Chapter 199: The Devil Lair

The wind howled past Alen’s ears as he shot through the sky. He pushed his ’Levitation’ to the absolute limit, desperate to reach the center of the city. But by the time he finally arrived at the alleyway, his heart sank.

The area was already completely cordoned off. A massive crowd of civilians had gathered at the edges, whispering frantically and pointing at the sheer destruction. The entire street looked like a war zone, with deep craters, shattered walls, and a disturbing amount of blood painted across the rubble.

Several Association guards and high-ranking police officers had blocked off the perimeter, their faces pale and grim as they investigated the scene. Alen landed silently on a nearby rooftop and jumped down into a hidden corner, pulling his hood low and adjusting his white mask to blend into the shadows of the crowd.

He carefully stepped closer to the barricades, enhancing his hearing to catch the hushed conversation of the commanding officers standing near the epicenter of the crater.

"Are you absolutely sure about this?" one of the higher-ups asked, his voice trembling slightly. "Devils? Here, inside the Human Empire?"

"Yes, sir," the lead investigator replied grimly, holding up a broken fragment of a dark, jagged horn. "The residual Malice energy is unmistakable. And judging by the sheer scale of this destruction and the demonic traces left behind, they didn’t just come as scouts. They came in a large group."

The higher-up wiped the sweat from his forehead. "But why? Why would they risk breaching the city’s defenses and exposing themselves like this?"

"There’s only one logical reason, sir. The energy signatures indicate a massive clash. But beneath the Malice, we found traces of spiritual energy. There must have been a highly powerful Spirit wandering around this area. You know how much the Devil race craves spiritual entities to boost their power. They must have mobilized in such a large quantity solely to capture it."

"F*ck... This is a disaster. Inform the higher-ups and the Sage Council immediately! If the Devils are making moves inside our borders, a war might be imminent!"

Alen didn’t need to hear anymore. He stepped back, melting away from the bustling, panicked crowd.

He walked until he found a secluded, empty park a few blocks away. He slumped down heavily onto a wooden bench, leaning his head back as he stared blankly up at the sky.

He couldn’t help but feel incredibly tense. His chest tightened with a heavy, suffocating worry for Ravena. It wasn’t that he hated her. He never had. Even though she was an arrogant, notorious weapon who constantly annoyed him, talked back, and literally stole his money to buy cotton candy... But she was ’his’ bond. She was his responsibility to protect.

As he sat there, he remembered her constant bickering, the way she would pout when he scolded her, and her endless banter in his mind. He actually missed that annoying little voice. He had promised himself he would walk his own path, selfishly protecting what was his, and right now, someone had dared to take what belonged to him.

Alen slowly opened his eyes. All the worry, the hesitation, the lingering fear—it all vanished. His azure eyes turned utterly cold, devoid of even a single hint of emotion.

There was only one way to find out exactly where they took her. He had to check the memories of his other manifestation.

He hadn’t attempted to merge with that split consciousness yet because he knew exactly what it would mean. His Supreme Ability had a severe drawback. If his other manifestation was currently suffering or taking lethal damage, merging that connection would transfer every single ounce of that agonizing pain directly into his real body.

But now, he had no other choice. If he hesitated, he might lose Ravena forever.

’Let’s do this.’

He gritted his teeth and forcefully merged his consciousness with the distant manifestation.

In a split second, it hit him.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

An invisible, catastrophic wave of pain slammed into his nervous system. Alen screamed, falling off the bench and crashing onto his knees. It felt like his entire body was being shoved through a meat grinder. He felt like his bones cracked and splintered under an invisible pressure.

Tears streamed uncontrollably from his eyes as the agonizing memories flooded his brain. He saw it all. He saw the dark underground prison. He felt the cold iron chains wrapping around his manifestation’s wrists.

Then came the torture. He felt the sickening, tear as a giant Devil forcefully ripped his manifestation’s arm straight out of its socket. The pain flared so violently that Alen’s real left arm went completely numb.

*Gah!*

He gagged, coughing up a mouthful of saliva as the next memory hit. He felt the sharp, jagged claws of the Devil piercing into his face, digging deep, and violently tearing out one of his eyes.

The sheer sensory overload of blood, agony, and despair threatened to shatter his mind completely. He clutched his own face, his fingers digging into his scalp as he convulsed on the ground, gasping desperately for breath.

Minutes felt like hours. Slowly, agonizingly, the phantom pain began to lessen, dulling into a heavy, throbbing ache that settled deep in his bones.

Alen dragged his trembling body up, leaning heavily against the wall of a nearby building. He was gasping for air, his clothes drenched in cold sweat, his chest heaving violently.

He wiped the tears and sweat from his face with a shaking hand. But beneath the lingering pain, his cold, azure eyes burned with a terrifying, murderous intent.

He had seen the memories. He had seen the surrounding landmarks before his manifestation was dragged underground into that hellish cell. He finally knew the exact location where the Devils were hiding.

And that place is...

...

Far away from the bustling central cities, near the borders region of the Human continent, inside a border territory, stood a small, old-fashioned restaurant. It was an establishment specifically built to cater to the adventurers who frequented the outer zones. The atmosphere inside was peaceful yet lively. The warm scent of roasted meat and spilled ale filled the air as groups of mercenaries and hunters discussed their latest missions, debated the talks about their Ascension Realm’s trials, and bragged about their near-death escapes.

