The deafening roar of the fireball explosion echoed through the courtyard.
Sakeer stood alone on the neatly manicured lawn, his gaze peeking out from beneath his hood as he observed the European-style castle before him.
The gate was in ruins, smoke billowing from within.
"Wiped out in an instant? Impressive."
He could sense it—the dozen or so undead under his control had been obliterated in the attack. Their connection to him had been severed all at once.
A small exclamation escaped his lips.
From the memories of the slain guards, he had already learned that all members of "Six Arms" had gathered here tonight.
As for the reason behind their assembly?
Sakeer didn't care.
With a flicker of thought, he glanced at his status panel.
[Experience Slot: 20973/10000]
More than a dozen Eight Fingers members had netted him over 800 experience points.
The garrison of the Eight Fingers was laughably weak—not only loosely organized but also sparse in numbers.
Most of their stationed guards ranged between Level 6 and Level 8.
By normal human standards, they were considered skilled fighters.
But in Sakeer's eyes?
They were fodder.
BOOM!
The heavy wooden doors, blackened by flames and adorned with majestic lion carvings, shattered.
One half was flung across the courtyard, crashing into the lawn with a thunderous thud.
The next moment—
Figures emerged from the smoke.
"Hehehe, so it really is just one person?"
The first to appear was Edström, the 'Dancing Scimitar'.
Her gauzy garments clung to her slender frame as she swayed forward, her delicate wrists and ankles adorned with golden rings that clinked musically with each step.
A seductive smile curved her lips.
"Tell me, dear sir, are you sure you meant to pick a fight with us?"
Behind her, a man draped in a matador-style jacket, embroidered with golden patterns, emerged.
"Thousand Kills" Malmvist.
He strode forward, an elegant yet dangerous air about him, his right hand idly twirling a slender stiletto blade.
A flicker of annoyance crossed his face as he exhaled.
"This jacket was expensive. The smoke ruined it."
His voice was calm, but his grip on the blade tightened.
Then—
More figures followed.
"Spatial Slash" Peshurian.
"Phantom Devil" Succulent.
"Undead King" Davernoch.
Each of them stepped forward, their gazes locking onto Sakeer.
Succulent sneered, his emaciated face twisting into something sinister.
"Boss is pissed."
His eyes flicked toward Davernoch.
"So, what's the deal with this guy?"
Davernoch's ghastly red eyes, glowing like twin ghostly embers, stared at Sakeer with thinly veiled disappointment.
"He's not like me."
A natural-born undead, Davernoch had long since suppressed his instinctive hatred for the living.
Instead, his unquenchable hunger for magic had led him to join the Eight Fingers, using their wealth to study human spellcraft.
For the first time, he had encountered someone whose necromantic abilities surpassed his own.
For a moment—just a fleeting one—he thought he had found a kindred spirit.
But alas…
Sakeer carried no aura of death.
The realization made Davernoch's cold, undead heart sink.
Silence settled over the courtyard.
The air grew tense.
Every gaze turned solemn.
Peshurian's voice, muffled by his helmet, was the first to break the stillness.
"To come here alone… He's either insane or incredibly dangerous."
Their minds raced.
Everyone here knew Davernoch's strength.
He was an undead archmage. His control over necromancy was absolute.
And yet—this mysterious stranger, draped in a black robe, had outclassed him.
That could only mean one thing.
He was strong.
Possibly as strong as a hero-class warrior…
Or worse—
he had already stepped into that realm.
THUD. THUD.
Heavy footsteps echoed.
The group of Six Arms parted.
From their midst emerged a towering figure.
Tattooed from head to toe with feral beast patterns, his muscular frame radiated an oppressive aura of raw power.
His knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists.
"Battle Demon" Zero.
His piercing gaze locked onto Sakeer.
His deep voice rumbled through the courtyard.
"You attacked our stronghold."
A slow exhale.
"You've embarrassed me."
His fists tightened.
"I'm not one to hold grudges, but right now? I'm pissed."
He took a step forward.
"So I'll give you two choices."
His voice dropped into a dangerous growl.
"Swear loyalty to me… or die."
The atmosphere became suffocating.
Six pairs of eyes bore into Sakeer—each carrying a different emotion.
Arrogance.
Disdain.
Curiosity.
Caution.
For the first time since arriving, Sakeer felt pressure.
"Six Arms—the strongest force within Eight Fingers… and all of them are here."
He sighed softly.
"My luck really is something else."
His gaze sharpened beneath the hood.
He couldn't afford to be careless.
Despite their arrogance, these six were not weak.
Each of them had surpassed Level 20.
Of course, levels weren't everything.
Take Succulent, for example—though his level was high, his class build was weak.
A "Light Warrior" and "Illusionist" hybrid—neither class supported the other.
