Rise of the Faceless Demon

The rusted iron felt heavy. Rough. Smelling of old blood. Worn serrations covered its hilt surface, tearing the skin of Luka's palm on contact. He gripped it tight. Thick red fluid from his own wound seeped into the crevices of the killer metal.

An odd synchronization crawled up his right arm. This scrap did not demand a straight posture. This iron did not demand the grace of a royal throne heir. This slaughter tool demanded only one thing. Killing intent.

Ahead, the Black Knight adjusted his stance. His steel boots shifted the blood puddle. The obsidian armor plates locked a perpendicular position. His fire crown blazed, swallowing the light refraction from around the arena. Two glowing serrated swords pulled to the side of his body. A measured, regular sword angle. Rigid. Systematic. An execution position from the highest caste.

Luka spat into the pus puddle bottom. Fragments of his two molars discarded into the mud. Blood flowed, soaking his chin.

All this humiliation was Ulric's doing. His uncle tore his soul's foundation. Letting erosion devour his nobility. If the fate Ulric gave him was to die as a filthy beast in this sewer, Luka would accept it. He discarded the remaining force to stand straight. Letting his spine curve. His shoulders dropped. His knees bent in a ducking position. The posture of a street dog ready to bite its enemy's skull.

To hell with Royal Eisenhart techniques.

The Black Knight shot forward.

Obsidian plates pierced the red fog. The hot sword in the creature's right hand swung in a cross from above, cutting through the wind and bringing a roasting heat that dried the surrounding fluid.

Luka threw his body forward, diving to the mud bottom. Heat stung his back, scorching his shirt fabric. He kicked the puddle bottom hard, pushing his momentum toward the Knight's blind spot.

The creature's left sword followed, slashing horizontally and aiming for Luka's ducking neck.

Luka raised his rusted iron, blocking the hot blade's trajectory.

Clang.

Brutal vibrations tore his arm nerve tissues. His wrist bones screamed, enduring the attack's destructive force. Luka did not take the full impact. He twisted his rusted hilt's angle, letting the enemy's hot sword slip and slide down to strike the blood puddle bottom. The sound of steam exploded in a hiss.

Luka rotated his waist, exploiting a split-second gap. He slammed the end of his sword hilt hard into the side of the Black Knight's iron helm.

Hard. Deafening.

The creature did not falter. The armor's thickness absorbed the raw impact. The Black Knight raised his steel-plated knee, kicking the side of Luka's ribs dead center.

Luka's breath broke. His body pushed back two steps.

Without granting a pause, the Black Knight thrust his right sword straight toward Luka's solar plexus. A rigid thrust. Dead straight. Devoid of useless twisting motions.

Luka parried with his rusted sword body. Iron met iron. The Black Knight kept pressing forward. Forcing his hot sword tip closer to Luka's chest millimeter by millimeter. The stench of burning flesh rose as the sword's heat roasted Luka's chest skin from close range.

Defensive techniques would not save his life.

Luka kicked the blood puddle upward. Filthy mud splashed, covering the Black Knight's visor.

The creature remained unaffected. His sword thrust grew stronger.

Luka released the parry without warning. Sacrificing his own balance. His body fell sideways. The Black Knight's sword pierced empty space, missing Luka's armpit by mere centimeters.

Luka landed on his shoulder. His left hand scooped the filthy puddle bottom. His fingers gripped a half-shattered human skull chunk. He rose, resting on one knee. Lacking hesitation, he smashed the skull with all his might into the back of the Black Knight's knee joint. The exact same spot he had embedded the bone fragment earlier.

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

A blunt impact. Shattered skull fragments scattered.

The Black Knight's right leg bent by force. The chain on his neck clinked, clashing with the chest plate. The giant armor dropped. His balance collapsed.

Luka stood. The Sin of Wrath flooded his entire bloodstream. He gripped his iron scrap hilt with two hands. His eyes stared at the small gap between the neck guard and the Black Knight's helm. The gap where the restraining chain connected.

He swung the rusted iron. Devoid of grace. Lacking a circular sword swing. He plunged the weapon straight down. Like a slaughterhouse hammer breaking cow bones.

