Chapter 185: Destroy The Cursed (2)

Chapter 185

Ronan looked at Han, his expression calm, then turned his gaze toward the moonlight, which bathed his face in a gentle glow. After a moment of silence, he asked,

"Do you regret coming to rescue me from ARC?"

Han gave a small smile.

"That’s what I find strange," he said softly. "I don’t feel any regret at all. If anything, I believe I did the right thing by saving you. If we hadn’t come, there was a hundred percent certainty that you’d be dead by now."

He paused, his expression growing heavier.

"What I do regret... is not being there to stop the Cursed. I left Serenya undefended. I should have come to ARC alone and let Aiden and Clara stay behind to handle the Cursed. Maybe I could’ve broken you out myself."

Ronan turned toward him, a complicated look in his eyes.

"And you really believe that would’ve been enough?" he asked quietly. "I know both Aiden and Clara are powerful, but even then—one of them could’ve died. It was nothing short of a miracle that Ron, Nahan, and the rest were able to hold the enemy back for that long. They even managed to do serious damage. You saw that."

His tone became sharper, more intense.

"You know what, Han? The Dark Emissaries are a massive threat. Just three of them leveled the entire city of Maurina. And two more were responsible for the destruction of Serenya. What worries me is the possibility that the Cursed base might have several more waiting for us."

He looked Han in the eye.



"If that’s the case, then this mission... it’s not going to be easy at all."

Han nodded slowly, his jaw clenched.

"That’s what I’ve been thinking. I already made one wrong decision—underestimating how cruel and merciless the Cursed really are. Because of that mistake, Serenya paid the price. And now... I can’t help but wonder if I’m making another mistake by taking all these heroes with me into the heart of enemy territory."

Ronan shook his head.

"Do you want to know what I think?" he asked. Han nodded.

"I think you didn’t make any wrong decision. Everything you’ve done has been for the good of the guild. The Cursed are the ones to blame for what happened in Serenya. And you’re going to make them pay for it."

He leaned in slightly, his expression calm and unreadable.

"As for the heroes following us—you feel responsible for keeping them safe, I get that. But you’ll try your best. You always do. Just remember... there will be casualties, Han. That’s the nature of a mission on this scale. You’re just one man. You can’t be everywhere at once."

Ronan placed a hand on Han’s shoulder.

"And don’t forget, you didn’t force anyone to join you. We’re all here of our own free will. We’re strong. We can handle ourselves. Just focus on your own task."

Han nodded slowly.

"Tomorrow is the day," he said, his voice low but firm. "Tomorrow, I’ll take down as many Dark Emissaries as I can... and then, I’ll deal with their leader myself."

His eyes hardened.

"I will end Drake."

Ronan could still feel the storm simmering beneath Han’s composed expression. He hadn’t calmed down—if anything, he was boiling with tightly restrained fury.

Hopefully, Ronan thought, he doesn’t lose control and enter that red form again...

Because if he did, even Ronan wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop him.

Pushing the thought aside, Ronan looked back at the moonlight. A slight smile tugged at his lips.

"You’re right," he murmured.

"Tomorrow’s the day... the day the Cursed will fall."

_ _ _ _

Amidst the vast ocean, a small island rested peacefully, radiating an unnatural sense of tranquility. One would never believe that this calm sanctuary was home to the most dangerous and most wanted organization in the world.

The radiant morning sunlight stretched across the island, illuminating every corner. Even the native creatures—chameleons and others—seemed to be going about their business, oblivious to the coming storm. The wind howled, as if echoing the tension and bloodshed about to unfold.

Six massive battle airships descended onto the island, each landing a few meters away from the ocean shore. Their hatches opened in synchronized motion, and groups of people began to pour out—some in green uniforms with white linings, others in blue, and the final group in pure white.

"Are you all ready?"

Silver Wing hovered in the sky, his voice loud and commanding. For this operation, he had been appointed the lead commander of the allied army. The elites, meanwhile, would focus on the truly terrifying enemies that lurked deeper within.

