It had been 5,000 years since Dusk began, and the world had changed beyond recognition. Humanity, while still clinging to life, had become a dwindling race. Monsters from the realms of fantasy—goblins, elves, dragons, orcs, dryads, demons, and mutated creatures—now roamed the earth. Humans were no longer the dominant species. They had become more like ants in the presence of greater forces—save for the Blessed Ones.
When the Gates of Dusk opened, a mysterious energy flooded the world. Some called it mana, others qi or divinity, but its true name didn't matter. This power should have been humanity's salvation. But, blinded by greed and divided by ambition, mankind failed to unite. Instead of thriving, they remained weak, scattered, and fragile.
Humanity's territories were split into two: the Blessland and the Wasteland. The Blessland was a sanctuary for the elite, a haven of advanced technology, towering skyscrapers, clean air, and comfort. The Wasteland, by contrast, was a forsaken realm, polluted and crawling with monsters. The buildings were decrepit, abandoned to time and ruin—except for one anomaly: a church.
The church stood untouched, its pristine walls free of cracks, its windows unbroken, as though the decay of the Wasteland refused to touch it. Inside, the floors gleamed, and the air was thick with silence. At the altar knelt a man—six feet tall, with deep, lustrous dark skin and a body built like a warrior's. Despite his wild, powerful presence, he wore pure white garments that gave him an air of holiness, a stark contrast to the harsh world outside.
He was deep in prayer, undisturbed by the passage of time. But the peace wouldn't last.
"See? Told you it's not just clean, but proper comfy and safe!" a slim man's voice echoed through the church as he led a group inside, pointing around with a smug grin.
"HAHAHA! You were right. Good job," said Isaac, a large man with a gun strapped to his side, grinning as he surveyed the surroundings.
"Thank you, Brother Isaac," the slim man said, eager to please.
While the men's conversation carried on, the praying man remained silent, seemingly unbothered by their intrusion.
"Boss, what should we do about that guy?" one of Isaac's goons asked, pointing toward the man at the altar.
Isaac's grin faded as he turned his gaze toward the kneeling figure. The man hadn't moved or acknowledged them, and this disregard grated on Isaac's nerves.
"We'll treat him well, of course," Isaac said, a cruel edge in his voice.
"You're right, boss," another goon chimed in with a smirk.
One of the goons, emboldened by Isaac's command, approached the man in white, ready to grab him. But just before he could lay a hand on him, the man finally spoke.
"You can stay here if you wish. Do whatever you like. But don't disturb my prayer of course, that is if you value your life."
His voice was calm, almost serene, yet the weight of his words sent a chill through the air. The goons froze, unsure of how to react to the quiet but unmistakable threat.
Isaac sneered, his irritation rising. "You think you can threaten us, priest? Do you even know who you're talking to?"
One of Isaac's men, eager to prove himself, stepped forward again, reaching out to touch the kneeling man's shirt. But before he could so much as graze the fabric, the goon found himself face down on the floor. The man in white had his foot planted firmly on the goon's head, while holding the goon's outstretched arm in a painful submission hold.
"I did try to warn you," the man in white said softly, before snapping the goon's arm with a sharp crack.
"Ahhh!" the goon screamed in agony before passing out.
The man in white looked up at Isaac, calm and composed. "So, are we done here?"
Isaac's face twisted in anger. "What are you waiting for? Get him!" he screamed at his remaining goons.
"Yes, boss!" the group echoed, charging toward the man in white.
The man sighed, rolling up his sleeves as they approached. "Let's try not to ruin these clothes. I rather like them."
The first goon swung a metal rod at him, but the man in white swiftly ducked, driving his elbow into the goon's stomach. As the attacker doubled over in pain, a swift kick to the side of the head knocked him out cold.
The second goon aimed a punch squarely at the man's face, but the man sidestepped effortlessly, leaving his foot out to trip the attacker. As the goon stumbled, the man in white delivered a precise blow to the back of his neck, knocking him unconscious.
Undeterred, the third and fourth goons rushed in together. The man in white blocked the third's wild left hook, grabbed him by the shirt, and swept his legs out from under him, slamming him to the ground. The fourth goon had little time to react before he was met with a powerful back kick, sending him sprawling to the floor.
