Chapter 183: The True Master Behind Fenrir’s Cult, A Shocking Revelation!

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Vladimir stood among the ranks near the back, listening attentively to everything the Apostles were saying. He was no longer truly one of them. He was more of a cover, a spy working for his new true master. Still, he continued to pretend, knowing this entire situation was nothing more than Fenrir’s own wicked game.

Around him, cultists whispered in low, excited tones. Vladimir checked them one by one. Some were scarred veterans of countless Gate raids — old hunters who had joined after suffering under the modern world and its endless oppression, even against hardworking Awakened.

Others were younger recruits, their eyes feverish with the promise of power, much like Vladimir himself had once been when he was young and foolish.

A few, like him, bore the clear marks of past failure: demotions, lost limbs, missing eyes, heavily scarred faces, or the quiet shame of having been thoroughly broken by someone stronger.

The third Apostle, a broad-shouldered man wearing a heavy black cloak and bearing a long scar that ran from temple to jaw, raised both hands with a gentle yet proud smile. "And now... the one who has walked farthest into the darkness steps forward. Kneel, children of the Wolf. Kneel before the Master of the Cult. Kneel before the one who will open the path to Ragnarok."

A heavy silence fell over the entire cavern.

The master of the cult was a rumored myth, said to be someone immensely strong — beyond even SSS Rank itself.

Some speculated he was a prestigious man of high society. Others claimed she was a woman. Still others spoke of him being an actual ancient werewolf that had lived for centuries.

However...

From the deepest shadows at the far end of the cavern, slow, deliberate, and completely unhurried footsteps began to echo. Someone was calmly walking toward them, and the tension grew so intense that everyone remained completely paralyzed while listening.

Everyone present, including Vladimir, swallowed hard as the anticipation nearly killed them. They sweated profusely while awaiting the reveal. The footsteps drew closer and closer, accompanied by a majestic, demonic presence that clearly declared this being was their true leader.

As the presence approached, the violet flames lining the cavern walls bent toward the figure as if drawn by an invisible current of energy and mana, gathering around the approaching figure in a terrifying manner never seen before.

A being capable of quite literally bending space around them... only those at SSS Rank or beyond could accomplish such a feat.

FLUOSH!

And when he finally stepped into the light, gasps rippled through the entire assembly. Eyes widened and mouths hung open in shock.

He was tall, lean, and devastatingly composed — professional-looking in every way. Black hair fell in loose waves to his shoulders, framing a face that was almost painfully handsome: sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, and a faint aristocratic smile that never quite reached his eyes. He was nothing like these desperate people who had joined a cult out of need. He was a man who had possessed everything since the moment he was born — power, money, prestige, and authority — and yet still wanted more.

Those eyes were a cold, glacial blue, the exact same shade as Riven’s... yet emptier, colder, like winter ice that had never known any warmth. He wore no elaborate robes, only a simple black coat over a dark shirt. The only ornament was a silver pendant shaped like a broken sword resting against his chest.

This man wore no cloaks, and aside from the Crest of Fenrir gleaming on his forehead, he had nothing in common with anyone else present.

Except that his blue eyes suddenly turned deep red, and his teeth lengthened into sharp canine fangs as he greeted his people by spreading his arms wide.

For the first time since the cult had been established fifteen years ago... the Cult Master had finally shown himself. And he was someone nobody had ever expected.

A famous person at that — someone everyone could recognize and even search for online by name.

While staring at this man’s appearance, Vladimir’s breath caught for a moment as he witnessed the figure before him.

He knew that face, just as most people in the world did.

Everyone who had ever lived in the shadow of the richest family on the planet knew that face after all.

"Mordred..."

Vladimir whispered the name under his breath. It tasted like ash and felt disgusting to pronounce. He and many others felt a mixture of disappointment and awe, of shock and disbelief, of pure disgust because this man was so unlike them... yet also of reluctant admiration, because he was so much more than them and had still chosen the same dark path.

It was none other than Mordred Claymore, the second son of Arthur Claymore, President of Claymore Enterprises, and older brother to Riven. The man who had vanished after a mysterious Gate incident fifteen years ago, only to return a year later completely reborn and stronger than ever, now stood before them as the Cult Master of Fenrir. This was something Vladimir had never thought possible.

After observing everyone’s stunned reactions, Mordred chuckled softly and surveyed the crowd with languid amusement. A sickening smile filled with fascination spread across his face, as though the hundreds of devoted killers and fanatics before him were nothing more than an interesting collection of pets.

And perhaps, to him, they truly were.

What these people did not know was that to Mordred this entire cult was merely his "hobby," or a long-running "passion project." It was a collection of misfits who hated life, the modern world, and the company his father had built — people full of the same resentment and hatred against the Claymore family that he himself carried. A hobby or passion project that might have gone too far over the years, but one he was now fully willing to embrace for the plans still to come, all of it shaped by his ever-growing hatred against his father, his family, and his endless greed to seize everything for himself.

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