Chapter Sixty: Soul Parasite (First Update)

Bluff.

It was only upon truly clashing that the Glorious One realized the killer demon's weakness—or perhaps “weakness” wasn't quite the right word, but how to put it… The threat he felt was nothing close to what he had imagined, nothing that forced him into a desperate struggle for survival. The demon was strong, yes, but that strength was purely physical, lacking the overwhelming, reality-defying presence of the nameless horror from before, and missing the absolute, death-gripping dominance of the earlier mist assassin. The power he displayed always seemed a little thin, always left the impression that some essential quality was missing.

There was no sense of invincibility that came with the higher demons.

Though fighting was difficult, with two against one the battle was evenly matched.

“You sure have started talking a lot,” the young man taunted as he launched a fierce assault from the side, “Turns out you just don’t have the confidence to take us both at once. You’re trying to stall for time, hoping to split us up. But as you can see, your plan has failed, your weakness is exposed, and now, standing before you, is nothing but the fate of death!”

The killer demon gave no reply, focusing all his attention on defending against their attacks.

The swordsman of the Order was even stronger than he had anticipated, his battle skills honed to near-perfection with scarcely a flaw to exploit. And Amy Ulysses, the so-called “easy prey” among the Glorious Ones, was anything but soft. While perhaps not yet seasoned in experience, his swordsmanship was astonishingly refined, and he seemed, time and again, to strike at the demon’s most vulnerable points as if foreseeing his moves, throwing his rhythm into chaos.

Their combined assault was far more than the sum of its parts.

The trouble they brought him forced that evil will, which had controlled the Dark Guild for centuries, to feel, for the first time, a most unpleasant sense of impending defeat.

Yes, in terms of physical prowess alone, this body of the killer demon was near perfect. But the reason higher demons stood above lesser ones was not merely their strength—it was the innate power that arose within their chakras.

Take “Mistform,” for example.

True mistform not only allowed him to shroud himself in fog, but also served as a kind of immortality. If he could have devoured Number Twelve and completed the final ritual, he would have been able to dissolve any part of his body, even his entire form, into mist, avoiding all physical harm, or condense the vapor into flesh and appear unexpectedly, killing anyone in the mist with ghostly stealth.

But, unfortunately, Number Twelve had betrayed him.

He had failed to complete the final ritual.

So… should he run?

There were no top-tier opponents present, yet the higher demon, born of humanity’s darkest cunning, was nonetheless considering retreat. But just as the thought arose, he ruthlessly quashed it.

These two would not let him leave.

The wheel of hatred could not be stopped now; there was no room left for maneuver between them.

So…

The killer demon was a born murderer, but the soul driving him was not a true warrior. Even with the combat prowess inherited from generations of Dark Guild masters, his mind never sought to solve problems through battle alone.

He preferred cunning to force, trickery to open conflict.

As the fight ground to a stalemate, his disadvantages became more apparent. Despite his superior physique and better condition compared to these two battle-worn intruders, he was nevertheless being suppressed; the scales of victory were quietly slipping away from him.

This, he could not accept.

He had to find a way to change the situation.

The evil will schemed inwardly, but changing the tide was no simple matter. The generations of Dark Guild masters had been sly as serpents, masters of machination, but their knowledge of true combat was shallow. Their memories offered little help now.

Which meant…

He could only rely on the higher demon’s innate gifts?

He raised his brows—this killer demon was not a complete higher demon, and “Mistform” was useless now. But its other talent, “Parasitism,” which had accompanied it since birth, might serve as a trump card. Yet both the Glorious One and the Swordsman possessed spirits far stronger than ordinary people; the odds of forcibly taking them over were slim.

Would he need to use finesse?

Had his foes been naïve and greedy, he was confident he could use the “Serpent’s Wisdom” as bait, turning them into his puppets without a sound.

But against a Glorious One and a Swordsman from the Upper District, that would never work. It might even expose his true form.

He dared not take that gamble.