A united battle cry erupted from the soldiers and heroes, shaking the air as they charged forward. But just moments into their advance, they came to a sudden halt. It wasn’t a monstrous creature or one of the feared Dark Emissaries that stopped them—it was something else entirely.



"Did you hear that?"

A young hero from the Little One Guild turned to her partner.

He nodded, his expression darkening.

"Yeah... it sounds like... a storm. No, footsteps. Hundreds—no, thousands—heading this way. But that can’t be right. The Cursed must be playing tricks."

But then he paused, his eyes widening.

From the dense forest of the island emerged a wave of figures. Each one radiated raw, unfiltered brutality—sharp, cold, and lethal. Their movements were precise, and their presence... suffocating.

They weren’t beasts, they weren’t emissaries—they were people.

But not the kind with families or morals or anything resembling sanity.

They were killers—the deadliest kind—and their presence devoured the air like a plague swallowing light.

The first wave of them stepped into view, and the heroes froze, every trained instinct screaming danger.

Each figure looked as though they had clawed their way up from hell itself—scarred, monstrous, and soaked in a past bathed with blood. Their gear was mismatched but deadly: rusted armor layered over leather soaked in dried blood, spike-lined cloaks, bones used as ornaments, chains dangling like trophies of past kills.

Their eyes were the worst—some burned with savage glee, others stared with the emptiness of those who had long lost their humanity.

They were tall, hunched, broad, limping, twitching, grinning—there was no uniformity to them, only chaos, stitched together in human form. Some bore ritualistic tattoos that glowed faintly, marks of pacts. Others had metal grafted into their flesh—shoulders wrapped in jagged steel, spines laced with nails, arms that ended in clawed gauntlets too crude to be called weapons, too effective to be ignored.

And they weren’t quiet. No.

They howled and growled, some laughing maniacally, others muttering to themselves like they were talking to ghosts. One walked forward with six shrunken heads tied to his belt, gently stroking them like pets. Another had a massive blade—not forged but carved, seemingly from the jaw of a colossal beast, serrated and stained with blackened blood.

Behind them, more followed. Hundreds. Then thousands. And they kept coming.

Each one carried a Power Weapon. Not elegant, not refined. Brutal things—cleavers, axes, serrated scimitars, gauntlets with miniature buzz-saws, whips made from linked fangs, curved daggers that shimmered with poisons no one dared name. Their weapons weren’t just tools—they were extensions of madness, forged in blood, tempered by screams.

And worst of all, despite their grotesque appearances and chaotic gear, they moved in formation. Not disciplined like soldiers—no. Like predators, stalking a cornered prey, every step coordinated by sheer instinct and years of killing together.

What truly shattered the morale of the allied forces was not their aura, bloodlust or power weapons. It was their sheer number.

Hundreds...

Thousands...

And they just kept coming.

Over a thousand had already stepped into view, and with every passing second, more emerged from the shadows of the trees. It was endless. A stream of hardened killers flowing like a flood.

The heroes, despite their confidence, began to pale. There were only around three hundred of them. Skilled? Yes. Prepared? Maybe. But facing this overwhelming tide... the odds were no longer in their favor.

Then, from the enemy lines, a man with a white mohawk stepped forward. His presence was calm, yet the air around him seemed to ripple like a brewing storm.

"Is this really what got us worried?"

He scoffed, glancing at the outnumbered heroes with a smirk.



"This is ridiculous. I thought we’d finally have some fun."

He raised his voice—loud, firm, and commanding.

"Everyone—CRUSH THEM ALL!"

"Take whatever spoils you want afterwards."

The mob of killers roared in response, their battle cry shaking the very foundation of the island. Compared to their thunderous chant, the earlier cry of the heroes now seemed like a whisper.

The sheer intimidation was overwhelming.

Even if not all the enemy forces were Awakened, there was no doubt that a large number of them were. Their exact ranks remained unknown, but that hardly mattered now. The harsh reality loomed before the allied forces:

This was no ordinary fight. This... was a massacre waiting to happen.

And even if they survived, they all knew—many would die.

To be continued.....

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