NOVEL WEB Chapter 238: Destroy The Cursed (55)
Striker eyes flicked toward the shadowed figure standing silently beside Drake. He had only seen her fight once, but the memory was burned into his mind like a scar.
Her presence alone was enough to twist the air. Striker knew—if Drake unleashed her, every hero on the island would already be dead. There would be no risk, no struggle, no uncertainty.
Why, then, take such unnecessary risks? The mongrels useful for menial tasks had already been slaughtered. The Red Vanguard had fallen.
The enemy's strongest elites were gone. So why gamble with lives when one person could end it all in an instant?
Drake didn't reply right away. He merely swirled the wine, watching the liquid catch the dim light. After a long silence, he finally spoke.
"Tell me, Striker… why do you think the heroes are attacking us?"
Striker furrowed his brows, considering. Then he answered carefully.
"Because they wish to stop the cursed serum… and the project."
Drake looked at him, then slowly shook his head.
"No. That may be a reason—but not the reason."
He raised the glass, took a sip, and let the silence stretch before his words fell like a blade.
"They attack us because they fear us. Nothing more… nothing less."
They believed we were too dangerous to be left alive.
But they were wrong.
Striker frowned, confused by the statement. "Wrong about what?" he asked.
Drake's smile lingered, sharp and cold. "They think we are the threat. But the truth is, it isn't us. The real danger to humanity has always been them—their arrogance, their ignorance, their blindness.
That blindness is what poisons humanity's survival. If anyone deserves eradication, it's not us who fight to give this world a chance—it's them, the self-proclaimed saviors."
For a brief moment, Drake's composed mask cracked. His voice thundered with anger, his eyes flashing with an ancient, seething rage. But as quickly as it came, the fury faded, replaced once more by his unsettling calm.
A thin smile curled on his lips as he reclined on his throne, sipping his wine with the serenity of a man who already knew the ending.
Beside him stood the Dark Emissary. Shrouded in veils of shadow that clung to her form like smoke, she did not move. She did not even breathe.
She seemed less like a living being and more like a forgotten statue—dead, or worse, something that should never have existed at all.
"You asked why she won't join the fight," Drake said casually, almost as if the answer amused him.
"It's simple. Just as you suspected, if she were to step onto the battlefield, the heroes would be wiped out in minutes. But that would defeat my purpose.
They must see the truth with their own eyes, suffer it in their own flesh. Only then will their last illusions crumble. That is why you, Striker—and the others—must break them yourselves."
Striker did not fully understand his master's design, but he knew better than to press further.
His role was clear: fight, kill, and prepare the way. Whatever Drake's hidden goal was, Striker only needed to obey. With a brief bow, he turned and left.
Once alone, Drake raised his glass again. His eyes grew cold, his voice like a whisper from the abyss.
"Han Trystan… I don't care what preparations you've made, or what strength you've gathered. You will fall here. That is my certainty. The future cannot be changed."
He drank slowly, savoring the wine, then smirked. "Still… I hope it's not too late for you. Perhaps you'll at least glimpse the truth before you die. Isn't that right, Ramila?"
At the sound of her name, the Dark Emissary stirred. Her veiled face tilted toward Drake, her gaze lingering on him with unreadable intensity. Then, as if she had never moved at all, she returned to her stillness.
Drake chuckled.
Meanwhile—
From the far horizon, a figure rose from the sea. Around him floated the torn, mutilated remains of monstrous hybrids: fish-bodied, bat-winged abominations—the dreaded Morbid Batscales.
They lay butchered and drifting in the blood-soaked tide. Not a single one survived.
The lone figure walked across the ocean's surface, heading straight for the island where the battle was raging. His black-and-white hair whipped violently in the wind, his hands resting casually in his pockets.
Yet his eyes—icy blue and burning with untamed fury—glowed like a storm about to break.
His face was calm. His stride unhurried. But beneath that calm was rage unfiltered, wrath unbound.
Nothing would stop him.
Not the mongrels.
Not the Red Giant.
Not the beasts.
Not the Red Vanguards.
Not even the Dark Emissaries themselves.
Drake would fall.
"The beasts are dealt with," Han muttered under his breath, his voice low and lethal.
His gaze lifted toward the island, where the veiled shadow of the Dark Emissaries loomed.
"Good. Then I suppose it's time to get rid of them."
And with that, he advanced.
To be continued…
⚡ Author's Note ⚡
That's it for today's chapter, and the battlefield is only heating up!
Han has finally stepped onto the stage… and Drake is waiting with his own twisted certainty.
Now, here are some questions for the real ones reading this:
Who do you think is the bigger threat right now—Drake on his throne or the silent Dark Emissary?
Can Han really cut his way through everything standing in front of him, or will this island become his grave?
And here's the real one—if you were in Han's place, would you charge forward like him… or wait and plan?
Drop your answers in the comments. Let's see who's really predicting the battlefield like a true strategist.
Stay sharp, Legends. The storm hasn't even begun.
That's the chapter, everyone!
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Stay tuned—the next chapter is coming soon.
– Ultra