Chapter 1507: Murder
In a lavish, meticulously decorated chamber that looked more like a grand hotel suite than an ordinary room, a man in his forties slowly opened his eyes. The brightness of his smile rivaled the blazing sun itself, radiating a light that seemed to fill every corner of the room. "Ha-ha! I did it!! I finally did it!!"
The middle-aged man did not stop at that victorious shout. With the unrestrained joy of someone who had just achieved the impossible, he leapt to his feet and began bouncing around the chamber, laughing like an innocent child of seven who had just received his first toy.
His exuberance filled the place with an energy that even the golden chandeliers seemed to echo. His skin carried a warm yellowish hue, his face bare of even a single strand of hair, yet his head was crowned with a flowing mane of long, jet-black hair that tumbled all the way down to his lower back like a waterfall of midnight silk. Though wide robes draped over him, they could not conceal the tightly packed cords of muscle beneath, each line of his physique exuding tremendous power, as if every fiber of his being had been forged in fire and tempered by hardship.
There was no doubt—this man’s body was the vessel of overwhelming strength. "Master, has the technique already been released in the shops?" came a respectful yet deep voice from his side.
Kneeling beside him was a colossal figure, nearly five full meters in height. He wore a heavy helmet crowned with two asymmetrical horns that twisted upward, jagged like weapons in themselves. A gargantuan sword, wide as a door and longer than a carriage, was strapped firmly to his back.
Everything about him—the savage frame, the battle-worn armor, the deliberate humility in his posture—marked him as something other than human. He was of a warrior race, bred for combat, and from the tone of his voice and the humility of his words, it was evident that he was bound as a servant.
"Hmm? No, no, the technique hasn’t appeared in the Soul Society’s shops yet," the muscular man answered with repeated waves of his hand, dismissing the concern as though it were a trivial matter. "The fairy said their reviewers discovered properties in the technique they had never anticipated. They need another five days to complete their study. They even claim its worth is immeasurable, that its price cannot be estimated at all!!"
His eyes gleamed as he clapped his hands together with thunderous joy. "At last, Qashqai! At last we will be wealthy beyond imagining! My name shall echo across the twin worlds, exactly as I dreamed! My revolutionary art shall be used by millions!!"
"..." The towering servant, Qashqai, rubbed his head with a gauntleted hand, his horns tilting slightly as he moved. "Then why are you so elated, Master? They have been stalling for nearly a month now. Each time they promise, yet each time they delay."
"The fairy informed me that I have already received preliminary approval," the man replied with eyes alight like molten gold. He punched his fist into his open palm, the crack of bone and muscle echoing like a drumbeat of certainty.
"These last five days are only to finalize the value! Just five more days, and the world will see!!" His chest rose and fell heavily as he continued, voice lowering into something almost solemn.
"...I have been shackled at the threshold of one million core units for countless ages. I refused to cross into the realm of a Royal Soul Master, restrained my own ambition, denied myself the glory of advancement—all for this. All so I could study, test, and forge the perfect absorption technique. Millions of years of endless trials, of bitter failures, of sacrifice beyond what anyone could comprehend... After enduring all that, will five more days truly kill me? No. Five days is nothing."
"...Master," Qashqai spoke again, his voice slower now, edged with unease. "Do you believe that entrusting such a technique to the Soul Society is wise? The Dreamer Galaxy, Morpheus, survives and thrives on the power of soul force itself. If they perceive this creation of yours as a threat to their dominion... what do you think they might do?"
"Hm? Bah! That is foolishness," the muscular man scoffed, waving dismissively with the confidence of one who had faced down storms before. "The Soul Society has always been neutral, always standing apart from politics and bloodshed. Even in the days of the black markets, when shady dealings could be found within their very halls, their overseers remained impartial. And now, under the leadership of their new master—Lord Morval—the Society has become cleaner, more orderly, more respected than ever before." His words carried a conviction that could have crushed doubt like dry leaves. Yet after a moment’s pause, a sly smile crept across his rugged face.
"Still... now that I think about it, they might indeed attempt to purchase the technique outright, to hide it from the world, or even force me to place it into some grand auction for the elite. But no, no! Hehe... I shall not yield to that path. I will demand its release into the shops for everyone to use. I will insist it be sold at a lowered price so that even the common and the weak can afford it. This technique shall forge a new road, it will become the cornerstone of an era yet to dawn. And that era shall bear my name—Arkalon!!"
*Knock* *Knock*
The sound echoed through the chamber, sharp and deliberate. "Hmm?" Arkalon’s thick, leathery brows knit together, his expression darkening as he turned his head toward the grand wooden door. "Who dares disturb me at such a moment? Who’s there?"
"We bear a package from the Soul Society," came the muffled answer from beyond the door. "A package?"
