Chapter 200: The Deadlands

"Who the f*ck are you?!" Damon roared, his massive hand gripping Alen’s shoulder tight enough to crush a normal man’s bones.

Alen didn’t answer. He just stared through the eyeholes of his white mask, his azure eyes freezing cold, completely devoid of any emotion.

Damon felt a strange chill run down his spine, but his bruised ego quickly pushed it away. "Are you deaf? I asked you a—"

[Supreme Ability: Levitation]

[Nexus Elemental Art: Weight of Existence]

Alen didn’t even bother to raise his hand to strike the man. He simply applied his authority over gravity. In an instant, the localized gravity acting on Damon’s body multiplied threefold.

"Gah—!"

Damon’s words were violently cut off. The sheer, crushing weight slammed down on him like a falling mountain. His knees buckled instantly, smashing into the wooden floorboards.

*CRACK!*

The wood splintered underneath him as his face was dragged down, pinning him flat against the ground. He gasped for air, his eyes bulging in pure terror as he found himself completely unable to lift even a single finger.

"Boss!"

The rest of the Red Storm members finally snapped out of their shock. Seeing their leader crushed to the floor by some invisible force, dozens of Pathseeker drew their weapons and charged forward with angry shouts.

Alen didn’t even look at them. He casually raised his hand and swiped it through the air.

*BOOOOOOM!*

The gravitational pull horizontally shifted. The charging mercenaries were instantly ripped off their feet, their bodies launched sideways as if hit by a speeding train. They crashed through the restaurant’s walls and doors, screaming as they were thrown forcefully out into the street outside.

The entire restaurant fell dead silent. The oppressive aura that had choked the room just a minute ago vanished, replaced by the terrifying, quiet presence of the cloaked figure standing in the center of the wreckage.

Underneath him, Damon was still struggling to breathe, coughing up blood as the three-fold weight kept him hopelessly pinned.

Alen finally looked away from the pathetic man. He walked calmly toward the bar, where the young waitress was sitting on the floor, shivering in fear. Alen reached into his shadow inventory, pulled out a heavy pouch of gold coins, and casually tossed it onto the counter. It was far more than enough to cover the broken tables, the shattered walls, and for the drink.

"Compensation for the mess, and bring a drink, I prefer if it would be cold." Alen said, his voice flat and indifferent.

The waitress flinched, but quickly scrambled to her feet. With trembling hands, she poured a cold glass of wine and slid it toward him. Alen sat on the chair pulled his mask up just enough to expose his mouth, downed the drink in a few silent gulps, and set the glass back down.

He sat there for a while staring at the empty glass with a blank expression and then stood up.

Without casting a single glance at the groaning Pathseeker outside or the crushed leader at his feet, Alen turned around and walked out of the broken doors.

Behind him, the people began to murmur among themselves.

"Hey, who is that guy? I’ve never seen him around this place before."

"I don’t know, but he single-handedly dismantled the entire Pathseeker team without even touching them. He definitely can’t be some normal person..."

"He must be from some prestigious noble family. That’s why he could easily overpower them..."

"Whatever it is, it’s good that those bastards learned their place."

As soon as he stepped outside, he didn’t linger. Mana surged around him as he bent his knees slightly, and with a sonic boom, he shot straight up into the sky.

He immediately stabilized his ’Levitation’ and dashed forward with incredible speed, heading straight toward the restricted borders.

...

It had been exactly a week.

A full week since his other manifestation was brutally injured and taken along with Ravena.

Since that moment, Alen hadn’t rested even a single moment. He had spent the entire week traveling, hopping from one teleportation gate to another across the Human Empire, desperately making his way toward the extreme outer edges. There was no direct route to the border regions, as the area beyond was completely restricted by the WGA.

The territory ahead of him was known as the Deadlands. It was a lawless, corrupted wasteland entirely forbidden to normal Ascenders.

