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The room had gone quiet in the way that only death could make it. Not peaceful. Just empty. The ceiling fan turned slowly overhead, squeaking with each rotation. Blood pooled in the grooves between floorboards. Pieces of what used to be men were scattered across broken furniture and torn drapes.
Levi stood in the middle of it, coat heavy with gore, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and worse things. The shoe in his hand still steamed faintly. He wiped his face with the back of his wrist and left a new smear of red across his cheek.
I killed five people with a shoe. That's my life now. That actually happened.
His chest hurt from breathing too hard. His hands shook slightly when he lowered the weapon to his side. The adrenaline was wearing off, and underneath it was exhaustion so deep his knees felt ready to give out.
"System," he muttered. "How many threats remaining?"
SYSTEM:
None. All hostiles terminated.
"Good."
SYSTEM:
Achievement unlocked: Mass Murder Without Intent.
Would you like a certificate?
Absolutely not.
SYSTEM:
Noted. Certificate printing anyway.
Levi closed his eyes for a second and took a slow breath through his nose.
I really, really hate you.
The smell was getting to him. Copper and something meaty that stuck in the back of his throat. Outside, a cart rolled past in the alley. Someone laughed. The city kept moving like nothing had happened here.
Okay. Five corpses. No cleanup plan. And I look like I lost a fight with a butcher.
He needed to get rid of the bodies. Fast. Before someone walked in and saw this nightmare.
Levi pushed off the wall and walked carefully across the room, avoiding the worst of the mess. His boots left dark prints on the floor. When he reached the far side, he leaned against the doorframe and pulled out the black Library Pass card.
His fingers were still sticky with drying blood as he pressed his thumb to the crystal in the center. It pulsed once, connecting to the frequency Velgrin had set up for direct contact.
Levi kept his voice low and even.
"Bring fire. Don't ask questions. Victorian mansion, alley west of Central Market."
The crystal flashed green.
Message sent.
He slipped the card back into his coat and stared at the carnage he'd made.
Velgrin's going to show up, see this, and either think I'm a war criminal or some kind of demon. Maybe both.
SYSTEM:
Host is the only person who treats a Sixth Circle Archmage like a personal crematorium service.
You got a better idea?
SYSTEM:
No. Proceed with felony concealment.
That's what I thought.
SYSTEM:
This conversation never happened.
For once, Levi didn't have the energy to argue.
He stood there for another moment, trying to figure out what to say when Velgrin arrived. How do you explain this? "Hey, sorry about the human soup, just had a minor altercation with some rebels"?
Burn it. Burn everything. Ashes can't testify.
He adjusted his coat and winced when the wet fabric pulled against his skin. Then he turned his attention to the girl.
She was still kneeling where the rebels had left her, hands bound, uniform torn at the shoulder. Her face was bruised, blood smeared across her forehead, but she hadn't made a sound through the entire fight. She'd just watched.
Levi took a step toward her.
Then another.
The blood dripping from his coat hit the floor beside her knees with soft wet sounds.
Okay. She just watched me beat five guys to death with footwear. I need to say something normal. Something that doesn't make me sound unhinged.
SYSTEM:
Good luck.
Thanks for the vote of confidence.
SYSTEM:
You are covered in viscera and holding a shoe.
I'm aware.
SYSTEM:
Just clarifying the situation.
He stopped two paces away and pulled out a white handkerchief from his inside pocket. It was one of the few things that hadn't gotten soaked yet. He wiped his gloves slowly, more for the gesture than because it would actually help.
SYSTEM:
The handkerchief. Very helpful.
Shut up.
SYSTEM:
Shutting up.
When he was done, he looked at her properly.
Her eyes were violet. Not red from crying or bloodshot from pain. Just naturally violet, bright and sharp and focused. She was staring at him like he was something out of a storybook.
Levi kept his voice calm and level.
"Greetings, student."
It came out sounding almost formal, like he was addressing someone in a lecture hall instead of a room full of corpses.
"My name is Levi—"
She didn't let him finish.
