E-Rank or SSS-Rank: I Awakened a Skill That Shouldn't Exist-Chapter 312: Behind The Cursed.

Meanwhile, after the black portal had been cleared by Han and the others—preventing another insane and devastating calamity—new troubles were brewing across the planet. The energy dispersed when the portal collapsed spread throughout the world. Coupled with residual energy, it spawned multiple new portals of varying classes: blue, green, yellow, and even a few red.

Heroes and mercenaries alike rushed to close them. The world erupted in waves of chaos, a frantic storm of power and activity ignited by the sudden proliferation of portals.

In one city, a yellow portal gleamed ominously. Inside, heroes fought desperately to seal it. Battered, broken, sprawled across the ground, their energy nearly drained, they were barely clinging to life. Among them, only a few were B-rankers; the rest were C-rankers. Their combined power was barely enough to make a dent in a yellow portal's destructive force. If they didn't succeed, the portal would break.

They had tried contacting higher-ranked heroes, but everyone else was tied up. Their only choice was to give their all and hope it would be enough.

Surrounding the ten heroes were grotesque, bone-like creatures. Skeletons with dark, pulsating fibers inside their bodies, monstrously powerful and all B-rankers themselves. They stalked closer, savoring the impending kill. The heroes paled as the horrors drew near, fear creeping into their bones.

Before the creatures could strike, a figure landed before the heroes. His black cloak bellowed in the wind. He turned his masked face toward them, his voice calm but warm, almost heroic.

"Get the hell out of here," he said.

The heroes didn't need to be told twice. They gathered themselves and fled, praying the one who had saved them was strong enough to survive what was coming.

The masked figure stood alone as the skeleton monsters closed in. Every gaze locked on him, anticipating the kill. He lifted his head, revealing crimson eyes crackling with red lightning.

"Let's make this quick," he said. He stretched both arms, and a massive bolt of red lightning gathered at his palms. Then, with a clap, a surge of destructive energy blasted through the area. Over half the skeletal monsters were instantly obliterated.

But that was just the beginning. Red lightning whips manifested, lashing outward, and the masked figure moved with deadly precision. He weaved through the monsters' attacks, cutting them down one by one. Soon, every skeleton lay in ruins.

After the fight, he sat among the remains of the portal boss, examining the drops and a glowing shard nearby. It wasn't exactly a crystal, but it resembled one.

"This, along with the other things I've gathered, should let me lay low for a while," the masked figure said quietly.

He was none other than Striker, vice head of the Cursed. After witnessing the Cursed's defeat, he had carved a path to survive—but that didn't mean he had escaped. He was wanted, hunted, and if caught, he knew torture and death awaited.

Striker stood, his crimson eyes now cold and calculating as they scanned the horizon.

The vice head of the Cursed had planned ahead. The moment he realized the Cursed were heading for defeat, he carved himself an escape route and vanished. But escaping didn't mean safety. It meant the exact opposite.

He was being hunted.

He was a wanted criminal now.

And that was the least of his problems.

Because if that figure ever found him, he knew he wouldn't just die. He would be tortured until his mind broke, then killed slowly.

Striker stood, red eyes that once held warmth now cold as a dead star. He glared at the distant horizon.

"Han Trystan. I will make you pay for putting me in this condition. I swear it."

Red lightning crawled up his body and swallowed him as he vanished.

---

Meanwhile, in the southern continent, a figure dressed in black pushed open the doors of a massive pool bar. Music, lights, and bodies filled the air, but he didn't spare any of it a glance. He moved with surgical precision, slipping into a restricted hallway and descending underground.

He reached a solid wall of earth, sliced his own hand, and pressed the blood against it. The wall split apart, revealing a hidden doorway pulsing with yellow light.

The man stepped through.

Short black hair.

Black eyepatch covering his left eye.

Dark, silky combat fibers draped around him.

Anyone who got too close would feel one thing from him.

Danger.

And death.

He walked until he reached a vast meeting chamber, carved entirely from dark earth. Rows of empty seats extended downward, all facing a single throne made of jagged, thorn-like stone.

On that throne sat a man, relaxed, sipping wine, face emotionless. His upper body was barely covered, but his presence eclipsed every soul in the room.

The assassin stepped forward and delivered his report.

"The news is confirmed. The Cursed were destroyed. The few survivors, along with Drake, have been taken to Arc. Their island is a wreck. Heroes are digging around, probably trying to uncover their origin."

The man on the throne opened his eyes. Two dark pits. Endless. Hungry.

"What about Striker. Any sign of him."

The eyepatched man shook his head.

"Last sighting was during the battle. When the Tryst engaged the Cursed elites."

"And the Cursed serums."

That question made the assassin visibly tense. His answer could be the difference between walking out of this hall or dying right here. But he had to speak.

"It is said the heroes secured them. They will probably lock them away and run experiments."

The throne man closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were normal. Human. He stood, each step behind him heavy enough to make the eyepatched assassin's breath tighten.

He walked past him and spoke.

"I planned to use Drake and the Cursed serums to achieve my goal. That plan is gone."

He laughed quietly. A dry sound. A sound that promised blood.

"Contact the others. Heroes, mercenaries, the remnants of the Cursed. Let them have their fun."

He paused, and a strange excitement lit his face.

"It is time to join the fray. And while we are at it... I think I will face the golden boy once more."

The eyepatch assassin bowed and turned to leave, but then his gaze froze. His eyes locked onto the word carved across the man's bare back. A single word written in blood, thick and vivid.

DEATH.

A name, a warning, a promise. A symbol of what this man would unleash on the world if he ever felt like it.

To Be Continued...

AUTHOR'S NOTE

That's the chapter, everyone!

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– Ultra