Soul system:Return Of The SSS-Ranked Troublemaker-Chapter 61: Game Of Fate (17) Man In Shadow.

Silence.

Ash’s eyes widened—glowing with fury.

"SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!"

His roar echoed across the rooftop, tearing through the tension like thunder.

"You don’t know a damn thing about my clan!"

Ashes began to swirl violently around him—spiraling into a storm of rage and pain. The air grew heavier. Static crackled like lightning in a stormcloud.

Victor didn’t flinch.

He stared calmly, eyes sharp and cold.

"Then show me."

His voice was steel.

"Show me what you think honor really is."

Ash’s teeth clenched. His voice broke into a scream.

"I’LL SHOW YOU HOW HONOR SHOULD BE INHERITED FROM THE START!"

He raised both hands—and summoned it.

A massive orb formed above him. Dark. Twisting. Furious.

It pulsed with hatred, veins of blood-red light crawling across its surface like cracks in a dying world.

The ashes weren’t normal anymore. They were corrupted—fused with wrath.

The Warmonger Clan.

A political powerhouse cloaked in violence and power. Known for pushing wars, for using strategy and brute force alike to dominate the battlefield.

Every member bore the clan’s signature: clean-cut hair, like a soldier.

Flashy clothes, prideful and loud.

Chains like the one Ash wore now—engraved with the sigil "DarkG."

But it wasn’t just appearance. Their true power? Inheritance.

Abilities were passed by death.

When the current wielder aged, a ritual began.

The next heir—often no older than five—was chosen to receive the power.

The old wielder had no choice. They were burned alive. Their ashes were consumed by the ritual, feeding the ability. Merging with it.

Generation after generation, their souls stacked into the power.

And now, Ash was the result.

The living tomb of centuries of rage.

Victor’s lips curled into a half-smirk, sharp and amused.

"Yet... you still haven’t earned my respect."

His voice held no anger—only cold amusement, as if he were toying with a child trying to act grown. Slowly, he turned to glance at his teammates.

"Secure the two unconscious ones. And you..." he said, pointing at the figure in the white cloak with a red outline, "You know what to do."

The man he gestured to had long, spiked blonde hair that shimmered in the moonlight. His cloak fluttered as he stepped forward, nodding once without a word. His aura was calm—but dangerous, like a blade still in its sheath.

Ash’s breathing grew ragged, his eyes glowing with fury.

"VEINBURST!!" he roared, his voice shaking the rooftop.

He thrust his hand forward, and the massive swirling ball of ash he’d summoned surged into motion. It wasn’t just energy—it was something corrupted, something alive. The ash pulsed with glowing red veins that throbbed with rage, grief, and hatred.

The sheer weight of it warped the air.

People in the distance froze, confused—some terrified—by the monstrous sphere of darkness bearing down on Victor.

Victor, however, didn’t flinch. Smoke hissed off his arms. Steam rose from his shoulders.

His muscles tensed, expanding unnaturally.

His claws extended, cracking through the tips of his fingers. His fangs sharpened, and dark tribal markings spread across his skin like lightning bolts.

"ORC ULTIMATE FORM... ORCLASTING!!"

With a thunderous shout, Victor slammed his upper body down and launched himself toward the massive ash ball like a cannonball.

His body swelled in midair, his armor cracking apart as muscle and magic surged through him. Both hands extended—ready not to strike, but to embrace the attack.

He grabbed the ash sphere.

And he hugged it.

Energy shrieked around him. The ball fought back, burning at his flesh, trying to shred his body apart atom by atom. Victor’s feet hit the rooftop again—cracking the stone beneath.

That’s when the blond man vanished.

Time froze for a moment. Then—crack—he reappeared behind Victor, just barely avoiding the raw chaos bursting off the ash sphere. With surgical precision, he reached out and touched Victor’s back.

In a flash of light—they vanished.

Seconds later, in a secluded forest miles away—BOOOOOOOM!

The ash sphere exploded in full. The sky turned black. Trees were incinerated. Mountains trembled in the distance.

Back on the rooftop, chaos simmered but didn’t break.

Victor’s remaining team moved with trained discipline.

One of them draped a heavy cloak over the unconscious girl, shielding her from the elements. Another knelt beside the man with a gaping wound in his ribs, applying healing pressure with glowing hands.