It was a flawed combination, offering no real power.
No wonder he'd end up getting killed by a rookie like Climb later.
Such poor class structures were common among native warriors.
They didn't understand synergy.
They lacked optimization.
On the contrary, the strongest among them—'Battle Demon' Zero—seemed almost unnatural, his sheer durability exaggerated beyond belief. Even 'Nail Clipper' Brain had downed two bottles of potion.
Zero cracked his knuckles, his eyes locked onto Sakeer.
"So, what's your choice?"
Sakeer's voice was calm, indifferent.
"You must be mistaken."
A brief pause. Then, he continued.
"I meant that this saves me a lot of time."
His gaze flickered, cold and unwavering. "For harboring the undead, you are all guilty."
The Six Arms froze for a second. Then, their expressions darkened.
A low chuckle escaped Zero's lips, his face twisting into something almost grotesque.
"I've seen plenty of self-righteous fools like you."
His voice was laced with cruelty.
"And I've seen even more people kneeling before me, wailing, begging for mercy."
His grin widened, revealing sharp teeth.
"Your head will make a fine decoration for my room—so that every idiot who dares challenge the Six Arms will know exactly what happens."
Sakeer barely shifted.
"You're bubbling too much."
SHRINK—
In an instant—Sakeer vanished.
Before anyone could react, he had already closed the gap, moving at an extraordinary speed from dozens of meters away.
"So fast—!"
Shock flickered across every face.
This wasn't the movement of a Magic Caster.
This was something else entirely.
Zero's narrowed eyes sharpened. His instincts flared, and he hurriedly raised his fist.
Beside him, 'Thousand Kills' Malmvist and 'Space Slash' Peshurian reacted immediately, preparing to counter.
But the other three?
They stood there, momentarily stunned, caught off guard.
"Dark Wave."
Sakeer uttered the words, his voice low and cold.
BZZZZT—
Dark, cursed energy surged outward from his body.
Now that his Cursed Knight ability had reached Level 3, the radius of Dark Wave had expanded to five meters.
The invisible force pierced through their bodies, leaving them stiff, their movements frozen.
And in that moment—
Sakeer was already in the middle of them, his palm closing around an iron sword.
Against all six, he wasn't overconfident.
He knew—if this fight dragged on, things would get complicated.
This group wasn't weak.
If they scattered and regrouped, the battle could turn.
The key to victory?
Absolute dominance.
Crush them before they had a chance to retaliate.
"Fourfold Slash of Light!"
In the blink of an eye, four blades of lightflashed through the air.
Then—
Blood erupted.
The first to fall—
Zero.
Succulent.
Malmvist.
Edström.
The moment the attack landed, their bodies burst with deep, gushing wounds, blood spraying into the night sky.
But Sakeer wasn't done.
He twisted on his heel—
And kicked.
His foot struck Peshurian—the only one clad in full-body armor.
Sakeer had anticipated it.
If his cursed iron sword, already weakened and crumbling, had struck that solid armor directly—
It would have shattered on impact.
So, instead—
He used his foot.
BOOM!
The cursed energy exploded against Peshurian's chestplate, leaving a massive dent.
A scream tore from Peshurian's throat as his body was hurled backward, crashing through the mansion walls with a resounding boom.
At the same time—
Three more agonized screams rang out.
"AAAHHH!"
Succulent.
Malmvist.
Edström.
Their bodies lay paralyzed on the ground.
Blood pooled beneath them, their faces contorted in pain, their limbs trembling.
Their bodies were too frail—nothing compared to the durability of trolls.
THUD.
The ground shuddered as Zero staggered, snapping out of his daze.
Pain surged through his body, but it wasn't just that—
It was the breath of death looming over him.
His instincts, honed through years of battle, took over.
Move. Now!
He slammed his foot into the ground, forcing himself to retreat.
Even if he didn't understand what just happened, his body reacted first.
He barely managed to gain ten meters of distance before skidding to a halt.
His eyes—wide, disbelieving—locked onto Sakeer.
"How… is this possible?!"
His voice trembled, a mix of shock and horror.
"Who the hell are you?!"
His mind reeled.
The Six Arms…
Defeated! Instantly!
Succulent lay in his own blood, his face deathly pale.
His breath came in shallow gasps, his whole body shivering.
"I don't… I don't want to die… I don't want to die…!"
Terror consumed him.
The sensation of life slipping away, of warm blood seeping from his wounds, sent his mind spiraling into pure despair.
Nearby, Edström and Malmvist lay motionless, their gazes filled with the same hopelessness.
"Humans are so fragile."
Sakeer glanced down at them, his expression unreadable.
With a flick of his wrist, he discarded the shattered iron sword, letting it clatter against the ground.
Then—
He looked up.
His eyes pierced the night sky.
(End of Chapter)