Chapter 21: End of Act 1

I blinked as I stepped out of my dorm room, the sun shining through the early morning haze. It was Sunday, which meant no lectures, no class, just a day to myself. For the first time in what felt like ages, I could enjoy some peace. No philosophical discussions on slavery or philosophical debates with sentient fog. No pressure to impress anyone or worry about training my mind. I simply needed a break.

So, I decided to visit the academy's mall. I had heard a lot about it—probably because the place was bigger than some of the smaller cities in this world. I didn't have much to buy, but I figured it would be nice to walk around, clear my head.

The bustling crowds of students and faculty made the place feel alive. The air was filled with chatter, the sound of footsteps echoing on the polished floors, and the occasional shout of excitement from someone spotting something they liked in a shop. The whole place felt… vibrant, full of potential, a sharp contrast to the endless fog I had just escaped.

I found a bench in a quieter corner near a fountain and took a seat, sinking into the warm embrace of the sunlight. For a few minutes, I just let myself relax, my mind wandering between thoughts of the lecture, my next move, and the mysteries I had learned from the fog. It was peaceful. Too peaceful.

That's when I felt it.

A sudden pressure in the air, like the atmosphere had thickened around me. I didn't need to look up to know they were there. I could sense it. The sharp, calculating presence of those masked figures.

I could feel the familiar prickle on the back of my neck as I stood up from the bench and instinctively dropped into a defensive stance. There were five of them—three women, two men—each wearing those damn masks. The same group from before, the ones who had attacked me last time. They didn't look like they had any interest in talking, and their positions suggested they weren't here for a friendly chat either.

One of the women took a step forward, her gloved hands moving like she was preparing to strike. The others stayed behind her, maintaining that eerie silence. They were fast, calculated. I had barely recognized the movement before the first strike came at me, a swift kick aimed right at my ribs.

Instinct kicked in.

I twisted my body, avoiding the full brunt of the blow, but I could still feel the wind of it graze my side. Before I had a chance to react, I was already moving—pushing my body into a roll that had me on my feet just as quickly as I'd fallen. The speed of it was automatic, my training from both this world and whatever my past life was kicking in.

They weren't holding back. The others closed in almost immediately.

The second woman—shorter than the first but no less fast—lunged at me from my left. She didn't seem to have much weight behind her strikes, but the speed? That was another story.

I managed to dodge her fist, my reflexes a blur, but it wasn't just about dodging. I had to act fast. In one smooth motion, I caught her wrist mid-punch, using the momentum to spin her into the path of the third attacker—a man, who had been silently circling around me. His attack came right for my neck, but with the woman now in his way, he had no choice but to adjust his stance.

I pushed her back at him, my movements fluid, calculating. He stumbled backward, and I seized the opportunity. My right hand shot forward, landing a solid punch to his jaw. He staggered back, but he didn't fall. None of them did.

I backed up, putting a few paces between us. My chest was rising and falling steadily, but my mind was clear, calculating. The first man and the two women were still in motion, circling, waiting for the next move. They were precise. They were in sync. It felt like they had trained for this, like they were more than just skilled fighters. They were… coordinated.

It reminded me of my time in that strange place, fighting against the overwhelming forces. It was a different type of enemy, but it was still the same concept—survive, adapt, strike when the opportunity presents itself.

They weren't giving me that opportunity easily, though. The moment I shifted my weight to prepare for another move, the second man lunged at me from behind, his arm reaching for my throat. It was quick, almost too quick to counter. But I'd trained for this, both in my old life and here.

I dropped my weight, spinning into his grasp and slamming my elbow into his stomach. He grunted but kept his hold on me, refusing to let go.

I could feel my patience thinning. These weren't just random attackers—they had some kind of purpose. They weren't just here to fight for the sake of fighting. They were testing me, pushing me, seeing how far I could go.

I twisted, using his hold to slam him into the ground, and in that instant, I broke free. I landed a few paces away, my body coiled like a spring, ready for whatever came next.

"You don't learn, do you?" I muttered, half to myself, half to them.