Crack.

Rusted iron tore the armor joint. Piercing hard into the darkness behind the helm.

The sound of tearing wet material rang loud. Luka pressed his sword hilt using the remaining strength in his arms. Ripping whatever existed behind the iron plate.

The Black Knight went silent. His posture froze.

The glowing swords in both his hands slipped. Striking the blood mud puddle. The hiss of steam filled the Slaughterhouse.

Thick black fluid spurted from the neck gap pierced by Luka's sword. The fluid smelled foul. Drenching Luka's face and arms. He ignored the disgust. He twisted his sword hilt until the neck bone crunched broken. Ruining the creature's neck axis.

The fire on the Black Knight's crown flickered. Dimmed. Died out.

Dense darkness blanketed the bone prison arena.

The dog chain on the Black Knight's neck cracked, then shattered into rusted dust fragments. The obsidian armor followed. Its thick plates faded. No corpse fell to the mud. The monster's entire physical form shattered into black smoke particles smelling of scorched metal.

Luka released his grip. His body staggered backward. His breaths gasped hard. Blood and mud covered his entire shirt.

The remaining black smoke of the Black Knight did not evaporate into the air. The smoke spun fast, rolling into a dense wind vortex. The vortex moved, striking Luka's chest, piercing his skin pores by force and burrowing into his heart chamber.

Luka's chest puffed out by force. His ribs crunched. A feral energy flow battered his entire nervous system. The void inside his soul cavity filled with pure brutality. The Sin of Wrath. The Black Knight's essence melted into his bloodstream. Replacing his ruined foundation with something far darker and hungrier.

His heart, previously beating weak from erosion, now pounded with a sledgehammer rhythm. Pumping heat to every cell of his body. His stiff arm muscles tightened. Luka looked up at the iron ceiling. His mouth opened.

A long scream tore from his throat. The sound of a feral beast ripping its shell.

The Slaughterhouse shook. The bone bars cracked in unison. The blood puddle beneath his feet sucked into the darkness.

Reality jolted.

The prison dimension shattered.

Luka opened his eyes.

Decaying wood. The scent of wet moss. Dim copper light from the clouded glass window. The clatter of dead Oesterian branches battered by the storm.

His body launched from the wooden cot. Striking the shack's floorboards hard. Dust flew.

His gut contracted wildly. Bile surged up his esophagus. Luka flipped his body position into a crawl and opened his jaw.

Thick black bile spewed from his mouth, striking the dusty floor. The foul stench of corpses filled the cramped room. Blood, chewed remains of the soldier's heart, and black fluid splattered between his fingers. His body purged the remaining erosion poison from his internal organs.

He coughed over and over. His chest heaved, desperate for clean air. The veins on his neck bulged, throbbing as they channeled new power.

Luka stared at his arms. The muscles, previously paralyzed and stiff, now filled to the brim. The agony from nerve damage vanished. A boiling heat rested beneath his skin. Physical strength. His soul's foundation had reignited. He felt his prey's heartbeat merge with his own.

High-heeled leather boots stepped forward, creaking on the wooden boards and stopping right in front of his filth-covered face. The hem of a charcoal-gray wool dress swept the dust. The scent of lilies suppressed the foul stench of his bile.

Rhea dropped to her knees. Her dress touched the floor without hesitation.

The woman reached out. Her pale skin channeled a warm temperature. Rhea's fingers brushed Luka's blonde hair, soaked in cold sweat, untangling the strands clinging to his forehead.

Those heavy gray eyes stared intently at Luka's face, lacking any shock at seeing the man's body vomit filthy black fluid. There was only a calm, locked lip line—the firmness of a mother who just watched her son crawl out of a grave.

"Welcome back," Rhea whispered. Her voice flowed smoothly, cutting through the Oesterian wind. "Resonant."

Luka steadied his roaring breath. His vision sharpened. He looked at the black blood dirtying his hands. Not noble blood. A slaughterer's blood.

He clenched his fist. His joints cracked, blending with the rhythm of the remaining bile dripping to the floor.

The preparation was complete. Death awaited his uncle.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!