Just as the restaurant basked in this comfortable, noisy peace, a loud crash shattered the mood.

*BANG!*

The heavy wooden doors of the restaurant snapped open, slamming violently against the walls. A broad-shouldered man with a massively bulky, muscular physique stepped over the threshold. Right behind him flowed a group of dozens of heavily armed guys, all wearing matching insignias.

The man didn’t just walk in; he emitted a heavy, suffocating aura that instantly silenced the room, actively intimidating everyone present.

The rowdy chatter died down into nervous whispers as the patrons recognized the intruders.

"Hey... isn’t that guy Damon?"

"Yeah, the leader of the ’Red Storm’ group. I heard his entire main team successfully advanced to Pathseeker."

"They just survived the last trial of Stage 2 in the Ascension Realm. They’re practically considered one of the strongest teams around the adventurer guild in this border region now."

Ignoring the fearful stares, Damon walked straight toward the center of the room. He shoved a few lower-ranked adventurers out of their seats without a second glance, forcing them to scatter as his team casually took over the largest tables in the restaurant.

An old woman, wearing an apron that marked her as the restaurant’s staff, immediately marched out from the back. Her face was flushed with anger at the blatant disrespect for her establishment.

"Hey! You can’t just do that! Get out of my restaurant right now!" she yelled, pointing a wrinkled finger at Damon.

But before she could even finish her sentence or threaten to call the local guards, Damon’s expression turned utterly cold. With a casual, blurry flick of his wrist, a sharp blade of wind magic sliced through the air.

*AHHHHHH!*

The old woman let out a bloodcurdling scream as her severed hand hit the floor. Blood sprayed across the wooden planks as she collapsed in pure agony, clutching her stump.

Before the panicked crowd could even react, a man wearing robes—the healer from Damon’s team, stepped forward. He casually raised his hand and cast a quick healing spell over the old woman’s wound.

The bleeding stopped instantly as new skin rapidly grew over the severed stump, closing the wound completely. It was a twisted, cruel act of mercy. Because the skin had been fully healed shut, it was now physically impossible for any high-tier healer to reattach her severed hand later.

The entire Red Storm team burst into loud, mocking laughter, pointing at the old woman writhing on the floor.

"Grandma, you should learn to watch your tone in front of your betters," Damon sneered.

From the kitchen, a young staff girl with a soft, delicate face rushed out. She looked absolutely horrified, her eyes welling with tears as she dropped to her knees to help the trembling old woman.

Damon’s eyes lazily shifted toward the young girl, and a dark smirk curled on his lips.

"You," he pointed a thick finger at her. "You will serve us our drinks."

The young girl flinched, her face turning pale with sheer terror. But looking at the ruthless men surrounding her, she knew she had no other choice. She nodded frantically, helping the sobbing old lady to the back room before rushing to the bar with trembling hands to grab mugs of beer.

The atmosphere in the restaurant had turned dead silent. No one dared to move, eat, or speak, terrified of drawing the Walkers’ attention.

As the girl timidly approached Damon’s table to set down his mug, his large hand suddenly shot out. He grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her forcefully right onto his lap.

"Ah! Let me go!" she shrieked, struggling in panic.

"Come on, don’t be so shy," Damon laughed, his grip like a vice as he leaned in, trying to force a kiss on her cheek.

*SMACK!*

Driven by pure panic and disgust, the girl slapped him hard across the face.

The entire restaurant gasped. The mocking laughter of the Red Storm team died instantly.

Damon’s head turned slightly from the impact. He slowly turned his face back, his smirk completely gone, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated rage.

He grabbed the girl by her hair and shoved her violently onto the wooden floor. Before she could even scramble away, he stepped forward and delivered a ringing slap across her face, sending her crashing into a nearby table.

"You stupid bitch!" Damon roared. He stood up, his boots heavy against the floorboards as he prepared to brutally kick her back.

Right at that exact second, the restaurant doors opened again.

A figure wearing a dark cloak and a plain white mask entered the room. He walked in utter silence, his footsteps making no sound against the floor. He completely ignored the heavy tension, the young girl lying on the floor and the crowd of mercenaries sat silently like a frightened mouse, walking straight down the center aisle as if the room were entirely empty.

Damon smirked down at the crying girl. He concentrated his mana into his leg, ready to snap her spine with a single forced kick.

Just as his leg tensed to snap forward, a shoulder brushed past him.

It was a seemingly light touch from the cloaked figure walking by. But still the physical force of the figure behind that casual brush hit Damon like a battering ram.

Damon completely lost his footing. The mana in his leg dissipated as he stumbled hard, flailing his arms to stop himself from crashing face-first onto the floor.

He caught himself against a table, his face flushing with absolute fury at the humiliation. He spun around, glaring daggers at the back of the cloaked figure who was still casually walking away.

Damon reached out, grabbing the figure roughly by the shoulder of his cloak.

"Who the f*ck are you?!" Damon barked, his aura flaring violently.

The cloaked figure’s footsteps halted.

Slowly, the figure turned around.

From behind the gaps of the white mask, a pair of cold, azure eyes stared right back at him. They were completely unblinking, devoid of any warmth, pity, or hesitation—looking at Damon as if he were nothing more than a dead man standing before him.