… for such a reason, you killed Ulrik?”

“Ugh, ugh…! Hrk, hrk!”

Badin didn’t answer further.

More precisely, he didn’t have the chance. The shock, as if his heart were being squeezed, left him gasping wildly. Sweat poured from his body like rain.

Ironically, the ones regaining their vigor were the other members of the underground arena. As the ‘Ghost Play’ energy focused on one spot, the pressure on the others lessened relatively.

Emboldened, they muttered with savage voices.

“What’s this? Why are we cowering?”

“Exactly! It’s just one guy. Just one!”

“Right! And you saw it, didn’t you? He took a hit. There’s blood dripping from his head right now. Can’t you see?”

“Damn it, someone move! You heard it! The one who sticks a blade in him first gets 100 gold!”

“You’re one to talk, hiding in the back like a coward!”

“What did you say? What did you just—”

“Enough, you bastard! I’ll take his head first! The 100 gold is mine! Raaaargh!”

With a scream-like roar, a lowlife member charged at his target. His form was utterly sloppy. Everyone expected it: no matter how poisoned or injured the opponent was, he was the underground arena’s champion. There was no way this guy would claim the 100 gold—not in a million years.

But…

If these moths keep rushing in and wearing down his stamina…

If the poison keeps spreading through his body! If we can just seize that moment by luck!

Then there was a chance!

With this thought, several others roared and pretended to charge forward.

“W-waaaargh!”

“Raaagh!”

“Die, you bastard!”

“Drop dead!”

Caught up in the frenzy, more than ten others—not just a few—rushed forward, competing with each other. Their minds were filled with nothing but money. The memory of the first attacker’s head being smashed had already evaporated.

Idiots.

Harang let out a hollow laugh.

Even in his strange state of mind, he couldn’t hold back the chuckle.

And why would he?

These people, who didn’t spare a single thought for Ulrik’s death, were now charging at him, blinded by a mere 100 gold.

It’s been a while. Or perhaps the first time?

It felt as vile as ‘the village.’

No, perhaps even viler than ‘the village.’

With that thought, Harang drew his sword from his waist. The blade, white as snow from not having tasted blood in so long, illuminated the dark city.

He swung it.

Slash.

He swung, and swung, and swung again.

Swish—

Slash, slash, slash—

In an instant, the members turned into chunks of flesh.

As the scattered corpses littered the ground around Harang, the people of the underground arena instinctively realized something had gone terribly wrong.

“Don’t run.”

Harang spoke.

It wasn’t his usual polite tone. There was no need to show courtesy. With a cold expression, he scanned his surroundings. His remarkable observation and memory etched every enemy present into his mind.

“Fine. Run if you want… I’ll catch you all anyway.”

With those words, the reaper took a light step forward.

Moments later, a festival of blood began.

***

“Ugh, ugh…”

The master of the underground arena.

A man just below the heads of Kalbaron’s Five Major Guilds, infinitely close to the pinnacle of power and might—Badin.

That man was now pathetically weeping, staring at someone.

But he was lucky, in a way.

Anyone who saw the true face of that someone would understand. The fact that Badin hadn’t wet himself was worthy of praise.

Where… where did such a monster come from…!

He couldn’t comprehend it.

He didn’t want to.

Why such a monster had been lurking in the underground arena was beyond Badin’s understanding. He was just unlucky—that was the conclusion he reached.

“It’s still the same.”

Harang could clearly see into Badin’s mind.

It was laughable.

Absurd.

He still hadn’t realized his wrongs. He didn’t care even a speck about Ulrik’s death.

Well, it didn’t matter.

Exhaling a hot breath, the reaper raised his sword high, ready to behead his opponent.

“Please wait a moment.”

That’s when it happened.

Four new figures appeared in the inn. The one at the forefront stopped Harang.

The reaper turned to look at him. The man, flinching under the cold gaze, swallowed hard before introducing himself.

“Greetings. I am Chairophon, Vice-Guild Leader of the ‘Red Cloud,’ one of Kalbaron’s Five Major Guilds. I’ve come to discuss a deal with Harang.”