Rather than pin his hopes on surviving after his body was destroyed, it would be better to risk everything at the outset—try to parasitize the invaders’ spirits, and then slowly work from within, to be reborn through their bodies. Though their forms were not as convenient as a higher demon’s, both still had great potential and could bear his will to a considerable extent.

So be it.

The demon began to search for a suitable host.

Neither the Glorious One nor the Swordsman was an easy target. He’d never considered attacking both at once—that would be as foolish as a snake trying to swallow an elephant. With his current strength, he could only attempt to possess a single extraordinary being infused with the blood of order; anything more would be courting disaster.

So, even as he fought, he gauged the strength of their spirits on a soul-deep level.

And then—

He saw the flame.

The Swordsman’s will was clear and crystalline as glass, radiating a sacredness that brooked no intrusion. That flame burned so brightly, so fiercely, so awe-inspiringly that he was forced to keep his distance—the evil will knew at a glance she was the most troublesome kind: favored by the power of order, her will unyielding, indomitable. To try to seize her body would be harder than reaching the heavens.

On the other hand, Amy Ulysses’s will was far more fragile. His flame was dim, lacking resolve; without even probing deeper, the soul-playing demon could tell from the mere surface that this scion of the Glorious was lost upon his path in life. His will, while perhaps stronger than the average person’s and more deeply blessed by order than the Swordsman’s, was nonetheless the better choice for possession. The chances of success, and of potential, were far higher.

So—

You are the one!

Though prepared for the worst, the demon had no habit of resigning quietly.

In fact… his counterattack became all the more ruthless.

He acted, playing the role of a wild beast driven to desperation, prepared to die and take his enemies with him.

In human tales, the fall of the mighty is always legendary. For someone like him, the secret master at the pinnacle of the Dark Guild, to die ingloriously in a battle devoid of drama was unthinkable. Whether to die gloriously in a final stand, or to cunningly seek a reversal from the abyss, it was better to let his foes believe the former than suspect the latter. He would rather disguise himself as a warrior facing death with stoic resolve.

After all, it was only the sacrifice of a single body.

With this thought, the killer demon abandoned all defense, fighting like a wounded beast gone mad, launching attack after attack. For a time, the battle seemed to reach a deadlock.

Both the Swordsman of the Order and Amy could see the exhaustion in their white-haired, red-eyed foe. They knew this was his last frenzy. But having seized the advantage, neither was eager to rush to victory and risk being dragged down by a desperate final strike.

As time ticked by, the killer demon unexpectedly seized some initiative.

But beneath the surface, the balance of victory had not shifted. Extremes beget reversal; as the ancients said, a fire without fuel will inevitably burn out. His ferocious assault could not be sustained. Beneath his relentless charges, he was growing weaker with each passing moment.

For the Glorious One and the Swordsman, victory was just one step away. All they needed was a single chance—a chance to clinch the battle.

And now… the chance had come!

The brutal fight had finally drained the killer demon’s stamina. After one fierce lunge, the assassin, his energy spent, faltered and could not press the attack. His movement, which should have been fluid, froze for a crucial instant—perhaps only a fraction of a second, but in battle, that was all it took to decide life or death.

He was finished.

The young man, who had been harrying from the flank, struck true and severed the demon’s head. Scarlet blood erupted like a volcanic fountain, drenching both fighters before they could retreat.

It was a sorry sight.

But at least they were alive.

To escape, even to slay a higher demon was a feat anyone would be proud of. Yet there was no hint of joy on Amy’s face—only a solemnity that bordered on the grim. For just now, at the moment the demon’s head fell, a shadow of ominous blackness seeped from the severed head, turned to vapor, and plunged straight into his body.

Faintly, he even heard a nonhuman, mocking laugh.

What… was that?

A sense of unease gnawed at him.

His brows drew together, but before he could think further, the world spun violently.

His consciousness was swallowed by the deepest darkness.

The world lost its light.