I slowed my pace, letting the anticipation build as I steadied my grip on the blade.
And then I felt it—a second presence trailing behind the first. Not as overwhelming as the first aura, but still sharp enough to prick at the edge of my senses.
Then the two figures burst into view.
The first was tall, draped in a tattered cloak that dragged along the ground, each step slow and deliberate. He leaned on a crooked staff made of something dark and gnarled, like twisted bone fused with ashwood.
Behind him came a smaller figure, also cloaked, though his movements were sharper—quicker. His build reminded me of Thok: wiry, agile, probably fast on his feet.
The smaller one stopped first, eyeing me warily. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice tight, uncertain.
My eyes were on the taller one—the one who mattered.
As I focused, the system responded with a flash of information across my vision:
Marcus | Elder Shaman | Drugar’s Chosen | Level 35
So this was Marcus—the one Ezekiel had shouted for, the one who never came.
I studied him, noting the slow but deliberate way he walked, like a man who didn’t need to rush for anyone. His presence wasn’t loud. It was imposing—a kind of quiet menace that made the air feel stale, like everything around him was just starting to rot.
From the subtle shift in his expression, I could tell he was doing the same—analyzing me with whatever version of the skill he had.
His voice came next. Low. Even. Not angry—just curious, and that made it worse.
"Tell me," Marcus said, stopping beside the younger one. "Are you the one who destroyed the graveyard?"
I grinned, tilting my head slightly, my fingers tightening around Gravefang."What do you think?" I said, my voice low but edged with amusement.
"Damn you—how dare you speak to the elder like that!" the smaller one snapped, his voice cracking with anger and fear all at once. He raised his staff, his hands trembling as he started to draw power into it.
He never got the chance.
I moved before the glow in his staff could even form. My free hand came up, palm open, and I willed the skill into existence. [Inferno Lance] bloomed in my palm like a miniature sun, heat rippling off my skin as the condensed flame elongated into a spear of burning light.
I released it without hesitation.
The lance streaked across the chamber in a blur, a sharp hiss cutting through the silence before it slammed into the smaller goblin’s chest with a heavy thud. The impact drove him back so hard he cracked against the cave wall, the explosion of heat leaving a charred crater behind.
He didn’t even scream. He just crumpled, smoking where he fell.
A soft chime flickered across my vision.
[You have slain a Chosen]
I blinked once, surprised. So the little one had been a chosen too.
A slow smile spread across my face. "Great," I muttered under my breath. Follow current ɴᴏᴠᴇʟs on novel※fire.net
More experience. More proof they weren’t untouchable.
I lifted my gaze back to Marcus, my grip tightening on the blade, my heart pounding—not from fear, but from the thrill beginning to coil inside me.
Now it was just me and the elder named Marcus.
Marcus turned slowly toward the fallen goblin, his expression flickering with something close to disbelief. He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t expected me to kill one of his own so quickly. So cleanly.
But disbelief didn’t last long.
His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as the temperature around us seemed to shift—not hotter, not colder—just... wrong.
His aura snapped outward like a whip of foul wind, thick and heavy, and the very air began to sour.
"Damned goblin," he spat, his voice carrying a weight that seemed older than his years.
He raised his crooked staff, and immediately, a strange flame ignited at its tip—not red, not blue, but a swirling black fire that looked like it was devouring the light around it. It didn’t flicker. It ate.
At the exact moment, I launched another [Inferno Lance].
But even before the two spells could collide, my [Danger Sense] went berserk.
My instincts screamed at me—don’t trade hits.
I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t even think.
I activated [Phase Walker]
Space folded—and in the next blink, I was no longer where his spell had been aimed.
I was right in front of him.
His eyes widened in raw panic the moment he realized what I’d done. He tried to react, jerking his staff up, and instantly, a shield of dark energy flared between us—crackling like obsidian glass trying to hold back a hurricane.
But, Gravefang slammed into the shield with all the force I could muster, void energy howling along its edge.
The shield shattered the moment it fully formed.
I brought Gravefang down, empowered by [Rift Annihilation], and the void-infused slash tore through the barrier like paper—no resistance, no delay. The strike didn’t stop there.
Straight through Marcus’s neck.
For a heartbeat, there was only silence.
The shaman stood frozen, as if the rest of his body hadn’t caught up to what had just happened. His eyes locked on mine, wide, wild, filled with disbelief and something deeper beneath it—betrayal, maybe.
His breath hitched in a wet rasp. He tried to speak, but only a gurgle came out. No spell. No curse. Just the sound of a dying man realizing he’d lost.
Then his body swayed.
His head slipped free of his shoulders a moment later, landing with a dull, final thud on the stone floor.
The rest of him collapsed soon after, limbs folding like a broken marionette, the staff clattering beside him.
And just like that, the Elder Shaman of the clan—Drugar’s chosen—was dead.
No graveyard to bring him back.