Forbidden: Max level warrior

Far below the surface of the Scarlet-Flame Kingdom, where sunlight had never touched and sanity rotted in the bloodstained dark, a chamber pulsed with unnatural heat.

A circular room, carved into volcanic obsidian, was lit by flaming braziers that exhaled black fire. Veins of crimson mana glowed through the rock like arteries around a heart.

At the center of it all sat a figure—tall, unmoving, cloaked in robes spun from woven flesh and shadows. His face was hidden behind a polished, obsidian-black mask carved with an eternal grin and six burning eyes.

**Lord Veylakh.**

The Supreme Voice of the Crimson Hand.

Kneeling around him were six other cultists, draped in robes marked with blood-runes. Each bore signs of mutation: bone horns, scaled flesh, flickering third eyes. Before them hovered a hovering bowl of black ichor—their link to the assassin.

Until now.

The bowl shattered.

The cultists recoiled.

One hissed, "The link is gone—*severed*, not dissolved."

Another choked. "Even if he died... we should have felt it."

Lord Veylakh's voice echoed like a growl from an ancient tomb. "The only way for something like this to be possible is if he was erased completely or was taken to a place beyond our reach."

He raised one hand and clenched it slowly.

"I'll lean closer to the second since it happened twice, perhaps like a place similar to our shadow dimension or a different realm."

A third cultist—one with sockets glowing blue—gasped. "So he truly is..."

"Perhaps." Veylakh rose. Power rolled off him like a tide of fire and rot. "Perhaps the Demon Lord has returned. Or perhaps a man has stolen the title and dares to wear it. Either way... the world will reveal the truth soon enough."

He turned from the cult.

"We do not act. We wait. Let the kingdom bleed first. Let the royal dogs clash with him. Then we shall know if we must kneel... or consume."

The cultists bowed their heads in reverence.

---

The scene shifted.

Back in the throne chamber of House Vaelthorn, silence reigned. Smoke hung faintly in the air from the aftermath. Warden Malric still knelt, trembling, the weight of Ann's presence a lingering storm.

Ann's voice broke through it. Calm. Cold.

"How about we play a game?"

Malric hesitated, then exhaled slowly. "You've already won. My life... is in your hands."

"Exactly," Ann said. "But death is boring."

Malric lifted his eyes. "What kind of game?"

Ann smiled. "A political one. Let's see who can destroy the other first—not physically, but publicly. Socially. Politically."

He paced slowly.

"You already have the upper hand. You're noble. Established. The royal family trusts you. The public thinks I'm just a dangerous upstart. But here's the deal."

He turned, eyes glowing faintly.

"In one week, I'll have you stripped of your title, disgraced, and reduced to nothing. No force. No armies. Just words, truths, and leverage."

Malric scoffed. "You think power alone gives you influence? I've bled for this house. I hold loyalty, bloodlines, gold—"

"And I," Ann interrupted, "hold truth. And fear. And reach."

He stepped closer.

"But here's the catch: If you win—if the kingdom imprisons me, strips *me* down, makes the world believe I'm a threat—I won't resist."

Malric narrowed his eyes. "...You'll surrender?"

Ann nodded. "If you win."

The room hung silent.

Then Malric—shaking—smiled.

"Big mistake. You're powerful, yes. But the game of nobles isn't built on strength."

Ann smiled wider. "Let's watch."

He turned to leave. Lilly followed, silent.

At the doorway, Ann paused.

"Oh—and Malric? Everything you do in secret... I see. Consider the battle already lost."

He walked out, leaving only silence.

---

Outside, Skarn padded to his side, attaching himself to the carriage instinctively. Lilly climbed in, and Ann followed. The carriage rolled away, vanishing into the cold air.

Inside, Malric slowly sat back on his throne. His hands trembled.

"He's dangerous," he muttered. "But… he challenged me. A chance."

Alrick stepped forward. "Father?"

"Begin preparations. We'll ruin him. Socially. Legally. Politically. Strip his legend away until he's just another madman."

Alrick smiled. "Yes, Father."

---

Back at the estate, Ann stood alone in his study. The manor pulsed with magical life.

Lilly tilted her head. "Why didn't you just kill him?"

Ann answered without looking. "Because killing villains makes them martyrs. Letting them expose themselves? That makes them forgotten."

He summoned a projection: a floating map of the Scarlet-Flame Kingdom. Red dots pulsed across border regions.

"Here... here... here. His trafficking routes. Slave camps. Hidden under the banner of justice."

Lilly watched in awe. "You already knew all this?"

"Of course. I just needed him to think I didn't."

Ann turned to her with a smirk. "I'm not a villain, Lilly. I just don't like fakes."

She smiled softly.

Ann's eyes narrowed. "Lilly... I have something for you."

He walked to a locked drawer and removed a small, rune-etched device. It shimmered faintly with magical energy.

"This records both sound and visual memory. It'll store up to a day's worth of witness testimony. I need you to return to your village. Speak to the people. To the village head. Get their confessions. What Malric did. What his men did. Every detail."

Lilly hesitated. "Alone?"

"Not quite. Skarn will go with you."

The silver-furred direwolf peeked his head though a dimensional portal and padded forward silently, towering beside her.

"He'll protect you. No one will dare touch you."

Lilly clutched the device and nodded. "I'll do it."

"Good." Ann's voice softened. "And don't be afraid to ask the right questions. The truth... wants to come out."

She left immediately, Skarn silently at her side.

---

Six hours passed.

Back at the estate, Ann stood at the highest balcony, watching the horizon. His coat fluttered. His eyes remained fixed.

Below, the gatekeeper stirred.

The Royal Knights had arrived.

Six riders, each armored in enchanted steel, moved through the edge of Feldrath. Their leader—**Avera**, Vice-Commander of the Royal Guard—wore crimson and silver, her red hair whipping in the wind.

Level 90. Only few steps from reaching the legendary ranks.

Her captains followed: Levels 80 through 85. The elite.

As they entered the city, whispers reached them instantly.

"The Demon Lord lives in that manor."

"He bought half the district in one day."

"He walks like a god."

Avera scowled. "His influence is... widespread."

One captain nodded. "Too widespread."

Within minutes, they found the estate.

The gates opened.

Ann stood waiting.

Black coat swaying in the breeze. Silver hair catching the sunlight. Hands folded behind him. Calm. Collected. Timeless.

"Took you long enough," he said.

Avera narrowed her eyes. "You knew we were coming?"

"Of course. Chaos whispers faster than horses. But I wasn't expecting a woman. Are they underestimating me now?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Watch your tone. You're no noble. You have no right to speak to a Royal Knight like—"

Ann raised a hand.

"Nobles. Royals. Commoners. Trash is trash. Titles don't impress me."

Avera's hand twitched. Her aura surged.

But Ann's smile never faded.

"Let's not waste time on ceremony. You came to see power. Well, I'm standing here. Ready when you are."

---