Kael stood still, staring coldly at the young man writhing in pain before him, a frigid smile curling on his lips. Inside, he was burning with joy. He had succeeded—despite everything, he had succeeded.
In truth, when Kael dove into the memories of the guard whose bloodline he had stolen, he realized something unexpected: the guard hadn't been the true source of that graceful technique. The guard had been strong, a skilled fighter, but ultimately, he was merely a third-stage warrior. Kael's frail, battered body couldn't replicate everything he had witnessed from him. Yet amid those memories, Kael stumbled upon something else… someone else.
An old man, completely white-haired, standing tall with an aura of absolute authority and strength—despite not possessing a single bloodline.
He was known as The Silent Dancer.
A man who fought without sound, without hesitation, effortlessly turning his enemies' attacks into their own destruction. Kael had seen flashes of his battles, blurry and incomplete, but their impression was carved deep into Kael's mind.
Just now, Kael had mimicked one of the Silent Dancer's movements.
He wasn't even sure how he did it—but he did it.
And for the first time in a long while, a deep sense of pride welled up in his heart.
It had been a beautiful move—calm, elegant… deadly.
What surprised him even more was that when he sidestepped the attack, he barely felt the same agony from his broken ribs.
For a fleeting moment, he even thought they might have healed.
"The black blood…" the thought echoed inside him. His wounds hadn't healed so quickly after escaping the tunnel before. Back then, the Shadow Bloodline was still consuming him, but now… something different was happening. Maybe it was because of the black blood.
Meanwhile, the two remaining youths, frozen between fear and rage, suddenly snapped—and charged at him without thinking.
Kael planted his feet firmly and readied himself.
"Shadow Blood… your brilliant idea won't save me now. Do you know anything about the black blood?" he whispered into his mind.
The attacks arrived—Kael dodged as best he could, but they were leagues faster than him.
The speed bloodline of the Kaldras family surged through their veins.
He was taking hit after hit, his weak counters barely grazing them, while they dodged with wary fear.
"I don't know… it's strange… I didn't absorb it like the other bloodlines," the shadow's voice responded, cryptic.
As Kael lost himself in desperate thought, a brutal blow slammed into his side, followed by another from the opposite direction.
He staggered back, pain flaring wildly through his battered body, but his eyes—his eyes remained lit with an unyielding fire.
He had to keep fighting, no matter what.
"I'll kill you, you bastard!" one of the youths screamed.
Kael smiled, blood staining his teeth.
"Think… Think… You can't fight them both…"
His mind raced like a storm. He shifted his gaze between the two frenzied attackers—then glanced at their fallen comrade.
His smile twisted into something far more sinister.
A punch smashed into his face, blood exploding from his mouth, another kick hurled him toward the unconscious boy lying on the ground… exactly where Kael had intended.
Rolling through the dirt, Kael dusted off his torn clothes, still grinning like a madman.
"Well, my lovely friends," he mocked, "it seems our little game is reaching its climax."
"Nothing's over until you're dead, scum!" one of them roared.
But Kael simply crouched down slowly over their fallen companion, gripping the boy's fingers one by one—and snapping them.
A bloodcurdling scream tore through the training ground.
The two standing froze in place, their faces pale.
"Don't move," Kael said, voice ice-cold.
"Or your little friend here might not survive long."
Kael seized the boy's neck with one hand, continuing to cruelly break his fingers with the other.
"Stop! Where's your dignity?!" one of them shouted in rage.
Kael let out a wild, hysterical laugh.
"Dignity? You talk to me about dignity? You three ganging up on a first-stage brat? Hilarious!"
One of the boys seemed calmer than the other—and Kael didn't miss it.
He stared him down, then, without warning, broke another finger.
"You don't care that much, do you?" Kael sneered. "But you—you're his brother, aren't you? Heh."
Kael grabbed the boy's limp hand, moving it toward them like a broken puppet.
"Alright, you—the other one—come closer. Stand next to your little buddy, Mousan."
The boy hesitated, trembling, but under Kael's deathly gaze, he obeyed.
"Good… now," Kael said with a wicked grin, "strip."
The boy's eyes widened in horror—but shaking all over, he removed his clothes until he was left in his undergarments, breathing heavily, humiliation dripping from his every movement.
Kael's grin grew even darker.
"You," he pointed to the brother, "stand behind him. Don't let him run."
"And you, Mousan…" his voice turned to iron, "hit him. With all you have."
Mousan froze, terror nearly paralyzing him. He couldn't even lift his head.
"Mousan…" Kael's voice grew colder as he snapped two more fingers at once.
"Now."
The brother screamed from behind, "Hit him already!"
Mousan, trembling uncontrollably, finally threw a weak punch at the half-naked boy's gut. It barely connected.
"Harder, Mousan!" Kael barked.
Another wretched cry ripped through the still air.
Then, burning with suppressed rage, the brother leapt forward, grabbing the wounded boy—and delivered a savage blow right where Kael had indicated.
The injured youth stumbled back, gasping.
"What the hell are you doing?!" he cried.
But there was no answer. Another punch landed. Then another.
The scene quickly devolved into an absurd brawl, the two friends now beating each other senseless.
Mousan staggered away, bolting back with wild fear in his eyes.
Kael stood apart, laughing madly as he watched them.
"Look at them…" he whispered, his breath frosty.
"Your friends are tearing each other apart… and you?"
His gaze dropped to the unconscious boy at his feet—his drool pooling on the dirt, eyes void of light, swallowed by endless pain.