Chapter 167: You Should Have Used Attack Magic

The moon had long vanished, and at some point, the sky had filled with thick clouds.

Muen felt moisture land on his face.

Was it raining?

He instinctively licked his lips—and his entire mouth filled with the nauseating taste of rusted iron.

Ah, right.

It wasn’t rain.

It wasn’t water, either.

It was blood.

...The blood of a woman about to die—because of him.

Muen stiffly lowered his gaze. That woman was collapsed on the ground, crimson blood pooling beneath her. Her body convulsed from pain, but she couldn’t even cry out.

Because her already shredded vocal cords had been completely ruined by her desperate, repeated calls earlier.

She likely couldn’t see anymore. Couldn’t hear, either.

And yet she was still doing her best to say something.

Muen carefully watched the movement of her lips and realized—she was saying:

“Run.”

Not “help.”

Not “save me.”

“Run.”

“...How unbelievably stupid.”

Muen suddenly laughed. His laughter made every bone in his body tremble. Every muscle twitch.

“We don’t even know each other’s names... and you’re telling me to run?

“You’re dying, and you’re still giving up your only chance to survive... just to tell me to run?

“Do you even know who I am?

“I said it loud enough—didn’t you hear?

“I’m the son of Duke Campbell!

“I’m a top student at Saint Maria Academy!

“I’m the personal disciple of Mentor Meladomir!

“And you... are telling me to run?!”

Muen raised his head and looked at the growing crowd of bloodshot eyes—eyes twisted with fear and frenzy. With chilling calm, he asked:

“Tell me. Isn’t it funny?”

Yes.

It was hilarious.

So hilarious—

That it made him—

Want to kill.

The pure white short blade appeared in his hand. Gold-trimmed etchings traced merciless lines in the darkness.

Muen’s form, riding the late autumn wind, moved in an instant—like a phantom—across the line that divided life from death.

At the same moment, Lorenzo bellowed like a madman, “Kill him! Kill him now! If we kill him, I’ll smuggle you all out of Beierland—I swear! Otherwise we’re all screwed!!”

Now, the desperation Muen had ignored was laid bare. It burst from the gangsters in full.

They gripped their weapons, charging the high-born young master with a deathwish in their eyes.

Clang!

Long blade met short. Sparks flew.

Through the glint of steel, Muen saw his own reflection—his eyes, just like the gangsters’, were blood red.

Yet in this moment, Muen felt a deep, eerie calm.

Like a still lake.

But when he looked down...

There was fire burning beneath that lake.

“Die!!”

Muen roared.

He swung the blade.

Slash.

Blood sprayed.

The Red Flame elite who’d first clashed with him stared blankly at his severed weapon—and severed arm.

There wasn’t even time to scream.

Muen crashed into his chest and drove the short blade deep into his heart.

The magitech armor beneath the man’s clothes glowed faint blue—designed to repel even military-grade spell bolts.

Yet it shattered in an instant.

Aura surged, wrapping around the blade. The once-pure weapon gleamed with a holy glow.

But within that sanctity—was pure, unrestrained violence.

Had Mentor Meladomir seen this scene, she would’ve clapped with joy, proud of her masterpiece.

This was the true purpose of her so-called holy blade.

Because someone like Muen was not meant to wield delicate holy swords.

A real beast—needed claws.

Right now, Muen had grown claws.

For the first time, he wielded the twin short blades in full—they moved like extensions of his arms, as natural as breath.

He tore through the man’s heart, kicked the body aside, and whirled both blades in a perfect, untainted arc—facing down the next wave of blades.

In that moment, even under siege from many, Muen did not fall behind.

In fact, as his techniques fused mid-fight, his dual blades grew sharper, faster—he began to turn the tide.

“Useless trash!”

Muen heard a roar.

In his peripheral vision, a figure crashed into the fray. Not especially tall—but heavy, like a mountain pressing down.

Lorenzo.

He gripped his sword and inhaled deeply.

An unnatural energy circled around him—Muen saw dry yellow leaves swirling at his feet, shredded to bits by the force.

That was—

“HAA!!”

Lorenzo let out a roar and unleashed all his aura.

Without hesitation, at peak Second Rank—amplified by magitech armor—he launched his strongest technique.

Martial Technique: Demon-Splitter!

The long blade fell—and shattered under its own force.

The stone ground exploded beneath him.

Invisible blades of force tore outward—like a monster’s claws sweeping across the battlefield, shredding everything in range.

Muen couldn’t dodge.

He could only watch—helpless—as the blast consumed him.

Boom!

The cobblestones exploded. A giant crater split the ground. Dust filled the air, blinding all sight.

Within the smoke, shattered limbs were tossed into the sky—mixed with bits of flesh that turned the stomach.

Lorenzo had not even tried to avoid friendly fire.

Brutal, yes—but what mattered was the result.