Arkalon’s expression shifted to astonishment, his mouth curling into both curiosity and suspicion. "How in the stars did the Soul Society learn of my whereabouts?"
Slash!
Qashqai shot to his feet, the weight of his massive sword singing through the air as he drew it. His voice boomed like thunder, filled with desperation and loyalty, "Master! Flee! Go through the window at once before it’s too late!"
Arkalon, however, did not share his panic. He raised a hand calmly, lips curving into a strange half-smile. "Calm yourself, Qashqai. Perhaps this is nothing more than a contract. Do not forget—this is still a grand technique we are talking about." With steady steps, he moved toward the door, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the polished floor, and swung it open with a smile meant to welcome fortune.
On the threshold stood six strangers. Their appearances clashed violently—heights, builds, even races were all different. Each wore gaudy, ostentatious garments, colors so loud they almost hurt to look at—garments in blazing yellows, piercing reds, and bizarre mismatched designs. Yet despite their jarring diversity, there were two things that tied them together: the strange, ungraspable auras cloaking their bodies, and those expressions... expressions of hollow boredom, as though their souls were numbed to existence itself.
Arkalon’s sharp gaze swept across them, analyzing, weighing, before finally resting on the one in the middle: a short man, his posture lazy, his mouth chewing idly on a sliver of wood that clicked between his teeth with every motion. Slowly, Arkalon asked, his voice tinged with suspicion, "...So, what package has supposedly been sent to me? I see no delivery in your hands."
"How can you not?" The short man’s lips curled into a mocking grin, and a dry chuckle escaped his throat. Then, raising his fist to the level of his cheek, he declared, "It’s right here."
Confusion washed over Arkalon’s features. "What? What are you—"
THUD!
The man’s fist crashed straight into Arkalon’s nose. Bone cracked, blood burst, and the mighty man staggered back, stunned by the unexpected assault.
"You dare!!" Qashqai bellowed, his voice shaking the walls as he swung his colossal sword, the sheer force of it cleaving half the ceiling apart in one mighty arc. "Haaaaa—gghhh!!"
But his cry was cut short. His body froze mid-motion, not by choice but by force unseen.
Pfft! A spray of blood burst from his lips. Qashqai’s eyes darted downward, horror dawning. Five cold blades had pierced clean through his body from both front and back, driven by the very figures who had stood idly at the door just moments ago.
Their faces remained unchanged. Bored, lifeless, as if the act of murder was no different from sweeping dust from a floor. No thrill, no malice, no joy—just mechanical duty. Even as Qashqai’s towering body trembled and his soul writhed in its final moments, they looked no more interested than clerks signing papers.
Baaaf!
A sudden impact hurled Qashqai’s huge frame like a ragdoll into the wall. The five blades tore free, pinning his four limbs wide apart like a grotesque display, while the final strike speared straight through his skull.
Bloop!
From the wound rose a trembling bubble, within it a radiant white sphere—his very soul, ripped from its vessel.
"Qashqai!!" Arkalon roared in anguish, momentarily forgetting the agony of his broken teeth. This was not merely a servant—this was the companion who had stood by his side for hundreds of thousands of years, the one whose strength and loyalty were unquestionable. To see him annihilated in an instant, sealed and slaughtered without a chance to resist... it shattered something within him.
Step. Step.
The short man moved forward, the sound of his footsteps unhurried, deliberate, like a judge approaching the condemned. "If I were you," he drawled, "I wouldn’t waste my breath worrying about anyone else... You, my friend, have just received a life removal notice." His mocking smile widened, cruel and casual at once.
"Why... why?! These methods..." Arkalon’s body gave way completely, collapsing onto his rear. Fear and shock robbed his legs of every ounce of strength. His massive hands scrambled backward against the polished floor, trying to drag himself away. "I... I know you! You’re that Syndicate members! Why—why target me of all people?!"
"You dared to reach for a throne that was never yours," the short man sneered, his eyes glinting with contempt. "I was going to give you a poetic farewell, something like: ’Learn from this in your next life.’ But sadly, that’s not your fate. You won’t even be reborn. Instead, you’ll serve us as a specter, wandering like a chained dog in the Specter Valley planet we’ve recently opened. So..." he leaned closer, whispering mockingly, "...work hard."
"No... no..." Arkalon’s breaths came in ragged bursts as he clawed his way backward, crawling back with both hands and feet, terror etched in every line of his face. But his retreat was cut off as the other five figures closed in silently, surrounding him with the inevitability of death itself. Each one raised their blade high into the air.
And in perfect, merciless unity—they brought their weapons crashing down.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO~~!!"
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"~~AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!" Robin’s scream tore from his chest like fire, his lungs burning as if they were being wrenched from his body. His eyes snapped open in utter horror, his entire body jolting as though the Syndicate’s blades had pierced his flesh instead.