Crimson Overlord-Chapter 301: Berserk Pill

Orpheus surveyed the scene with a detached coolness that sent shivers down the spines of any shadows still harboring potential attackers. He wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t worried. The massacre had begun, and it seemed the assassins’ guild, for all their brutality, had underestimated their opponent. Here, within the darkness of their own lair, they were about to face a nightmare far more terrifying than any assassin they’d ever sent out.

Tonight this assassin guild would be raised to the ground.

The silence after the massacre stretched taut, broken only by the dripping of crimson onto the cold stone floor. Then, from the shadows at the edge of the Blood Hall, a figure emerged. A massive man, his muscles rippling beneath his dark leather armor, his face a canvas of jagged scars that spoke of a violent past. He was Zargon, the Vice Leader of the Blood Hall, and the simmering rage in his single, visible eye promised a storm.

He surveyed the carnage with a practiced eye, his outward composure belying the shock that ripped through him. These were his men, his most trusted assassins, fallen before him in a single, horrifying display of power. Yet, despite the churning turmoil within, his voice, when he spoke, was a low growl of controlled fury.

"You," he rasped, his voice rough and gravelly, pointing toward Orpheus with a scarred finger.

"Were you the one who did this?"

Orpheus tilted his head, his crimson eyes gleaming with amusement that danced on the edge of something far more dangerous.

"Trying to sound menacing, are we?" he purred, his voice smooth as velvet laced with razor blades.

"Such theatrics won’t save you here."

The amusement in Orpheus’ voice was a spark igniting Zargon’s already volatile temper. He was a Level 5 Origin Master, second in power only to the enigmatic leader of the Blood Hall. This stranger, this upstart, dared to mock him? The insult burned hotter than any fire.

Rage, raw and uncontrolled, flooded Zargon’s veins.

"Mock me all you want," he roared, his voice echoing in the vast chamber.

"You’re outnumbered thirty to one! Even a god falls before such odds!"

A cruel smile stretched across Orpheus’ face.

"Numbers are irrelevant," he said, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper.

"Against some storms, even mountains crumble."

Zargon, blinded by anger and a misplaced sense of confidence, didn’t see the flicker of a challenge in Orpheus’ eyes. He didn’t sense the terrifying power that thrummed beneath the surface of his amusement. In his arrogance, he had sealed his fate.

’’Attack!"

Zargon’s roar echoed through the Blood Hall, a desperate attempt to rally his men. The remaining assassins, their bravado shaken by the sight of their fallen comrades, charged at Orpheus with a mix of fear and fury. Their blades flashed in the crimson light, a desperate dance against the inevitable.

But Orpheus moved with an inhuman grace. He was a whirlwind of controlled chaos, weaving through the clanging onslaught like a phantom. Steel met flesh, but never his own. A crimson blur marked the path of his movements, punctuated by sickening thuds and choked screams. Limbs flew, heads spun, and a metallic tang filled the air as blood painted the obsidian floor in a grotesque masterpiece.

The assassins, skilled as they were, were no match for him. Their movements were telegraphed, their strikes predictable. Against Orpheus, they were little more than marionettes in a deadly play, their strings ruthlessly severed by his unseen hand.

Ten minutes. That’s all it took. Ten terrifying minutes of balletic violence as Orpheus carved a bloody swathe through the attackers. Seventeen bodies lay crumpled on the floor, testaments to his power and the utter futility of their resistance.

The remaining assassins, their faces pale with terror, faltered. Their weapons hung heavy in their hands, a mockery of their training. They had never faced anything like this, a being that seemed to exist beyond the realm of mortals, a harbinger of death cloaked in amusement.

Zargon, the once-proud Vice Leader, watched in horror as his men fell like wheat before a scythe. The rage that had fueled his charge had evaporated, replaced by a bone-chilling fear. He was no different from his fallen comrades – just another mortal facing a force he couldn’t comprehend.

In the heart of the Blood Hall, bathed in the crimson glow of bioluminescent orbs, Orpheus stood, a lone figure amidst the carnage. His crimson eyes, devoid of emotion, scanned the remaining assassins, a predator surveying his prey. The silence, thick with the stench of death, was broken only by Zargon’s ragged breaths, a symphony of terror playing out in a single, desperate gasp.

’’Do not fret, it’s not over yet not until I say so. We have survived worse than this. We won’t give up, so believe in me like you always do.’’

Zargon’s words, though laced with bravado, rang hollow in the cavernous silence. The sight of his comrades reduced to a bloody tapestry had clearly shaken him. Orpheus, however, remained unfazed. He watched Zargon’s desperate gamble unfold with a flicker of morbid curiosity in his crimson eyes.

From an inner pocket, Zargon produced a small vial, the glass glinting ominously in the crimson light. Inside, nestled amongst a bed of crimson powder, lay a single black pill. It pulsed with a faint, malevolent energy, a physical manifestation of the desperation clinging to the air.

"Berserk Pill," Zargon gritted out, his voice strained.

"Temporary boost of strength." He held up the vial, a chilling glint in his single eye.

"Last chance, outsider. Walk away, or face us all at once, empowered by this forbidden alchemy."

A tense silence stretched between them. The remaining assassins, their faces contorted in a mixture of fear and desperate resolve, eyed the vial with a mix of apprehension and anticipation. The air crackled with a raw, primal energy as they contemplated the forbidden power it offered.

Orpheus uncrossed his arms, a slow smile spreading across his face. It wasn’t a smile of amusement – this time, it held a hint of something far more predatory, a hunter savoring the thrill of the chase.

"Foolish," he murmured, his voice a low purr. freeweɓnøvel.com

’’You think a temporary boost will change your fate? You underestimate me, and the power you so readily embrace."

As one, the assassins reached for the vial. Zargon uncorked it, and they each, with a grimace and a muttered prayer, swallowed the black pill. The effects were immediate. Their eyes widened, bloodshot and glowing with a feverish light. Their muscles bulged beneath their armor, a grotesque parody of strength. But with it came a tremor, a raw instability that spoke of the dark price they were paying for this borrowed power.

Orpheus chuckled, a dry, humorless sound that echoed eerily in the Blood Hall.

"Interesting," he said, his crimson eyes gleaming with an unsettling anticipation.

"Let’s see what this ’berserk’ truly offers."

The air grew thick with a palpable tension. The assassins, fueled by the pill’s dark energy, roared a primal challenge. Zargon, his single eye burning with a feverish intensity, charged at the forefront. The massacre was about to take a dark turn, and Orpheus, for the first time, seemed genuinely intrigued by the desperate struggle he was about to witness.