Rise of The Abandoned Husband

The ashes of the painting still clung to my palm as we rushed away from the arena. Each step felt like a victory, but I knew better than to celebrate. We'd merely bought ourselves time.

"Liam, how did you do that?" Clara asked, her voice breathless as she struggled to keep pace with me. "That painting... it absorbed his attack!"

"I don't know," I admitted, glancing down at the dark residue on my hand. "But whatever it was, it scared them enough to run."

The Man with the Mustache kept looking over his shoulder, his face unusually grim. "We need to find somewhere to hide. They'll regroup quickly."

I nodded, scanning our surroundings for potential shelter. We'd entered a narrow alleyway that branched off in multiple directions, offering some protection from prying eyes.

"How did you know?" I asked him suddenly. "About the painting?"

He tugged at his mustache nervously. "I've... heard stories. Ancient legends about a masked woman who could devour the power of saints."

"And you didn't think to mention this earlier?" I demanded.

"I didn't know if the stories were true!" he protested. "And I wasn't sure if that painting was connected until I saw Little Black's reaction to it."

Clara stopped abruptly, pointing ahead. "Look! There's a small inn. We could rest there."

The building was modest and weathered, the kind of place that wouldn't attract attention. Perfect for fugitives like us.

"Good eye, kid," the Man with the Mustache said, patting her shoulder. "Let's go."

Once inside, we secured a small room on the second floor with a window overlooking the back alley—an escape route if needed. I collapsed onto a rickety chair, the adrenaline finally wearing off.

"Let me see your hand," Clara said, her young face creased with concern.

I opened my palm, revealing the dark residue. It seemed to shimmer slightly, like oil in water.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

"No," I replied, rubbing my thumb across it. "It feels... cold. Like it's still drawing heat from my skin."

The Man with the Mustache leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You should wash that off. Who knows what effect it might have."

I nodded and moved to the small basin in the corner. The water turned black as I scrubbed my palm, but the residue remained stubbornly attached.

"It won't come off," I muttered, drying my hand on a cloth.

"Maybe it's not supposed to," the Man with the Mustache said cryptically.

I gave him a hard look. "What do you know about that painting? The whole truth this time."

He sighed, tugging at his mustache again—a nervous habit I'd noticed whenever he was about to reveal something important.

"The legends speak of an ancient being who wore a mask that could absorb the power of saints. They say she was neither good nor evil, but something... else. Something that existed outside the normal rules of our world."

"And the painting?" I pressed.

"Supposedly a prison," he replied. "A way to seal her away after she grew too powerful. But the stories are fragmented, passed down through generations of tomb raiders."

Clara sat on the edge of the bed, her legs swinging. "But why did it burn up after saving Liam?"

The Man with the Mustache shrugged. "Maybe it served its purpose. Or maybe..."

"Maybe what?" I asked.

"Maybe it wasn't meant to trap her anymore," he said quietly. "Maybe it was waiting for someone specific to release her."

A chill ran down my spine. "Someone like me?"

Before he could answer, a commotion erupted outside. We rushed to the window. Guild members were patrolling the streets, their distinctive blue uniforms unmistakable.

"They're searching for us," Clara whispered.

I clenched my fist, the one with the residue. "We need to keep moving. Find Isabelle before they find us."

The Man with the Mustache peered through a crack in the shutters. "There are too many of them. We'll have to wait until nightfall."

Reluctantly, I agreed. As we settled in to wait, I examined my hand again. The residue seemed to have changed, forming intricate patterns that resembled the mask from the painting.

"Look," I said, showing them. "It's changing."

Clara leaned closer, her eyes wide. "It looks like... words?"

She was right. The patterns were reshaping themselves into characters—ancient script that I recognized from my studies of old medical texts.

"Can you read it?" the Man with the Mustache asked, his curiosity overcoming his caution.

I squinted, tracing the lines with my other hand. "It's a technique... 'The Crimson Fist of the Masked Saint.'"

As I spoke the name aloud, the residue flared with a deep red light. Pain lanced through my arm, and I gasped, dropping to my knees.

"Liam!" Clara cried out, reaching for me.

"Don't touch him!" the Man with the Mustache warned, pulling her back.

The pain intensified, spreading from my palm up through my arm and into my chest. It felt like my blood was boiling, my veins turning to fire. I bit my lip to keep from screaming, not wanting to attract attention.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the pain vanished. The residue had disappeared, seemingly absorbed into my skin. In its place was a small, crimson mark—a stylized fist that glowed faintly before fading to look like an ordinary tattoo.

"Are you okay?" Clara asked, her face pale with worry.

I flexed my fingers, surprised to find them unharmed. "I think so. It doesn't hurt anymore."

The Man with the Mustache knelt beside me, examining the mark. "I've never seen anything like this."

"What happened?" I asked, still trying to catch my breath.

"I think," he said slowly, "you just inherited a technique from the masked woman."

I stared at the mark, trying to make sense of it. "But why me? Why now?"

He shook his head. "The legends say she was always searching for something—or someone. Maybe you're what she was looking for."

The implications were troubling. What did an ancient, powerful being want with me? Was I just a convenient vessel, or was there something more?

"Try using it," Clara suggested suddenly.

"What?" I looked at her in surprise.

"The technique," she said. "Try it out."

The Man with the Mustache frowned. "Is that wise? We don't know what it does."

I considered his warning, but curiosity won out. I stood up and moved to an empty corner of the room, focusing on the mark on my palm.

"Crimson Fist of the Masked Saint," I whispered, channeling a small amount of energy into the mark.