The girl dropped forward so fast her forehead cracked against the floor. A fresh line of blood appeared on her skin. She stayed down, bowing so deeply her hair fell forward and covered her face.
"Grandmaster Warrior," she said, voice shaking but clear. "Please accept me as your disciple."
Levi stared.
His mouth opened slightly.
Nothing came out.
Internally, his brain was screaming.
What the actual hell is wrong with everyone in this world.
SYSTEM:
She thinks you are a master.
I can see that.
SYSTEM:
You tripped twelve times during that fight.
I'm aware.
SYSTEM:
You threw your only weapon because you panicked.
Yes, thank you, I was there.
SYSTEM:
And now she wants to be your student.
Can you not?
SYSTEM:
Cannot. This is too entertaining.
I hate you so much.
SYSTEM:
Noted. Now say something wise.
Like what?
SYSTEM:
How would I know? You are the Grandmaster.
I'm going to find your server and pour coffee on it.
SYSTEM:
Threat acknowledged. Response pending.
What the fuck is wrong with every single one of patron
.
.
.
FIFTEEN MINUTES EARLIER
Princess Celine von Revola
It started with a knock.
The rebels had been dragging me toward the stairs, hands rough on my arms, voices full of threats I'd heard a hundred times before. Standard kidnapping fare. Ransom. Leverage. The usual script.
Then someone knocked on the door.
A voice from outside, casual and flat.
"Pizza delivery. Extra pepperoni."
For half a second, I thought I'd lost my mind from blood loss.
Then Shag, the big one with the scar on his neck, stomped over to the door and yanked it open. "Yo, dumbass, you got the wrong—"
His head exploded.
Not a metaphor. Actually, it exploded. His entire upper body turned into a red cloud. Bone shards hit the ceiling. His head, somehow still intact, rolled across the floor and stopped near my knee.
I looked up.
A man stood in the doorway.
Tall, wearing a long black coat that moved with him like it had weight. His face was clean, sharp angles and dark hair. In his right hand was a shoe. Just a normal black leather shoe, the kind you'd see on a merchant or a clerk.
Except it was smoking.
He stepped inside without breaking stride, like walking through a doorway full of blood mist was something he did every Tuesday.
The other rebels shouted. One of them charged.
Fourth-Tier warrior. I recognized his Sword Aura, red and gold, the kind that took years to refine. His blade came down in a perfect arc.
The man in black stumbled backward.
He tripped over a chair leg and flailed.
The shoe swung up wild and uncontrolled.
CRACK.
The rebel's sword shattered. The shoe caught him in the face and his entire skull caved in. Blood sprayed across the wall.
The man straightened up, breathing hard.
Wait.
That wasn't a stumble.
I'd read about this in the restricted section of the Academy library. The Drunken Fist philosophy. A combat style where every movement looks accidental. You make yourself appear weak, vulnerable, out of control. Then you strike when your opponent commits to the kill.
It required absolute confidence because one mistimed feint meant death.
This man just executed it like breathing.
The martial artist came next, flying through the air with a kick reinforced by mana. Blue light trailed behind his boot.
The man in black swung the shoe in a wide arc that looked completely panicked.
It caught the martial artist mid-flight.
CRUNCH.
Ribs collapsed. The body flew backward and crashed through a table.
Every move looked chaotic but landed with precision.
The dagger user circled behind him, twin blades coated with poison that I could smell from across the room.
The man spun around and fell sideways.
The dagger passed through empty air where his spine had been.
Ground transition. He'd seen the attack coming and used the fall to dodge.
He rolled, came up swinging blind, and caught the rebel's wrist.
Bones shattered.
Then he scrambled forward on hands and knees and swung upward.
The shoe hit the rebel's knee.
The joint bent backward with a wet pop.
I'd never seen anything like it. Pure improvisation executed with terrifying precision. No fixed forms. No predictable patterns. Just chaos shaped into violence.