Watching those body parts fall, Lorenzo let out a twisted, satisfied smile.

He couldn’t even tell who was who anymore—but until now, no one had ever taken that technique head-on and survived.

“So in your eyes, human life really is that worthless?”

A voice came from within the dust.

Calm. Rich. Emotionless.

Lorenzo’s grin froze. His pupils dilated.

Impossible.

Just a pampered noble brat—barely Second Rank. How could he—

A breeze from the river blew through.

The dust cleared.

That figure appeared again.

His fine clothes were now rags—shredded like bandages draped over him. Gashes marred his waist and arms, ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) deep enough to show bone and organs.

Clearly fatal.

Yet... no blood flowed.

Instead—

Scarlet flames burned from the wounds.

Muen stood, as if he couldn’t feel the pain. His twin short blades—still pristine white—touched at the hilts.

A crackling electric alchemy field spread out, clearing the dust and debris. It also cut off the lingering aura of the Withering King.

“...Well then.”

Muen raised his eyes.

Those calm, lake-like eyes fell on Lorenzo—whose whole body had started to shake in fear again.

“Mr. Lorenzo,” he asked softly, like inquiring about the weather, “do you also not care about your own death?”

To Lorenzo, it sounded like the whisper of a demon.

His face spasmed violently. He screamed orders, flailing as he forced his terrified men to charge.

“Go! Get him!

Don’t be afraid—he’s just a pampered noble brat!

He must’ve used a rare potion or artifact—that stuff’s worn off by now!

Kill him! Now!

If he lives, it’s not just you—your families are all dead too!

You’ve got no way out!!”

The gangsters, trembling no less than their leader, exchanged glances—and then gritted their teeth and rushed forward.

But amid the chaos—Lorenzo quietly stepped back.

“...In that case...”

Muen lowered his gaze again—and crouched low.

Shadow Step.

His body vanished like a wraith and lunged into the crowd.

The difference in skill and weaponry could not be bridged.

Muen had been pinned down only because he was surrounded.

But Lorenzo’s earlier outburst had shattered the formation.

Now—like a tiger among wolves.

From one-against-many to one-on-one... one-on-two... one-on-three.

With Shadow Step’s mobility, Muen weaved through the battlefield, pulling the gangsters apart, forcing them to fight in isolated chunks—like frogs rushing into a boiling pot, one by one.

Blood sprayed.

Their magitech armor was useless.

Once the mana ran out, the armor was no tougher than cheap iron.

And when facing the absolute sharpness of blades personally enhanced by a Grand Archmage...

They might as well have been wearing paper.

Muen moved by instinct.

He slashed.

And slashed again.

And again.

He killed.

And killed.

And kept killing.

In the Black Book, his [Dagger Combat Technique] had long since reached LV10.

Now, the font had turned solid black.

Muen didn’t know what that meant.

But every movement felt ethereal. Unmatched.

Nothing could stop him.

“H-How... how is this possible? How is he this strong?!”

Lorenzo stared at Muen, who moved like a ghost through his troops, and felt his eyeballs nearly burst.

You call this a pampered noble brat?!

He kills better than I do!!

The way he struck vital points with surgical speed—there was no way he hadn’t killed hundreds before!

Now... Lorenzo regretted everything.

Maybe he shouldn’t have panicked and stabbed that woman.

Maybe having a hostage would’ve given him room to bargain.

Maybe if he’d just begged on his knees...

Maybe...

But there was no ‘maybe’.

He had underestimated the Duke’s son’s strength—

Just like Muen had underestimated the audacity of Lower City rats.

What was done—was done.

And not even gods could undo it.

“...It’s not over. I still have a trump card.”

Watching his men fall like wheat, Lorenzo’s face turned pale. He muttered to himself:

“Come on... come on, do it. I’ll pay double—no, triple!”

“Spirit of the far wind... Mother of Sleep... Sleep Curse.”

As Lorenzo’s whisper faded, Muen heard a distant incantation.

He suddenly remembered—there was a mage in Lorenzo’s group.

That unremarkable man in the back was chanting fast.

Muen prepared to dodge—but two thugs threw themselves at him, grabbing him by the legs.

The spell was going to hit.

No matter how skilled you were—if this landed, you’d become helpless.

The mage smirked, confident.

The powerful negative status spell, strong enough to put even apex monsters to sleep, burst forth in a green beam and shot toward Muen.

Splat.

It hit like water on glass.

It struck the outer edge of Muen’s alchemy field—and vanished.

Dead silence.

“...Oh,” Muen blinked. “I forgot the domain could do that.”

He shook his head with a chuckle.

After killing the two men grabbing him, he Shadow Stepped right in front of the mage.

Looking into the man’s stunned eyes, Muen said seriously:

“You should’ve used attack magic.”

And with that—he lopped off the mage’s head.