The fifth and final goon, seeing his comrades taken down with ease, lunged forward with a spear thrust. But before he could strike, the man in white struck first, landing a sharp palm to his forehead, slamming the goon to the ground.
As the last of the goons lay motionless, Isaac smirked, unfazed by his men's defeat.
"Nice moves, priest. But the game's over now. Feel my power! Fireball!"
A massive ball of fire materialized in Isaac's hands, hurtling toward the man in white. Isaac grinned in satisfaction as the inferno engulfed the spot where the man knelt. Flames roared around the area, filling it with blistering heat. Isaac stood triumphant, convinced that no one could have survived such an attack.
"HAHAHA! No one messes with me!" Isaac declared, laughing in triumph, certain he had killed his opponent.
But his laughter quickly died when a shadow emerged from the blaze. It was the man in white—unharmed, stepping out of the flames with not a scratch on him. His clothes were still pristine, as if the fire had never touched him.
Isaac's eyes widened in genuine fear. "How?" he stammered, stumbling backward, his confidence shattered.
The man in white dusted off his shoulder, still calm and composed. "I must admit, I was surprised that someone like you could use magic. Though it was subpar, it wasn't half bad," he said, snapping his fingers. In an instant, the flames vanished, leaving no trace behind.
Isaac's blood ran cold. The man had just dispelled the fire with a mere gesture—without a chant, without effort.
"Now that we've taken care of that," the man in white continued, "let me give you a little parting gift for damaging my church. This, my dear friend, is a *real* fireball."
A fireball, as large as the man himself, formed before him. With a flick of his hand, it shot toward Isaac at blinding speed.
Isaac had no time to react. The fireball engulfed him, but instead of exploding like his own attack, the flames coiled around his body, searing him with agonizing precision. The fire did not burn away instantly; it tortured him, lingering as it did maximum damage. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the flames receded, leaving Isaac collapsed, charred, and broken.
The man in white surveyed the scene with a quiet satisfaction before turning his gaze toward the slim man who had brought Isaac and his gang. The slim man froze, terror written all over his face.
"Now, where do you think you're going?" the man in white said softly, his eyes locking onto the trembling figure. "I have some questions for you."
The slim man shuddered. "W-what do you want to know, sir?"
The man in white looked at him, unbothered by the fear. "It's been bothering me—this church is hidden, hard to find. So, how did weaklings like you manage to get here?"
The slim man stammered, struggling to form words. "Uh...uh..."
Before he could answer, a soft, melodic voice interrupted from the shadows. "Don't bully the poor man, Sir Oliver."
Oliver's expression remained impassive. "Oh, you know my name?"
The woman's voice was laced with amusement. "How could I not? Your name is known and feared: the Unkillable Killer, the Nightmare of Creatures, Humanity's Devil, the Key of Dusk. You are Sir Oliver."
She stepped into the light, revealing herself. A woman in her early thirties, her long, wavy black hair resembled the night sky. Her eyes, a captivating blend of green and hazel, shimmered with a radiant glow. She had a lean but athletic build, her well-proportioned figure hinting at both grace and strength. Her movements were regal and confident, giving her an aura of royalty, while her simple yet practical clothing spoke of someone prepared for action, not mere appearances. She exuded an angelic beauty that commanded attention.
Oliver regarded her with the same detached calm he'd shown to the slim man. "And to whom do I owe the pleasure?"
The woman smiled warmly, unbothered by his cold tone. "You flatter me, Sir Oliver. My name is Elara Hartford. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
Oliver remained indifferent. "So, what is it that you want, Lady Elara?"
She smiled knowingly. "I have a proposition I'd like to discuss with you."
"I see. And what happens if I refuse?" Oliver asked, still calm, though there was a subtle edge to his tone.
Elara's smile didn't falter. "Then I would have to apologize for the inconvenience."
With a clap of her hands, about a hundred men appeared, all armed with swords, spears, and other medieval weapons, surrounding the church. They moved with deadly precision, their uniforms sharp and intimidating.
Oliver sighed, looking at his now doomed clean clothes. "Looks like I might actually stain my shirt today," he muttered, preparing for battle.