But Alen didn’t care about the rules. He didn’t care about the restrictions, and right now, he barely even cared about his own life. His goal was incredibly simple: retrieve his stubborn, notorious spirit, and make sure to teach those bastards who dared to harm what belonged to him a lesson they would carry to their graves.

As he flew past the final border outposts, leaving the Human Empire behind, the sky above him rapidly darkened. The air itself turned heavy and foul. He was moving at incredible speed when suddenly, a dense, dark purple fog seeped through the clouds. It was pure Malice.

The toxic energy swirled in the air, immediately trying to stick to his skin like a parasite seeking a new host to corrupt and devour.

[Ding! Your passive ability ’????’ has triggered!]

[Ding! You are immune to any corruption related to Malice.]

The system notifications chimed in his mind, but Alen didn’t even blink. He ignored the prompts completely, keeping his flight path perfectly straight as the Malice harmlessly phased through his body.

*SWISH!* *SWISH!* *SWISH!*

Suddenly, the sharp whistling of projectiles tore through the corrupted air. Several condensed spears of Malice shot up from the ground, aiming straight for his flying figure.

Alen easily dodged them with a slight shift in weight, halting his forward momentum to float in place. He looked down through the dark clouds.

Below him stretched a barren, ruined wasteland. And swarming across the dead earth were thousands upon thousands of low-rank Devils. There were mindless Dreadlings, heavily mutated Fiends, and scattered groups of Demonkins leading the hordes. Most of them were wandering aimlessly, but the ones who retained some slight consciousness had noticed his presence in the sky and initiated the attack.

Alen’s azure eyes stared down at the endless flood of monsters.

He didn’t summon Godless. He didn’t reach for any using any elemental spells.

Instead, he wrapped his entire body in an extreme, dense layer of pure mana. He pointed his body straight down, deactivated his levitation, and used his wind magic to accelerate his descent. He launched himself toward the ground like a devastating, mana-coated rocket.

*BOOOOOOOOOOOOM!*

He slammed into the very center of the horde. The impact triggered a massive explosion, sending a shockwave that obliterated the ground and instantly pulverized hundreds of low-rank Devils into dust. A massive crater formed around his landing spot as debris and purple blood rained down on the wasteland.

The surviving Devils roared, their bloodshot eyes turning toward the cloaked figure standing in the center of the dust cloud. They charged at him from all sides like a tidal wave of flesh and claws.

Alen didn’t even flinch. He launched himself forward.

A Fiend leaped at him, its jaws wide open. Alen simply sidestepped, his mana-coated fist shooting upward. His punch connected directly with the monster’s jaw, shattering its skull to pieces with a sickening crunch. Without missing a beat, he spun around, driving a heavy kick into the chest of a rushing Demonkin. The force of the blow caved the Devil’s ribs in, launching its broken body backward through a dozen other monsters.

He moved like a blur. He didn’t use any of his techniques or massive area-of-effect spells. He was using this endless horde for a sole purpose: to training. He was testing the limit of his strength which had increased several times after becoming the Pathseeker.

*CRASH!* *SQUELCH!*

He grabbed a Dreadling by the throat, crushing its windpipe before using its body as a blunt weapon to smash three other attacking Devils. He threw the corpse aside and dashed forward again, his fists glowing with concentrated mana. Every single punch blew a hole straight through demons flesh. Every single kick snapped limbs and shattered bones.

The horde was seemingly endless, completely covering the horizon, but Alen kept pushing forward. He was like a machine of pure slaughter. Purple blood stained his cloak and splashed across his white mask, but not a single flicker of emotion crossed his face. He remained entirely emotionless and merciless, wiping out wave after wave as he carved a bloody path through the Deadlands.

As he punched through the chest of another screaming Fiend, he casually flicked the blood off his hand and looked up.

There, in the far distance, still several kilometers away, the heavy fog parted just enough. Towering into the dark, corrupted sky, casting a massive, ominous shadow over the entire wasteland, was a gigantic, ancient Palace.

The Devil’s Lair.

"So, that is the place where those punks were staying. Enjoy your remaining time..."