Muria stood silently in the middle of the street, his small form radiating an ominous aura. Black mist swirled around him, and crimson flames flickered at his feet. The very air seemed heavy, oppressive, as if it had been thickened by his mere presence.
Pedestrians avoided him like the plague, veering off course or hurriedly retreating into nearby alleys. Though they dared not look directly at him, their palpable fear was evident. Muria knew why. He didn't even need to glance at his reflection to understand how he appeared to others—like a demon child, an unholy force ready to wreak havoc at any moment.
Yet, contrary to his fearsome appearance, Muria was calm. This transformation, this release of power, was not born of his own will but triggered by an external force.
This wasn't the first time Muria had experienced such an uncontrollable surge in power. The sensation was all too familiar.
Before today, the only thing that could push his inner power into such a frenzied state was a king's blood crystal. Now, however, something new had surfaced—something equally potent.
Muria raised his head, his golden eyes narrowing as they fixated on the rolling black mist that loomed over the city, swallowing everything in its path. That mist... it was the source of his agitation.
The black mist stretched endlessly, consuming the horizon like a devouring tide. And yet, to Muria, it resembled not an ordinary danger, but a colossal king's blood crystal, exuding an irresistible allure.
The power within him roared in response, straining to consume the source of the mist. The message was clear: Devour it. Assimilate it. Complete yourself.
"I see…" Muria murmured, clenching his fists. His expression betrayed no fear, only understanding.
For some time, Muria had felt a gnawing emptiness, a sense that his power—despite its strength—was incomplete. He had suspected there was something inherently flawed about it.
Now, standing in the shadow of the black mist, he knew. The energy fueling the mist resonated with his own, calling to him, tempting him with promises of wholeness. If he could consume the entity at the heart of this mist, he would transcend his current state, achieving a power far beyond his own limitations.
"Still…" Muria muttered, staring at the ominous phenomenon before him, "I'm not suicidal."
Despite the overwhelming urge to confront the mist, Muria remained coldly rational. Whatever creature was at the core of this catastrophe, its power far eclipsed his own. Approaching it now would be tantamount to suicide.
And yet, others weren't afforded the same clarity.
The city's defenses were mobilizing. Soldiers lined the battlements and unleashed a torrent of magical projectiles into the advancing mist. Beams of light, blazing arrows, and enchanted javelins rained down upon it.
At first, the assault appeared to disrupt the mist, creating ripples and gaps. But the reprieve was fleeting. The mist quickly reformed, swallowing the projectiles without hesitation or harm.
To the soldiers' horror, their attacks only seemed to provoke the mist further.
It surged forward with terrifying speed, enveloping the city in its suffocating grasp. Muria watched with cold detachment as the mist consumed everything, a flood of shadow and death.
From the depths of the mist emerged figures—horrific shapes of shriveled flesh and glowing red eyes. These were no ordinary creatures; they were the undead, beings forged from the lives stolen by the mist.
The undead were relentless, targeting anyone who still clung to life. The weak fell first—ordinary citizens drained of their vitality in seconds, their corpses reanimated into the lowest tier of undead soldiers.
Even those who had undergone initial awakenings—warriors of considerable strength—were hard-pressed to survive.
As chaos spread throughout the city, Muria found himself at the center of an unexpected storm.
When the black mist finally reached him, it struck like a wave, latching onto him with an almost sentient force. The mist sought to devour his life force, to reduce him to yet another of its soulless thralls.
But Muria's inherent power, the force he had wielded since birth, flared to life. A shield of black and crimson fire erupted around him, repelling the mist's parasitic tendrils.
The mist recoiled in agitation, and the undead—creatures driven by primal hunger—halted in their tracks, retreating slightly.
Muria stood unharmed, but he knew this wasn't over. He could feel the presence that controlled the mist.
Then, the voice came.
"Well, well, what do we have here? A… descendent of the Yama Kings?"
The voice echoed through the air, tinged with malevolent glee. It was a voice that promised suffering.
An overwhelming chill followed, the ground frosting over in seconds. The air itself seemed to solidify under the oppressive force of the speaker's arrival.
Muria raised his gaze, his golden eyes locking onto a massive, amorphous figure emerging from the mist.
It was a ghostly giant, its body a writhing mass of black vapor. Blood-red eyes burned like twin suns in its formless face, their gaze fixed on Muria with greedy anticipation.
"What a pleasant surprise!" the entity hissed, its voice a grotesque symphony of malice. "To find a Yama scion in this backwater… truly, the gods must favor me today."
It paused, as though savoring the moment.
"Once I devour you, I'll gain the power I need to rise again. Then I'll consume this pathetic city and rebuild my dominion!"
"Ah," Muria said flatly, his gaze unwavering. "So you're just a stray dog, then? A beaten mongrel scrounging for scraps in the hinterlands?"
The entity froze, stunned by the audacity of Muria's words. Then it erupted in a fit of rage.
"INSOLENT WHELP!" it roared, its voice shaking the earth. "You'll regret those words when I—"
The creature's tirade was cut short by an explosion of silver light.
"Which dog gave you the courage to talk like that?"
The booming voice came from behind Muria, carrying with it a palpable weight of authority and fury.
The towering figure of his teacher, the iron-skinned giant, stepped forward. His silver-gray body glowed faintly, veins of molten energy pulsing beneath his skin.
Without hesitation, the giant swung his massive fist, striking the entity's outstretched claw.
The impact was cataclysmic. The ghostly giant's claw shattered into vapor, the shockwave tearing through its body like a thunderclap.
"Stay back, kid," the giant grumbled, glancing at Muria. "I'll deal with this one."
"Don't let it get away," Muria replied, retreating to a safe distance.
Though he obeyed, Muria's golden eyes never left the battlefield. Deep down, he doubted his teacher could destroy the entity outright. It was too elusive, too ethereal.
As the giant charged forward, Muria's attention was drawn elsewhere.
From the mist, a new wave of undead was emerging—larger, more dangerous than the last. Among them, one particularly monstrous figure barreled toward him, a massive blade clutched in its decaying hands.
Muria cracked his knuckles.
"Fine," he muttered. "Let's see what you've got."
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