The moment Elara's men closed in, Oliver's demeanor shifted. His calm and detached expression remained, but there was a sharpness in his eyes—a deadly focus. He rolled up his sleeves again, revealing his forearms, and sighed as if the task before him were a chore rather than a battle for survival.
The first wave of attackers charged, weapons raised. The air filled with the sound of metal clashing as the men bore down on Oliver. But before they could get within striking range, Oliver moved. His speed was almost imperceptible—a blur of white as he ducked under the first spear thrust. With one swift motion, he caught the shaft of the spear, yanking the attacker forward and delivering a brutal knee to the man's gut. The man crumpled to the floor, gasping for air.
Without missing a beat, Oliver pivoted, grabbing another sword-wielding attacker's wrist mid-swing. He twisted the man's arm with a sickening snap, causing the sword to clatter to the ground. With a casual, almost bored backhand, he knocked the man unconscious.
More men rushed in, weapons drawn. Oliver sidestepped a sword slash aimed at his head, grabbed the attacker by the neck, and slammed him into the ground with effortless strength. Another swung a massive axe at him, but Oliver ducked under the blade, grabbed the attacker by the waist, and hurled him into two others, knocking them to the ground like bowling pins.
One after another, Elara's men attacked, but Oliver moved with an otherworldly grace, each movement precise and efficient. His body flowed like water, dodging blows and countering with brutal strikes. A sword came slashing toward his chest, but Oliver stepped aside just as it was about to land. He grabbed the attacker's arm, twisted it behind his back, and shoved him into the next wave of men, causing chaos in their ranks.
A man with a spear tried to thrust at Oliver's side, but Oliver caught the spear mid-thrust, twisted it out of the attacker's grip, and spun it around in a single motion, using the blunt end to knock the man unconscious. Then, he hurled the spear like a javelin, striking another charging soldier in the chest, sending him sprawling backward.
Another group of five men charged him at once. Oliver smirked slightly, planting his feet. The first swung a mace at his head, but Oliver ducked and, with lightning speed, punched the man in the ribs, sending him flying back. Another came with a dagger, aiming for his kidneys, but Oliver twisted, catching the blade in his hand. With a flick of his wrist, he disarmed the man and swept his legs from under him, sending him crashing to the ground.
The next two men tried to flank him, but Oliver moved before they could coordinate. He ducked under one's sword swing and slammed an open palm into the man's chest, sending him hurtling backward. The other lunged at him with a spear, but Oliver sidestepped, grabbing the spear and yanking the attacker off balance. He flipped the man over his shoulder, slamming him into the ground with a resounding thud.
By now, the remaining men were starting to hesitate. They glanced at each other nervously, seeing the dozen or so bodies of their comrades strewn across the ground. Oliver, still untouched and calm, stood in the center of the chaos, his white garments immaculate despite the carnage around him.
Elara watched from the sidelines, her serene expression unchanged, though there was a glint of something—perhaps amusement—in her eyes.
The remaining men, emboldened by their numbers, let out a war cry and charged together, determined to overwhelm him with sheer force.
Oliver sighed again. "This is getting tiresome."
He crouched slightly, his muscles coiling like springs, and in an instant, he exploded into motion. He darted toward the closest attacker, dodging the incoming weapons with ease. He slammed a fist into one man's solar plexus, crumpling him like paper, and spun around to elbow another in the jaw. A man with a sword came at him, but Oliver grabbed the blade with his bare hand, twisted it free, and flung the sword away before delivering a devastating kick to the man's chest.
Then, with a fluid motion, Oliver leaped into the air, twisting his body as he kicked two attackers simultaneously, sending them flying backward. He landed gracefully, barely making a sound, and continued moving through the crowd like a specter of death, disarming and disabling the attackers with brutal efficiency.
Within minutes, the ground was littered with fallen men. Groans of pain filled the air as Elara's forces lay incapacitated, some unconscious, others clutching broken limbs. Not a single one remained standing.
Oliver stood at the center of the battlefield, breathing evenly as if the fight had cost him no effort at all. His clothes, still pristine, fluttered gently in the wind as he surveyed the aftermath. He turned to face Elara, who was still watching him calmly.