Ash collapsed on the floor, barely conscious. His breath came out in short, broken gasps. Blood trickled from his nose, and steam curled from his skin.

"What do we do now?" one of the team asked, eyeing Ash’s weakened form.

The man in the cloak narrowed his eyes. "We wait for the boss’s command..."

Then a voice echoed from the communicator crystal embedded in his collar—calm, steady, and slightly winded.

"Give me five minutes. If he holds out that long, I’ll bring him back."

The team exchanged glances, some relieved, others tense.

Meanwhile, deep in the forest, the dark energy still raged. The once-massive ash sphere was now rapidly shrinking as it consumed itself in explosions, like a dying star collapsing inward.

And at its center—Victor knelt.

His body was scorched, his muscles torn, blood dripping freely from open wounds.

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay upright.

"Damn it..." he thought, breathing heavily. "I didn’t expect it to hurt like this..."

Every inch of his body screamed. But even now—he was smiling.

"Still... I think that brat earned it."

He coughed, blood splattering the ground. "He earned my respect."

Just as his strength began to leave him, a hand caught his wrist—firm, sure.

It was the blond man.

He’d returned.

Without a word, he activated the teleportation rune etched onto Victor’s back. Golden light enveloped them both.

Victor’s monstrous form began to shrink

his body reverting back to its normal orc form, albeit battered and broken. His fists were cracked and bleeding. But his eyes were burning. Alive.

After a while ash team was able to woked up as he awaked the first thing he sees was the shiny sun and beside he saw a paper with a letter in it "goodluck." And he saw the 2 of he’s team the girl was covered while the other one was healed up in he’s wounds he smile "let’s see each other in future." He thought

Somewhere in Germany – An Undisclosed Location

The room was dimly lit, shadows clinging to the walls like silent observers. The only source of light came from a crystal chandelier that swayed gently above, its soft glow casting flickers across the lavish interior.

A massive white bed sat at the center of the room, pristine sheets now tangled and creased. A man lay across it—his face hidden in shadow, only the outline of his lean, muscular frame visible. Scars ran across his torso like a map of violence. Around him, several naked women lay in varying states of exhaustion and satisfaction, draped over the silken covers like fallen petals.

Kneeling on the polished marble floor was a man, tied up tightly, a cloth stuffed in his mouth. His head trembled, eyes wide with dread. The scent of perfume, wine, and fear lingered in the air.

"Speak."

The command was calm, yet held the weight of absolute authority.

One of the women, dressed in a sleek black robe, stepped forward and removed the cloth from the prisoner’s mouth.

"I-I swear... I’m not lying!" the bound man stammered, words spilling over themselves. "Z-Zero... or the hero Lockerum—he’s alive! Or—or he has a disciple! I don’t know! Please!"

The man on the bed didn’t react at first. Instead, he slowly lifted a glass of wine to his lips, his scarred fingers wrapping around the crystal like a snake tightening around prey.

"Zero..." he murmured, swirling the red liquid lazily. "Such a brilliant man... Tragic, really."

Then—with a sharp crack—he crushed the glass in his hand.

Wine and blood dripped onto the sheets.

"All I know," he continued, voice soft yet bitter, "is that he never got along with his parents. Even his lovers couldn’t stay by his side for long..."

A pause.

"I’m... quite jealous, really."

He rose from the bed, walking barefoot across the room toward the trembling prisoner. The soft squelch of wine-soaked sheets and footsteps on marble echoed in the silence.

"P-please... let me go," the man whimpered, eyes brimming with terror.

The figure knelt in front of him, placing one hand gently on the man’s forehead. His touch was cold—unnaturally cold.

"Don’t worry," he whispered, his tone eerily kind. "This won’t hurt... unless you lied."

Veins on the prisoner’s face began to swell grotesquely. His skin darkened, bloated with unnatural pressure. Then—

CRACK.

His head shattered like brittle porcelain, spraying blood and bone across the floor and the foot of the bed.

A moment of silence followed, broken only by the drip... drip... drip... of thick red liquid.

"Clean it," the man said simply, standing upright and turning away.

The woman in black stepped forward without hesitation, retrieving a dark cloth and beginning her work beside the now-lifeless corpse.