The swordsman was next. Silver hair, crimson aura, clearly the most skilled of the group. He raised his blade with both hands and channeled everything into one final attack.
"Seventh Rank Sword Art. Heaven Splitting Blade."
The sword glowed white. When he swung, the cutting force tore through the floor and walls. Furniture disintegrated. The air itself screamed.
The man in black raised the shoe.
The aura blade hit it.
And disintegrated.
The shoe didn't even flex.
My heart stopped.
He just blocked a Seventh Rank technique with footwear. No stance. No reinforcement runes. Just the raw aura infused into the leather.
That level of control was beyond anything they taught at Henderson. To reinforce an ordinary object to that degree required mastery I'd only read about in historical texts about legendary warriors.
The swordsman's blade shattered when it touched the shoe.
The man charged forward, swinging like he was trying to kill a wasp.
No elegance. No wasted motion. Just overwhelming force.
Once. Twice. Three times.
The swordsman stopped moving.
The brawler tried last. Blue light crackling around his fists, arcane enhancement active. He threw a punch that should have shattered the stone.
The man twisted away but wasn't quite fast enough. The fist grazed his ribs.
Even a glancing blow from that level of enhancement should have broken bones. But the man just swung back.
Caught the brawler in the shoulder.
Collarbone snapped.
The brawler roared and lunged to grab him.
The man ducked, tripped over debris, and fell.
As he went down, the heel of the shoe drove upward into the brawler's neck.
CRACK.
The head snapped sideways.
He'd baited the grab. Made himself vulnerable to create the opening.
Only Kent remained. The leader. He stepped forward with his hands raised, trying to negotiate.
"Wait! Stop! You don't understand. We're trying to save this kingdom. Restore it. Keep me alive and we can—"
The man in black tilted his head slightly.
His voice came out flat and cold.
"No thanks. I'm not from around here. And honestly? Your pitch sucks."
Kent's face twisted. He lunged.
His blade trailed crimson light as it came down.
The man stepped forward instead of back and raised the shoe.
Kent's enchanted sword collided with it.
CRACK.
The blade shattered.
The man swung sideways.
WHUMP.
Kent flew through a table and hit a pillar hard enough to crack the stone.
He tried one more attack. Slapped a glyph onto the floor that detonated in a burst of concussive force.
The man was thrown backward, hit the ground hard, and rolled.
When he stood up, his coat was singed but his body was fine.
He'd seen it coming. Positioned himself to absorb the blast with minimal damage.
Kent tried one last desperate charge, arcane armor crackling around his fist, poison dagger raised in his other hand.
The man threw the shoe.
It spun awkwardly through the air.
WHAM.
Kent's armor shattered. His body folded.
Weaponless combat mastery. He'd thrown his only weapon with absolute confidence in his ability to finish the fight without it.
And then it was over.
Five Fourth-Tier warriors. Dead in under three minutes.
The man stood there, drenched in blood, breathing hard but otherwise unharmed. Not a scratch on him.
That style. That beautiful, unorthodox, chaotic style.
He didn't fight like the masters at Henderson Academy who drilled the same forms for decades. He fought like an improvisation actor. Like freedom condensed into violence.
It was the most incredible thing I'd ever seen.
And when he turned to face me, I saw his face properly for the first time.
Sharp features. Dark eyes that looked tired despite his youth. Black hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and blood. He couldn't have been more than his mid-twenties, but something about the way he moved suggested someone much older.
He walked toward me slowly, boots leaving dark prints on the floor.
When he stopped, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his gloves with slow deliberate motions.
Then he spoke.
"Greetings, student. My name is Levi—"
I didn't let him finish.
I threw myself forward and slammed my forehead into the floor hard enough to split the skin. Blood ran down into my eye but I didn't care.
"Grandmaster Warrior," I said, voice shaking but clear. "Please accept me as your disciple."
He'd saved me. Slaughtered five rebels using a combat style I'd never encountered. Moved with the kind of mastery that only came from years of refinement and natural genius combined.
This was a true master.
And I would follow him anywhere.