Chapter 233: Destroy The Cursed (50)

Chapter 233The battle had reached a critical point.

For several hours now, the clash had raged on, tearing apart what was once a peaceful, almost tranquil island.

This island—chosen by the Cursed as their hidden base—was now little more than a scarred battlefield, drenched in blood and fire.

Yet despite the chaos, the true goal had not been accomplished. Not yet.

Every elite hero present knew that victory wasn’t measured by the number of bandits slain, nor by cutting down the endless legions of beasts, nor even by dismantling the Red Vanguard.

The Red Vanguard was important, yes—but they were only a fragment of the larger picture.

The real mission was far more daunting:

To eliminate the Dark Emissaries, the elite core of the Cursed.

And above all, to defeat Drake himself.

Until Drake and the Emissaries fell, this war would never truly end.

So far, not a single Dark Emissary had revealed themselves. Not one. But the heroes weren’t foolish enough to think it was out of fear.

No—if anything, they knew the Emissaries were waiting. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike, to deal a killing blow when the heroes were at their weakest.

What they did not realize, however, was that they had already been fighting one.

The endless hordes of beasts that had nearly overwhelmed them weren’t acting of their own will.

They had been under the command of a single Dark Emissary all along. If the heroes knew this truth, doubt would have spread like wildfire—even among the elite.

Ordinary heroes would have broken completely, questioning whether this war was one they could ever hope to win.

Fortunately, that secret remained hidden. Now, with the beasts no longer bound by the Emissary’s control, they fought with raw instinct instead of coordinated strategy. That made them far easier prey.

One by one, the hordes dwindled, leaving only the strongest among them—those with monstrous defense, blinding speed, or devastating attack power.

But even they were falling, cut down relentlessly by Ronan and the other elites. It was only a matter of time before the battlefield was cleared.

Meanwhile, deeper within the island, a narrow tunnel carved into the mountainside led underground. Logic dictated that this was where the Dark Emissaries, and perhaps Drake himself, would be hiding. And indeed, the heroes’ guess wasn’t wrong.

But it wasn’t entirely right either.

High atop one of the jagged cliffs at the island’s edge, three figures clad in dark armor stood silently, gazing into the horizon.

"It seems Quint has failed," one of them said in a calm, almost bored tone, though faint annoyance edged his words. "He couldn’t bring them down on his own after all."

The speaker appeared to be a man in his late twenties—but with awakened ones, appearances meant little. His long black hair was tied back in four strands, giving him an air of cold elegance.

His expression was composed, his gaze sharp... yet within his eyes burned a deep and chilling killing intent.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and well-toned—his physique clear for all to see since he refused to properly wear his dark armor.

Instead, he left it loose, draped over him like a rebellious student too cool to follow the rules. One hand was shoved lazily into his pocket, the other rubbing his temple as if the entire situation gave him a pounding headache.

With a swift turn, his sharp gaze shifted to his right, where another Dark Emissary stood. This one had short crimson hair and a casual, almost carefree smile. In contrast to the chaos and carnage raging all around, his calm demeanor was almost unsettling.

"Hey, Garvin," the red-haired man greeted with that same easy smile.

Garvin’s expression didn’t change as he glanced at him.

Garvin speak up calmly, though annoyance lingered beneath his words. "Tell me, why does Drake insist we sit here waiting five hours before joining the battle, while Quint gets to jump in from the very start?"

Striker shrugged, tone casual, almost dismissive. "I have no idea. Drake is Drake. Even I don’t understand what goes on in that guy’s head."

Garvin snorted, irritation flashing across his face. To him, it was simple: if all of the Dark Emissaries had entered from the start, the Tryst Guild and their allied forces would have been wiped out in less than a minute.

Even if they joined later, he still believed the heroes stood no chance—but the fight would drag on unnecessarily, becoming a tiresome affair.

"Tch. Annoying," he muttered, rubbing his forehead. His gaze drifted toward the battlefield in the distance. The hordes of beasts were being culled, the clash edging toward its end. The sight only frustrated him more.

Striker, however, looked utterly unbothered. Checking his watch, he raised an eyebrow before giving a faint smile. He stepped closer, clapping Garvin lightly on the back. "Relax. We’ll be joining soon. Only a few more minutes left."

Garvin’s eyes widened. "Wait... five hours already passed?" He allowed himself a small smirk. Time really had flown.

Out of all the Dark Emissaries, Garvin considered himself nearly unbeatable—save for a handful of individuals on Earth who could possibly challenge him.

Perhaps some of the top three Class-S heroes posed a real threat, but even then, his strength and unique skill gave him confidence.

For a time, after joining the Cursed, he thought he should be second-in-command. That illusion shattered the moment he witnessed Striker’s true power.

Sometimes, Garvin wondered how a fight between Striker and Magus would play out. Both were monsters in their own right, freaks of nature.

Then again, so were all the Dark Emissaries. The thought only deepened his conviction: the heroes had no real chance.

They could enjoy their fragile peace while it lasted, because once the Emissaries entered the fray, their slaughter was inevitable.

"By the way," Striker’s calm voice broke his train of thought. "Where’s Madi?"

Garvin tilted his head slightly to the left, one brow arching. The third Dark Emissary that should have been there was gone. His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flashing across them as he turned back toward the battlefield.

"He’s probably tired of just watching everything unfold," Garvin muttered. "If I had to guess, he decided to join in on the... fun. Though calling it ’fun’ would be completely wrong."

Striker’s gaze followed his to the battlefield. His voice was calm, but sharp with venom.

"If it’s the same Madi we know, then I’m certain he’s seething right now—burning with raw, unfiltered rage. This entire battle must have interrupted his research, and that alone is enough to drive him into madness. He won’t just kill them outright. No, he’ll want them to suffer."

" Anyone who dares invade and cause this much destruction... will wish they’d never set foot on this island."

For a moment his fury raged like a storm—violent, merciless, consuming everything in its path. Then, just as suddenly, it vanished. In its place was that same calm, unnerving smile.

Garvin’s eyes narrowed. "Are you joining in as well?"

Striker shook his head, his voice even. "Not yet. There’s something else I need to finish. I’ll join once it’s done."

He took a step, then halted. The silence that followed felt heavier than the clash of battle. When he finally spoke again, his words cut sharper than any blade.

"You can face any of them... crush any of those so-called heroes. But if you fight the one with black and white hair..."

He paused, letting the weight of the warning sink like stone. "...you won’t walk away. You’ll die."

To be continued...

Author’s Note ✨

Happy new month, everyone! I hope you’ve been enjoying the Chapters so far.

For this month’s schedule:

There will be 1–2 Chapters released daily, depending on my workload.

On Sundays, expect 2–4 Chapters in mass releases as a special treat!

Thank you all for your continuous support—it really keeps me going. Let’s make this month an even more exciting journey together.

— ULTRA