The woman who had attacked first took a step back, her mask giving nothing away. But I could feel the tension in the air, the weight of their strategy. They were smart—too smart for my liking.

They weren't just going to let me get away this time.

And that's when I realized: I wasn't just fighting for my life. This time, I was fighting for answers.

"Come on, then," I whispered. "Show me what you've got."

I could feel my pulse quicken as I stood there, muscles coiled, every fiber of my being prepared for whatever came next. The mall had suddenly become a battleground, the echoes of my footfalls drowned out by the faint hum of tension hanging in the air. The group didn't move at first, as if testing the waters. But I knew better. They wouldn't waste time. They were waiting for me to make the first move.

I didn't give them the luxury.

The moment the thought crossed my mind, I closed the distance between us, charging forward with a speed that was almost reckless. The first woman, the one who had attacked me initially, reacted first. Her body language shifted in a heartbeat, her legs fluidly shifting into a low crouch, arms outstretched, ready to strike. She was fast—faster than I had anticipated. But I had the advantage of knowing how to predict the flow of battle.

I feigned a left jab, but I could feel her focus shift entirely to that fake attack. The moment her weight shifted, I pivoted, sliding to my right, just out of reach. With a grunt of exertion, I launched my foot into her side, catching her just above the ribs. She staggered but didn't go down, twisting in mid-air to recover before bringing her arm around in a sharp counter.

I blocked it, but barely. The force of her strike rattled my arm, and I had to take a step back to regain my balance. The moment I did, the second man lunged, this time with a flurry of attacks. His punches were erratic but strong, aiming for my face, my chest, any vulnerable part of my body he could reach.

I ducked, sidestepped, and blocked. I could feel my body reacting before my mind even fully processed what was happening. It was as though my body had learned to predict their moves instinctively, a reflex honed by countless hours of sparring and battle. But these were no ordinary opponents.

They didn't fight like anyone I'd ever faced before. They fought as one, as though they had known each other's movements for years, anticipating each strike before it even left the other's body. Every time I thought I had them cornered, another figure would slide into the fray, shifting the balance in their favor.

My head snapped to the side as one of the women, the one with the longest hair, came at me from an unexpected angle. Her speed was like lightning. I barely managed to catch her wrist in time, twisting it and using her momentum against her. She stumbled for a moment, but I didn't waste time. I pressed the advantage, aiming a knee toward her chest.

She blocked it, but the force pushed her back, creating a small opening.

I took it.

I moved toward the second man, who had already recovered from our earlier exchange. He was no longer trying to simply land hits. No, now it was clear—he was hunting for an opening, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. His eyes were locked on mine, calculating. Every movement of his body was deliberate, as though each step had been meticulously planned.

I respected that.

But respect didn't mean I was about to give him what he wanted.

I launched forward, feinting a strike toward his chest, before dropping low and sweeping my leg out. The moment I made contact, he was on the ground, the wind knocked out of him.

Before I could press my advantage, the third woman was already on me, her strike coming down fast like a hammer, her fist aimed at my face. I barely managed to twist to the side in time, but I felt the graze of her knuckles brush against my cheek, the heat of her punch still lingering.

Damn, she was quick.

But she wasn't fast enough.

I caught her next punch with my open palm, redirecting it with all the force I could muster. With a sharp twist, I spun her around, locking her arm behind her back in a hold that would leave her defenseless. I kept my weight low, making sure she couldn't break free, my chest heaving as I calculated my next move.

One of the men, the first one I had knocked down, was back on his feet and charging at me from the side. I could feel the ground shift beneath my feet as he gained on me.

I pushed off the woman I had in my hold and spun just in time to meet his charge head-on. My elbow collided with his chest, sending him flying backward, but I didn't stop there. I followed through with a roundhouse kick that sent him stumbling even further.

But as he staggered, one of the women recovered, launching herself into the air with a sharp, acrobatic kick aimed directly at my head.

I saw it coming, but the force was enough to knock me off balance, sending me crashing into one of the pillars that lined the edge of the mall. My body groaned as I impacted it, but I pushed myself up, refusing to stay down.

