In a flash, the oppressive blackness that had ensnared the basement was ripped apart, ripped apart by a riot of dreadful red.
The color surged through the space like a living, malevolent force, flooding every surface with its deep, vermilion hue. Not only did the sight of blood seem to distort the air, but its overwhelming presence made it thick, oppressive, and downright terrifying.
My pressure pressed down on those unfortunate enough to face it, their senses drowning in the wave of terror. When they ventured to look into my eyes, fear clamped down on their hearts like a vise, stopping their thoughts and making them powerless.
This is the power [True Demon's Veins] combined with [Furioso], a devastating and cruel combination—a force of nature without grace.
A power meant to kill.
"W-What…?"
Only the leader, a cowardly individual who had fled behind his followers when the threat first materialized, survived.
His once confident demeanor had crumbled into a mask of sheer terror. His face was pale, drenched in cold sweat, and twisted with fear, the tremors in his hands betraying the depth of his panic.
But even his survival is deliberately planned by me.
Why did I kill all the grunts but not the boss?
Well, because of this.
[Mutilate]
With a swift motion, I swung my sword. It bent and curved almost unnaturally, slicing through the air, then struck down.
Swiss!
The heretic's legs were neatly and precisely chopped off in an instant, so clean that he was unaware of it until he fell off the blood-stained floor.
He cried out, "D-Demon!!!" with a trembling voice and a pounding heart. The word escaped him in a raw, desperate gasp, as if his very soul was trying to flee from the horror before him.
Demon?
Me?
Did this heretic just call me a demon? Who did he think I was?
"Hah, very hilarious."
[Mutilate]
Once more, the blood-stained, blackened sword was swung, this time aiming for the heretic hand.
Swiss!
He yelled, "No!" in a raw, desperate voice that tore through the atmosphere. His face contorted in pain, his eyes wide and bloodshot, as a bead of sweat dripped down his forehead.
Blood spurted from his wound, adding so much color to the already red floor that it obscured the black stone.
If this bleeding persisted, he would undoubtedly lose too much blood to survive.
That was if I allowed him to die.
I slowly stepped closer, and with every step closer, his face grew more and more fearful; at some point, he could not stand this looming threat anymore and was beginning to beg.
"Please don't kill me; I will do anything!" As he was begging, his tears rolled down his ugly face and merged with the bloody floor.
How naive did he think that I would let him die that easily?
"I won't let you die, yet."
I kneeled down and put my hand to his face, gazing into his eyes. Just as I thought, that was the eyes of a coward.
Dull, dumb, and stupid, without any light of high intelligence.
Pathetic.
Let's just end this quickly and go up.
I used my clean hand to reach into my shirt's pocket and pull out an emergency potion.
"Drink," I commanded, my voice sharp with authority.
Without waiting for a response, I seized his jaw, forcing his mouth open with a firm grip.
His teeth ground against each other in protest, but it didn't matter. His muscles tensed, but it was ineffective against my strength.
Using my free hand, I raised the potion vial, its contents swirling and dark, a viscous liquid that seemed to pulse with magical energy.
I tilted his head back, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat, and in one swift motion, I poured the liquid down, watching as it slid into his esophagus. The harshness of the potion made it difficult for him to swallow, and he choked as it flowed, but I persisted.
It had to go down, and it would. He must now live and be tortured in order for me to obtain information.
"Gack!" He coughed out as I reached the force placed upon his jaw. By now, the supper potion should have its effect and accelerate its natural regeneration.
His wound still bled, yes.
However, his ability to bleed would be outpaced by the rate of regeneration. The power of that potion was so strong that I had already seen the wound begin to close.
"You! Are you Roland—Roland the mutilator?!" After all of that, he finally recognized who I was.
But he called me Roland the mutilator. Such a cruel name, I merely mutilate my enemy to make them unable to retaliate, not because I like to.
"Careful with your tough." So, I yield.
I said that while glancing at him and giving off a little mana. However, that sum alone was enough to silence him. The man was swallowed by fear, unable to speak, completely silent.
Using violence to shut people down and now having to take the consequences yourself? How ironic.
But what did I expect? These are just weak grunts; the major force should be on the surface.
All I have to do now is go out and see if everything is okay.
But just as I was about to leave, something made me hesitate. The atmosphere thickened, and I noticed a change in the atmosphere. I could not identify it at first, but then I knew—something was not right.
A presence, subtle but unmistakable, had settled in the basement. I knew that feeling. I had encountered it many times before.
In an instant, my poise was gone, as though an unstoppable force had swept away the delicate barrier I had so carefully cultivated.
In its place, an inferno of raw emotion erupted within me, a blazing fire that seethed and churned at the core of my soul.
Every nerve seemed to pulse with heat and fury, igniting a fierce storm of anger and turmoil that I could no longer contain or control.
"Oliver!" I screamed out that name and changed up my blade, ready to obliterate that man.
The man responsible for this mess was here.
"Tsk, why are you here?" His voice was sharp with irritation, and as soon as he sensed my presence, his eyes flicked toward me with a mix of surprise and annoyance.
Without a second thought, he took a quick step back, his posture stiffening as if preparing for something, though his face remained unreadable.
[Penta Slash].
I took a deep, concentrated breath and felt the energy rush through my body. My muscles tensed, my grip tightening around the hilt of the blade.
In one swift, fluid motion, I swung the sword with all the hatred I could muster.
In that split second, time seemed to slow—then, as if on cue, I released a barrage of five lightning-fast slashes. Each strike blurred in mid-air, moving so rapidly that they almost seemed to overlap, leaving behind trails of shimmering energy.
If this were the Oliver I had known, then he ought to die.
But he was able to evade my strike.
"How?!"
"The god of demons race, Roland, they have given me strength, strong enough to defeat you."