The room felt frozen.
Not a single footstep echoed.
Not a single breath dared to rise too loudly.
Even the air itself felt heavy—dense enough to crush sound before it could escape.
Shattered glass littered the floor, reflecting dim light like broken stars. At the center of it all stood the devil-masked man, utterly calm. His cloak barely stirred, and behind the horned mask, a faint smirk lingered—as if the scene before him was already decided.
He watched them the way a predator watched prey that had already been cornered.
The Patriarch narrowed his eyes, his posture straight and unwavering despite the invisible pressure pressing down on the room.
"Who are you?" the patriarch demanded, his voice steady despite the storm brewing beneath it. His gaze never wavered. "Someone who carries strength on par with mine cannot be a mere assassin. Tell me—what are you really?"
A low chuckle slipped out from behind the devil mask, soft and unhurried, as if the question itself were entertaining.
"On par with you?" the masked man echoed, head tilting slightly. Amusement seeped into his voice.
"How flattering."
The air seemed to tighten.
"I'm far stronger than you," he continued calmly, almost kindly, "at least in your current state."
The Patriarch's jaw tightened, a faint crease forming between his brows as the words sank in. His grip flexed unconsciously, psychic energy stirring—then faltering—like a blade that refused to fully leave its sheath. Yet even then, he did not take a single step back.
He stood his ground.
The masked man tilted his head slowly, the gesture almost playful, almost pitying. The curved horns of the devil mask caught the dim light as his voice drifted forward, calm and cruel.
"Tell me, Patriarch…" he said softly. "Can you even access your full ability right now?"
He paused, letting the question linger—watching Aldric's silence, his tension, his restraint.
A low chuckle followed.
"No. You can't."
The words landed like a verdict.
"Your power is being strangled," the masked man continued, tone smooth and precise. "Suppressed at its source. Every attempt you make to exert control is being choked before it can bloom."
He took a slow step forward.
"At best," he went on, "you're scraping by at Moderate level—perhaps brushing the edge of High if you force yourself and tear your mind apart in the process."
The air felt heavier with every word.
"You're not fighting as a Very High Level Controller anymore, Patriarch," the masked man concluded quietly. "You're something far weaker."
And the most terrifying part—
Aldric knew it was true.
Silence swallowed the room.
Behind the Patriarch, Madam Reyes trembled violently, her fingers clutching Charlie's sleeve as though it were the only thing anchoring her to reality. Charlie stood protectively in front of her, flames flickering weakly in his palm, his eyes never leaving the masked figure. Commander Roderic remained tense, jaw locked, gaze sharp—but unreadable.
The assassins surrounding them remained utterly still—silent figures carved from shadow, weapons lowered yet ready, their presence suffocating.
No one moved.
No one dared to.
The Patriarch's gaze swept over them once, sharp and assessing, before returning to the masked man. His voice broke the silence, calm but edged with steel.
"What did you do?"
The masked man's smirk widened slowly, deliberately, as if savoring the moment.
"You'll find out soon."
The words were casual.
Too casual.
For the first time since the battle began, something cold coiled deep in the Patriarch's chest.
His brows knit together almost imperceptibly.
Why couldn't he reach his full power?
He tried to draw on it again—pushing, commanding, forcing his psychic dominion to respond as it always had.
Nothing.
The connection felt distant. Slippery. As though his grip on his own ability was sliding through his fingers no matter how tightly he clenched.
A faint tension crept into his posture.
Not fear.
But uncertainty.
And that—more than any blade or assassin—was what truly unsettled him.
The masked man lifted a hand casually, and pointed his finger upwards.
"I'll give you one minute," he said calmly. "Answer my question within that time… and I'll grant you a painless death."
The Patriarch frowned. "What question?"
The masked man's voice dropped, the air tightening with it.
"Where is the forbidden artifact of the Reyes lineage?"
The Patriarch froze.
His heart thudded violently against his ribs.
The forbidden relic—passed down only through the heads of the Reyes family for generations.
Not even his wife or children knew about that.
"How…" he whispered, disbelief creeping into his voice. "How do you know about that?"
The masked man let out a quiet, satisfied chuckle—low, deliberate, as if savoring the moment.
"So my master was right after all."
He stepped forward unhurriedly, boots crunching over shattered glass. Each step felt heavy, deliberate, like the ticking of an unseen clock closing in. The pressure in the room thickened with every movement, squeezing the air from the Patriarch's lungs.