"Satisfied?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Elara smiled faintly, seemingly unfazed by the devastation of her forces. "Impressive, as expected from the Unkillable Killer," she said, her voice still as composed as before. "But this was just the beginning, Sir Oliver. We have much more to discuss."
Oliver shrugged, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the fight. "Next time, try something more interesting." He smirked slightly, before adding, "I'd prefer not to dirty my clothes again."
Elara's smile widened, though her eyes remained calm. "Oh, don't worry, Sir. The game has already ended... and I won."
A chill ran through Oliver as he noticed the large spell circle surrounding them, a pain he thought he had forgotten returning with a vengeance. The chilling voice from that day echoed in his mind: "The pact is sealed."
His soul had been branded once again, and an uncontrollable rage boiled within him. In an instant, he teleported to Elara, gripping her by the neck and pushing her against a pillar. He locked eyes with her, his gaze intense enough to frighten even the devil.
"What did you do?" he demanded, his voice cold and filled with lethal intent.
"Cough... cough. I bound my soul to yours," Elara replied, struggling for breath yet still composed.
"I see. Looks like I misunderstood you. So tell me, why shouldn't I kill you right here?" Oliver asked, his eyes still icy.
"B... Because l... like you, I c... can't d... die," she managed to say, her determination shining through her fear.
Oliver's rage finally subsided as he released her neck, allowing her a chance to breathe.
"Cough cough. Thank you," she gasped, regaining her composure.
"Don't thank me yet. Even though you can't be killed like me, I can show you pain beyond imagination. So let's hear your proposition, and I hope it's worth an eternity of suffering," he said, his demeanor still menacing.
"Yes, Sir Oliver," Elara replied calmly as she straightened her clothing.
"Speak," he urged impatiently.
"As I said before, I am Lady Elara Hartford, daughter of Marquis Lucian Hartford and Lady—"
"Get to the point," Oliver interrupted coldly.
"Okay, I would like to beseech you to help make humanity great again," she proposed, careful not to provoke his anger further.
"I see. So another power-hungry maniac. But tell me this: why would I accept your proposal?" he replied, killer intent radiating from him.
"Because you have nothing to lose," she explained.
"Hmm... explain," Oliver said, intrigued.
"There are three ways this can go down: one, I betray you—I'm mad, but not mad enough to run from you for eternity. Two, I don't achieve anything, and you can spend eternity laughing at me. Three, we achieve my dream. Do I need to explain further?" Elara said, anticipating his questions.
"That's true. I must admit, making fun of you for a century would be entertaining—watching your pride wither away over time," Oliver mused, still skeptical of her chances of success.
"So, do you accept my proposal?" Elara asked, struggling to hide her excitement.
"Hold your horses! I never said that. I still have one more question: why go through all this trouble to recruit me? This is a steep price you're paying for little old me," he replied, his anger beginning to fade.
"Simple. Because you saved me," Elara said, her eyes radiating resolve.
Oliver was taken aback by her sincerity, and something unexpected happened: the cold killer burst into laughter.
"HA! HA! HA! Oh my God, because I saved you? I can't breathe!" he guffawed, collapsing to the ground.
Elara's calm and collected facade crumbled, a deep flush of red spreading across her face from embarrassment at her own admission and Oliver's reaction. He continued laughing, clearly enjoying himself. Unlucky for Elara, Oliver had the lung capacity to laugh for hours on end, and he did just that.
"Haaa, thank you very much! I haven't had such a good laugh in ages. You really are something!" Oliver said, catching his breath. Just then, he noticed something that made him grin.
"Wait, are you blushing, Lady Elara? Where's the bold lady from before? Is she embarrassed?" he teased.
"So ungentlemanly!" Elara huffed, turning her face away from him.
Seeing her pout, Oliver seized the opportunity to tease her further. "Ungentlemanly? Since I'm so ungentlemanly, I guess you don't need my help anymore," he pretended to be offended.
"Who called you ungentlemanly?" Elara stammered, scrambling for words to fix the situation until she caught sight of Oliver's mischievous grin. "Meany!" she exclaimed, storming off.
Left behind, Oliver could no longer contain his laughter, collapsing onto the ground with delight