Chapter 319: The Leader of the Failures

Thud! Thud!

Heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor.

There was no attempt to conceal them or move stealthily. The footsteps carried a suffocating calmness, as if the person approaching had no need to hide from anyone’s gaze.

Zich gripped Frostgrave tightly in his hand, his knuckles turning white from the force. The wound on his left shoulder had torn open again, and blood soaked through the bandages, dripping down his arm onto the white bedsheets.

The door slowly opened as a middle aged man entered the room.

He was gaunt, wearing a worn black coat that hung open. His neck and chest were covered in crisscrossing old scars, and right above his heart, a shattered black iron badge was embedded in his flesh.

Although there were no visible mana fluctuations, Zich’s pupils contracted slightly.

The moment the man stepped into the room, the air seemed to turn into thick, viscous sludge. It carried the stench of decay and despair, as if both had fermented for countless years in the deepest depths of a mire.

The man glanced down at the three corpses on the floor.

"So, they failed after all."

The man’s voice was hoarse and calm, devoid of anger or disappointment. He spoke as if stating a fact he had expected from the beginning.

"I never expected those three pieces of trash to kill you. Their order was to cripple you, and they failed even at that."

The man finally raised his head, his gaze settling on Zich.

What kind of gaze was it?

There was no killing intent or greed in his eyes, only condescending indifference. He looked at Zich as if he were a piece of work that was already destined to be destroyed.

Zich tried to prop himself up, but the agonizing pain in his left shoulder forced a muffled groan from his throat. He fell heavily back against the pillows.

His right hand still gripped Frostgrave tightly, but it trembled uncontrollably.

He had already used both Spirit Bombs in the previous battle. His injuries were severe, and even the slightest movement sent waves of pain through his body.

He could not stand, let alone fight the man standing before him.

"Who are you?" Zich asked coldly, his voice rough from blood loss.

"They call you the Chosen One, the Monster of the First Layer," the man said, slowly walking farther into the room. The hem of his black coat swayed gently with each step. "But in my eyes, you’re nothing more than a rotten apple that hasn’t completely rotted away yet."

The man stopped at the foot of the bed and looked down at him.

"My name is Silas Crow. I’m the head of the Failure Network on the First Layer."

Upon hearing that name, Zich’s eyes instantly turned icy. It was the exact name those two men had called.

"You broke into the Players Association headquarters. Aren’t you afraid Arthur will tear you limb from limb?" Zich stared at him.

Hearing this, the corners of Silas’s mouth curled into a mocking smile.

"Broke in? No, Zich. The door was opened from the inside."

He extended a withered finger and pointed toward the deathly silent corridor outside.

"The corridors are locked down, and the guards have been reassigned. In a place like this, if someone wants you dead, you won’t even know how it happened. The Association? Arthur? They can’t protect you forever."

Zich’s heart sank. With those words, he had confirmed that there was indeed a mole inside the Association, and it was definitely someone with considerable authority.

But he had no time to think about the mole’s identity because Silas had already slowly raised his hand.

He held no weapon and used no visible magic. But a terrifying mental pressure descended upon Zich, pressing against him as if it were a tangible force.

"Don’t be nervous. I’m not going to kill you."

Silas spoke slowly, watching Zich’s strained expression.

"If I kill you, you’ll just become another corpse. And a dead man cannot experience despair."

His voice was not loud, but it sounded like a rusty saw slowly scraping against Zich’s nerves.

"My goal is to destroy your path. To trap you on the First Layer forever. I want you to watch those inferior pieces of trash advance one by one while you rot with us in this mud."

Silas looked into Zich’s eyes as if he were a prisoner who had already received his sentence.

"Zich. In my eyes, your name has already become synonymous with a dead end."

Zich’s right hand suddenly tightened around Frostgrave as he tried to force himself upright.

Crack!

The wound in his left shoulder tore open again from the movement. Blood quickly spread across the bedsheets, staining half of them red.

The blinding pain made his vision darken for a moment, but he continued staring at Silas.

Despite the intense pain he was subjected to, there was no submission in his eyes, only a coldness like ancient ice buried in the abyss.

Seeing his gaze, Silas frowned slightly. He had expected Zich to break down and plead for mercy, so what was this defiance?

Just then, a loud explosion came from the end of the corridor.

BOOM!

The sound shook the resting room, followed by the unmistakable crash of a door being blasted apart.

Silas’s expression changed slightly when he heard the sound. The shock on his face made it clear that he hadn’t expected this either.

He took one last look at Zich on the bed and slowly lowered his hand as the suffocating mental pressure instantly receded like an ebbing tide.

"Arthur is here," Silas said, turning toward the door. He reached the doorway, stopped, and turned his head slightly to glance at Zich from the corner of his eye.

"You have a few days. I’ll be back."

Silas stepped through the doorway. His heavy, unhurried footsteps echoed through the corridor once more, gradually fading into the distance.

A few seconds later, Arthur arrived at the resting room.

His gaze quickly swept across the room. First, he saw the three corpses on the floor. Then he looked at Zich, who lay on the bed, covered in blood and gasping for breath.

Arthur’s expression darkened.

Zich slowly loosened his grip on Frostgrave and looked up at him.

"President." He wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, his voice terrifyingly calm. "It seems the Players Association isn’t as secure as I thought."