I wasn't done yet.

With a quick breath, I squared myself, adopting the stance I knew best: low, steady, and ready to react.

"Is that all you've got?" I called out, my voice low but filled with purpose.

They paused, assessing me—waiting for the next move.

They were fast, but I wasn't going to let them control the tempo. I was done reacting. It was time to strike.

I took the first step, moving toward them with deadly precision, my body a weapon.

This fight wasn't over.

The air seemed to grow colder as one of the masked males stepped forward, his eyes narrowing beneath the dark visor of his mask. Without a word, his posture shifted, and I could feel a sudden, unnatural chill creeping into my bones. I instinctively tensed, my body on high alert.

Then, without any physical motion, I felt it—an invisible force tearing at the very core of my being, a presence that sought to invade my soul, to twist and corrupt it from within. This was no ordinary attack. It was something deeper, something more sinister. Soul attacks.

It was an ability that directly targeted the soul and manipulated a person's biology at a fundamental level. The force was potent, gnawing at the edges of my consciousness, trying to pull me down into weakness, into submission.

But it didn't work.

My will flared, sharp and unyielding. The moment the attack touched me, I felt the impact, yes, but it couldn't breach the barrier I had erected around myself. My mind, my very essence, was sealed tight—fortified by a resolve that had been forged in countless battles, by experiences that had shown me the power of sheer determination. The moment that attack tried to twist my soul, I pushed back, forcing it to dissipate like mist in the wind.

The masked male's eyes widened, just a fraction. He clearly hadn't anticipated my resistance.

I could see his frustration, the subtle twitch in his posture as he recalibrated, but it was too late.

I wasn't going to give him a chance to try again.

With a swift motion, I closed the distance between us, stepping forward and weaving around his attempted defensive stance. His eyes flicked to the side, but it was already too late. My fist collided with his midsection, and I could feel the force of the blow push the air from his lungs. The impact sent him reeling, but I didn't let up.

I grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around, and before he could regain his balance, I drove my knee into his spine. His breath caught in his throat as he stumbled forward, completely thrown off his guard.

In that moment, I was already moving, shifting my weight as I planted my foot and followed through with a devastating uppercut, landing the punch right under his chin.

The masked man collapsed, his body limp for a brief moment as he crumpled to the ground, out of commission.

But I didn't stop there.

The remaining four of them—two women, one man—were still very much in the fight. The first woman recovered quickly, her mask flashing with sudden intensity as she lunged, attacking with a flurry of strikes aimed at my torso and head. But I was faster, dodging each one with ease, reading her movements before she even made them.

She missed.

I stepped inside her guard and struck first, a series of quick, calculated jabs that landed like precise daggers, each one hitting the pressure points along her ribs and abdomen. She gasped, stumbling back.

But the second woman was already there, closing in behind me with a low kick aimed at my legs.

I saw it coming just in time, twisting my body to avoid the kick and using her momentum against her, sending her crashing into the pillar beside me. The sharp crack of her back against the stone was enough to tell me she was dazed, but not out.

I wasn't letting up.

I was relentless now.

I turned, already facing the last two fighters. The male masked fighter, the one I hadn't been able to get to yet, was advancing with renewed focus, his expression hardening beneath the mask. His attacks were fast, calculated, designed to wear me down.

But that was exactly what he was going to do for me—help me wear him down.

I waited, my stance shifting as I observed his every movement. He was predictable, every motion a careful setup for an attack. But I was prepared. The moment he swung, I slipped inside the arc of his punch, landing a blow to his ribs and following through with an elbow to his jaw that rattled his head backward.

He staggered, and I immediately capitalized on the opening. My foot slammed into his chest, pushing him back with enough force to send him sprawling to the ground.

I turned just in time to see the first woman recovering, a wild look in her eyes as she pushed off the pillar and sprinted toward me. But I was already moving. She came at me with a fury, but I was faster, sweeping her legs out from under her with a swift leg sweep. She hit the ground hard, the air leaving her lungs with a gasp as she struggled to push herself back up.

