Ex rank talent Awakening: 100% Dodge rate

"So? What's the plan?" Emperor Augustus asked number twenty. The two had excused themselves from Rebecca's presence, her fragile state demanding silence and distance. The once-mighty goddess sat shrouded in darkness, focused entirely on repairing the cracks in her soul. Any interruption might worsen her already delicate state, and they both knew better than to risk her wrath in such moments.

"I have instructed the variants to prioritize finding the so-called Nemesis and deal with him," number twenty replied calmly, his voice like a cold whisper drifting through a graveyard.

"I don't get it though," Augustus muttered, brows furrowing. "I thought shadow slaves are mindless creatures. Their only goal is to consume the soul of any living being—souls meant to feed and heal the goddess."

"True, the regular ones are like that," number twenty acknowledged, folding his arms. "But variants... they are different. They retain just enough awareness from their former lives to reason, just enough consciousness to carry out specific tasks. It's why I picked them for this job—they can hunt."

"Plus," he added with a glint in his eye, "I'll be helping with the search. I want to face him myself."

"Nice," Augustus grinned. "I'd love to get my revenge against that bastard. Just imagining his downfall puts me in a better mood."

"I'm afraid not," number twenty said firmly, his tone turning colder. "We can't allow the goddess to grow suspicious. If she does, she might send a tracking team after us. We can't risk that—not yet. So you'll stay behind, keep appearances. I'll use the data from the shadow slaves to find him."

Augustus frowned slightly, but nodded. The explanation was solid enough, and his pride could wait. For now.

Without another word, number twenty raised a hand, slicing through the air. A rift of darkness bloomed open—swirling, ominous, and silent as death. With one final step, he vanished into the void, leaving his destination unknown.

---

Meanwhile…

Through Will's connection, Greg had issued a warning to the entire world. A dire plea filled with urgency, urging players to stay out of the new event—the release of shadow slaves. He had spoken with clarity, sincerity, and weight.

But humans were, unfortunately, predictable.

The very warning that should have saved lives did the opposite. The world mistook Greg's caution for manipulation. Convinced he was trying to keep the spoils for himself, thousands rushed into Apocalypse, eager to reap rewards they believed he was hoarding.

Among them was a mid-level guild—well-known, respectable, and led by a confident man who believed strategy could conquer anything.

The group of forty moved confidently toward a dungeon, hoping to level up and gather intel before engaging the shadow slaves. It was supposed to be preparation. But nothing prepared them for what they encountered.

From within the gloom of the dungeon's core, a figure emerged.

A being, utterly engulfed in shadow. It had legs and arms, a humanoid silhouette, but the similarities ended there. Its face was a nightmare—two abyssal orbs for eyes that seemed to suck in light, and a gaping, toothless mouth that looked like a window into nothingness. Looking at it too long made one's skin crawl.

[You have come across Shadow Slaves!]

[Destroy its core to defeat it!]

The system's notification echoed in their ears like a drumroll before a battle.

The guild's reaction? Celebration.

"Everyone, get in formation! Let's slay these beasts!" the guild master shouted, gripping his sword with determination. The man had led his guild through countless battles. Confidence radiated off him like heat from a forge.

Forty guild members took position, forming teams of four to tackle each shadow slave. Ten enemies. Four per shadow slave. A tactical advantage. The odds seemed perfect.

The guild master surged forward with his team, his blade singing as it carved through the air—clean, precise. He struck the shadow slave before him, beheading it in one stroke. The dark head rolled across the ground like a severed fruit.

He grinned. Around him, others were doing the same. The tide seemed overwhelmingly in their favor.

"It seems they're not as difficult as we expected," he said smugly, scanning the battlefield. "I knew it. Nemesis just wanted all this sweet juice for himself."

"Uhm... Leader, don't you find it odd though?" a guild member asked hesitantly.

"About?"

"We didn't get any system notification for killing them."

"Hah! Amon, always the pessimistic guy," the guild master scoffed, brushing off the concern. "It's fine. Probably just part of the patch—"

"Aaargghhhhh!"

A scream tore through the battlefield, followed by something even more chilling—the guild master's head soared through the air, severed cleanly from his shoulders.

"GUILD MASTER!!!" the cries rang out in unison. Chaos erupted.

"Did you guys notice anything just now?" Amon asked again, his voice trembling, his body shaking as realization dawned. But no one listened.

Fear, panic, anger—all of it drove them mad. The guild threw themselves into battle, unleashing every spell and weapon they had on the remaining shadow slaves.

"STOP!!!!" Amon screamed, his voice hoarse and desperate. "STOP ATTACKING THEM!!"

But the barrage continued.

"The one that killed the guild master—he copied his technique! His movement! It was the exact same strike!" Amon shouted again.

This time, the words landed.

One by one, attacks ceased. The battlefield grew eerily silent. The fear that gripped their hearts was now absolute.

"Amon… this isn't the time to mess around..." someone whispered, barely able to speak.

"I think we should have listened to Nemesis," Amon muttered, sweat running down his spine. "If my analysis is right… then we're not going to survive this."

"Amon! You bastard! This isn't the time to kill team spirit!" the vice guild master snapped. "We have to avenge the guild master and survive! So stop with the—what?!"

He was cut short as a hand tapped his shoulder. A pale-faced guild member pointed in horror.

The guild master's corpse was rising.

Dark shadows slithered over his body, wrapping him in a familiar, sickening veil. His head regenerated—unnaturally, grotesquely—right where it had once been severed. His now-blackened eyes opened.

He had become a shadow slave.

The vice guild master took a step back, heart thundering.

"What... What in hell is going on?" he asked, though no one had an answer.

"Erm… Vice Guild Master," another voice called out, almost pleading. A shaking hand pointed again.

At the ten shadow slaves—the ones they had attacked so ferociously.

"They're... copying us. Amon was right. I think they're learning any technique that lands on them."

Just as he spoke, the shadow slaves moved.

Each one raised its arms. The movements were identical to the mages who had cast spells earlier—same stance, same flow, same precision.