The response was immediate and overwhelming. Power surged through me, unlike anything I'd experienced before. It wasn't the pure, golden light of my Absolute Beginning technique, nor was it the raw, draconic force of my Divine Dragon Power. This was something different—a crimson energy that seemed to draw strength from the very air around me.

My fist began to glow with a deep red light, shadows dancing within the crimson aura. The power continued to build, far beyond what I'd intended.

"Liam, stop!" the Man with the Mustache shouted, genuine fear in his voice. "You're drawing too much!"

I tried to cut off the flow, but the technique had a mind of its own. The crimson light spread up my arm, enveloping me in its eerie glow. I could feel it feeding on my energy, draining me rapidly.

With a desperate effort, I slammed my fist into the floorboards. The impact released the built-up power in an explosion of crimson light. The floor cracked beneath my fist, a network of fractures spreading outward like a spider's web.

I fell to one knee, gasping. The technique had drained me more thoroughly than any cultivation method I'd used before.

"That was... intense," I managed between breaths.

Clara approached cautiously, touching the damaged floor with her fingertips. "You barely used any force, but look what it did."

The Man with the Mustache's expression was grave. "That's no ordinary technique. It's consuming your energy at an alarming rate."

"But the power..." I flexed my fingers, remembering the incredible strength I'd felt. "It was extraordinary."

"Power always comes with a price," he warned. "Be careful how often you use it."

I nodded, taking his advice seriously. The mark on my palm had faded to an almost imperceptible outline. I would need time to recover before attempting the technique again.

As night fell, the patrols outside seemed to thin. We prepared to leave, gathering what few supplies we had.

"We should head toward the guild's inner compound," I said, checking that my bronze sword was secure at my hip. "That's where they're most likely keeping Isabelle."

Clara looked nervous but determined. "How will we get in? It's supposed to be impenetrable."

The Man with the Mustache grinned for the first time since our escape. "Luckily for you, breaking into impenetrable places is my specialty."

As we slipped out through the window and into the darkness, I felt a strange sensation from the mark on my palm—a subtle pull, guiding me in a specific direction.

"Wait," I said, holding up my hand. "I think... I think I can sense something."

The Man with the Mustache raised an eyebrow. "The technique?"

I nodded, focusing on the sensation. "It's like it's trying to lead me somewhere."

Clara looked uncertain. "Is it safe to follow?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "But if there's any chance it could help us find Isabelle..."

The Man with the Mustache sighed. "I'm going to regret this, but lead the way."

I followed the pull, navigating through narrow alleys and abandoned courtyards. The mark grew warmer as we approached what appeared to be an old storage building, its stone walls weathered by time.

"Here," I said, stopping before a nondescript wooden door. "Whatever it's leading me to, it's in there."

The Man with the Mustache examined the door for traps, finding none. "Too easy," he muttered suspiciously.

Clara peered through a crack in the wood. "I don't see anyone inside."

With caution, we entered the building. It was mostly empty, save for a few broken crates and cobwebs. The pull from the mark led me to the center of the room, where the stone floor seemed slightly different.

"There's something underneath," I said, kneeling to examine the stones.

The Man with the Mustache joined me, running his fingers along the edges. "A hidden compartment. Classic."

With practiced ease, he located and triggered a hidden mechanism. A section of the floor slid away, revealing a small cavity containing a single object—an ancient scroll sealed with a wax emblem in the shape of a mask.

"Is that...?" Clara whispered.

"The same mask from the painting," I confirmed, reaching for the scroll.

As my fingers touched the parchment, the mark on my palm flared with crimson light. The wax seal melted instantly, and the scroll unrolled itself, revealing intricate diagrams and text in the same ancient script.

"What does it say?" Clara asked, peering over my shoulder.

I studied the characters, finding that I could understand them despite never having seen this particular dialect before.

"It's a cultivation manual," I said slowly, "for the Crimson Fist technique. And something else... a map."

The Man with the Mustache leaned closer. "A map to what?"

I traced the lines with my finger, following the route marked in crimson ink. "To the Chamber of Masks. According to this, it's hidden beneath the Martial Guild's inner compound."

Clara's eyes widened. "That's where they must be keeping Isabelle!"

Hope surged within me. This wasn't just a coincidence—it was a path, a way to reach Isabelle.

"The scroll mentions a hidden entrance," I continued, "one that bypasses the guild's defenses."

The Man with the Mustache whistled low. "Now that's valuable information. But why would the masked woman lead you to this?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. But right now, I don't care about her motives. This is our best chance to save Isabelle."

As I rolled up the scroll, a distant explosion shook the building. We rushed to the door, peering outside. Flames were visible in the direction we'd come from—the inn where we'd been hiding.

"They found us," Clara whispered, fear evident in her voice.

"No," the Man with the Mustache said grimly. "They found where we were. They don't know about this place yet."

I secured the scroll in my spatial ring. "Then we need to move quickly, before they expand their search."

According to the map, the hidden entrance to the Chamber of Masks was located beneath an old well at the edge of the city. It would be a dangerous journey, with guild members scouring every street.

"Are you both ready?" I asked, my hand resting on my sword hilt.

Clara nodded firmly. "For Isabelle."

The Man with the Mustache sighed dramatically. "Why do I always get involved in these suicidal missions? But yes, I'm ready."

As we prepared to leave, I spared one last glance at my palm. The crimson mark seemed to pulse with anticipation, as if eager for what was to come.

Whatever power the masked woman had granted me, whatever her true intentions, I would use it to save Isabelle. And if Little Black or any other guild member stood in my way, they would feel the full force of the Crimson Fist.

"Let's go," I said, stepping into the night. "Isabelle is waiting."