But it was over.

The fight was winding down, and I hadn't taken more than a few glancing blows. My body was already adjusting, each movement precise, fluid, and intentional.

I looked down at the group of masked fighters, now sprawled out on the floor in various states of unconsciousness and pain.

"Not bad," I muttered, feeling the adrenaline begin to fade. "But you're going to need more than that to take me down."

There was no answer from them. They didn't get up.

I took a step back, scanning the area one last time, making sure none of them were planning to surprise me with some final trick. But no, the fight was finished. I had won.

I straightened up, cracking my neck with a satisfied grunt. My mind started to settle, the clarity of victory sinking in.

Another challenge down. And I had passed it with ease.

Time to move on.

The portal shimmered into existence, swirling in a haze of dark energy as the five masked individuals tumbled through it, their bodies skidding across cold stone floors. They quickly scrambled to their feet, finding themselves in a throne room that seemed untouched by time, its walls adorned with ancient tapestries depicting forgotten battles, mythical creatures, and long-lost kings. A chill filled the air, a heavy silence weighing on them as they raised their eyes to the throne.

Atop the throne sat a figure who could not be ignored, despite his obscurity. The figure was clad in dark, flowing robes, his hands resting on the cold, ornate arms of the chair. His appearance was both imposing and unsettling—his face entirely hidden beneath a helmet that was neither ornate nor simple. It had the appearance of a dark, faceless visage, with the distinct sense that his eyes would pierce through the very soul of anyone who dared meet them. What struck the five individuals most was not the featureless helmet, but the strange halo-like structure resting on top of his head. It wasn't a crown, but instead an intricate arrangement of blades, twisted into the shape of a halo, the sharp edges gleaming with an ominous energy that seemed to hum in the quiet.

The room felt suffocating, as though every corner of it was alive with malevolent presence, staring down at the five figures before the throne. They stood nervously, unsure of what to do, their failed mission weighing heavily on them. Each of them had believed they could overpower the one who stood before them, but now that they were in the presence of the Faceless King, a name whispered in fear, they understood the gravity of their mistake.

The Demon King of Salvation, or Faceless King, sat there in silence, observing them without a hint of movement. His demeanor was as cold as the stone beneath them, his silence stretching on as the tension in the room built to an unbearable degree.

One of the masked individuals stepped forward, their voice shaking with uncertainty as they stammered out an explanation of their failure. "W-we… we failed, Master… We were unable to—"

Before they could finish, the atmosphere shifted, growing heavier, darker. Without a word, the king raised a hand slightly, and as if summoned by his very will, five thick ropes descended from the ceiling, wrapping around each of their necks in a swift, unyielding motion.

The five individuals choked, struggling to grasp at the ropes, but there was no escape. The ropes tightened, pulling them into the air as their feet dangled above the stone floor, their bodies twitching as the life drained from them. Their frantic gasps for air became more desperate, but no one moved to stop it.

Not the Faceless King. Not the room itself.

The ropes held fast, pulling them higher with each desperate pull, until, one by one, their struggles ceased. Their bodies went limp, suspended in the air like marionettes, each figure hanging in front of the king as if offering themselves in sacrifice. The king's presence remained unwavering, his posture unchanged, and yet, the air around him crackled with an undeniable power, the kind that came from knowing the very essence of life and death.

The five masked individuals, once filled with such confidence and arrogance, were now nothing but husks—silent and lifeless, their final moments forgotten, as the Faceless King remained silent, unbothered, unmoved.

The room was eerily quiet once more.

There was no crowning victory, no triumphant monologue. The Faceless King said nothing. His gaze, though hidden, seemed to pierce the very souls of those who had dared cross him. His presence alone spoke volumes, and those who had survived the hellish ordeal before now understood why they were known as the Demon King of Salvation.

It was not because he granted salvation, but because he was the ultimate judge, the arbiter of fate for those who dared enter his domain.

And now, the throne room was silent once more, with nothing but the cold whispers of the past lingering in the air…

End of volume 1 | Act 1 |