"The countdown starts now," the masked man said lightly, almost pleasantly. "So tell me—are you going to answer?"
The Patriarch's thoughts raced violently.
He knew the truth the moment those words left the man's mouth.
He could not win.
Not like this.
Not with his power strangled, his strength reduced to fragments of what it once was.
Yet even as that realization settled in, his spine remained straight—unyielding, defiant—refusing to bow.
Then he turned.
His wife stood there, trembling, tears streaking down her face.
He walked to her.
She reached out instantly, gripping his arm as though afraid he might disappear.
The Patriarch lifted a hand and cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away her tears. Then he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.
Madam Reyes stiffened— and understood.
He would not betray their lineage. He would not hand over the artifact.Not even to save himself. Not even to save her.
He turned back toward the masked man, his gaze firm, unyielding.
"Get lost."
The masked man laughed.
Loud. Vicious. Echoing off the walls like a death knell.
Then suddenly he flicked his fingers.
A blade shot forward, guided by thin, shimmering threads trailing from his hand.
The Patriarch reacted instantly, summoning his sword with psychic force. Metal clashed midair, the impact shaking the room and forcing him back half a step.
"You—!" the Patriarch snapped. "Are you also a psychic controller?"
The masked man chuckled. "Guess."
The clash erupted without warning.
Invisible threads snapped through the air, slicing space itself like silver whips. They moved with terrifying precision, weaving and twisting as though guided by an unseen hand. At the same time, the Patriarch's sword shot forward, propelled by pure psychic force—fast, sharp, relentless.
CLANG!
Steel met steel in a blinding collision. Sparks burst outward, scattering like dying stars as the impact rang through the chamber.
The Patriarch didn't pause.
His wrist twisted sharply, psychic force flowing with practiced mastery. The floating blade bent midair, its trajectory curving unnaturally as it slipped to the side, aiming for the masked man's exposed flank. It was a move refined through countless battles—precise, lethal.
For a fraction of a second, it almost worked.
Then—
Two more swords rose behind the masked man.
They lifted silently, as if weightless, suspended by the same shimmering threads. With a sharp flick of his fingers, the masked man sent them flying forward.
They shot out like arrows loosed from a divine bow.
The Patriarch's eyes narrowed, focus sharpening despite the chaos raging around him.
"…You're not a psychic controller," he said slowly, certainty creeping into his voice. "Those threads—your control isn't mental.
He tightened his grip, blood dripping from his fingers.
"You are a Marionette Dominion Manipulator."
For a brief moment, the room fell silent.
Then the masked man chuckled.
A low, pleased sound.
"Good guess," he said lightly. "Most don't figure that out before they die."
Patriarch thrust his palm forward instinctively.
Psychic force exploded outward, condensing into a translucent barrier just as the blades struck. The impact sent ripples racing across its surface, the sound a violent screech of metal scraping against invisible force.
The barrier held.
But barely.
The Patriarch's arm trembled violently as the pressure surged through him. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as the strain gnawed at his concentration. His breathing grew uneven—each inhale heavier than the last.
The masked man laughed softly.
A calm, amused sound.
"Your mind is slow, Patriarch," he murmured. "Weak. Struggling."
The words cut deeper than the blades.
Ignoring the taunt, the Patriarch gritted his teeth and forced more power into his control. His sword surged forward again, vibrating violently as it pushed against the threads restraining it.
But the masked man's fingers curled slightly.
The threads tightened.
With brutal force, they yanked the blade downward, dragging it off course. The Patriarch felt his psychic grip slip for a split second—
His control was faltering..
For the first time—
Alarm flashed across his face.
The masked man leaned in, whispering coldly:
"Is this all a Very High Level Controller can do?"
The Patriarch steadied himself, breathing hard, sweat beading at his temples. Still, he fought—not to survive, but to protect what mattered most.
The masked man tilted his head.
"Your minute is over," he said flatly. "So… no painless death."
The Patriarch ignored the words and surged forward, psychic blade poised to strike—
Then—
SWOOOOSH!!
A razor-sharp wind blade tore through the air—
and stabbed him from behind, bursting straight through his chest.
Blood splattered across the floor.
The Patriarch staggered, choking, eyes widening in pure shock.
Madam Reyes screamed, her voice shattering the silence. Charlie froze, breath trapped painfully in his throat.
The assassins behind the masked man didn't react. Not a twitch or a gasp.
They had expected this. Planned this.
The Patriarch collapsed to one knee, blood pooling beneath him.
And the room fell into a suffocating, deathly silence.