The Grand Duke's Son Is A Heretic-Chapter 206

Outside one of the biggest, filthiest buildings of Cascoid Street—where rats crawled freely through alleys, and flies swarmed over scraps of rotten meat—stood several rough-looking guards. They leaned against the moldy wooden walls, tired and bored.

One of them yawned, scratching his chest.

"Ahh... I wonder why all the top dogs gathered here outta nowhere."

Another one grunted, arms crossed. "Yeah, somethin's off. They usually never all meet together unless there's trouble."

"I'm thirsty... dammit, I wanna die already," the third muttered, wiping sweat from his greasy forehead.

But suddenly, all their chatter stopped.

A heavy pressure filled the air. It was cold—unlike anything they had ever felt before.

Their spines stiffened. Their eyes darted towards the entrance as their hands reached for weapons.

A cloaked figure stood there. A long black coat swayed gently with the breeze. His face was hidden under a dark, silver-trimmed mask. His steps were slow... steady... and filled with a silent threat.

"You… who the hell are you?" one of the bandits growled, his voice shaking slightly.

The masked man tilted his head and asked in a low voice.

"Is this where the top leaders of Shareon City are meeting?"

The bandits looked at each other and then laughed.

"Yeah, it's here," one snorted. "And if you know that, get lost before we slice your head."

More chuckles followed, the air filled with the sound of cheap laughter and false confidence.

"I see." The masked man nodded slightly. "Then I'm in the right place."

The man standing at the front stepped forward, his mouth curled into a cruel grin. "Yeah, bastard. Quit messing' with us before we piss on your—"

He didn't even finish.

SHING!

The air split.

The masked man disappeared in a flash. One blink—and the bandit's body split open, a clean line slicing across his chest. Blood gushed out like a fountain as the man collapsed, twitching on the dirt.

The laughter died instantly.

Everyone froze.

"What the—did he just... kill him?!"

"I didn't even see him move...!"

The masked man turned slowly, lifting his sword—a long, dark blade that gleamed red under the streetlight.

"Sorry," he said softly, "I'm in a hurry."

He vanished again.

SWOOSH

THUD—THUD—THUD!

A loud slicing sound echoed as a straight line shimmered across space. The heads of three more guards flew into the air, their expressions still locked in surprise and fear. Blood sprayed in all directions, painting the walls and ground red.

Screams erupted.

The rest of the guards tried to run. Some raised their weapons with trembling hands. Others dropped their swords and fell to their knees.

"P-please… don't kill me…!"

"I have a family, I swear!"

But their pleas meant nothing.

The masked man walked forward like a shadow.

He was calm, silent and ruthless.

Each swing of his sword was clean. Precise. Beautiful in its cruelty.

One bandit tried to escape by climbing a wall. He only managed halfway before a blade pierced through his back and pinned him there like a rag doll.

Another tried to shoot an arrow—but the moment he pulled the string, his hands were already gone. He screamed, but it was brief. The next second, his head rolled across the muddy floor.

Panic spread like wildfire.

"Monster! He's a monster!"

"Run! We need to tell the bosses—run now!"

But no one could escape.

The masked man danced between them like a ghost of death. His blade left glowing arcs in the air, and with every motion, a life was taken.

Blood pooled under his feet.

By the end of it, the whole entrance was filled with corpses. Limbs scattered. Faces frozen in horror. And in the center, standing without a single scratch, was the masked man—his sword dripping red, his breath calm and steady.

He sensed the presence, a strong focal mana

on the top floor.

He looked up at the building ahead—the place where the real prey waited.

The leaders.

His voice echoed softly under the mask.

"I hope they're worth my time."

Then, Kael's eyes flicked upward.

Without hesitation, he slammed his foot into the concrete.

CRACK!

The entire ground splintered beneath him like shattered glass. In a burst of violent energy, his body shot into the sky like a blazing meteor, leaving behind a shockwave that bent the trees and shattered nearby glass.

WHOOSH!

Wind screamed past his ears. His coat snapped like a flag in a storm.

Mid-flight, Kael's hand gripped his blackened blade. He poured his aura into it—an eerie, corrosive darkness laced with deep crimson—the air warped around it, the pressure twisting like a spiral storm. Sparks crawled across the surface of the weapon like angry serpents.

His eyes locked on the upper wall. With a fierce roar, he thrust his sword forward.

"GO!!!"

SWWISH!

The sword tore through the air, burning with a violent trail of red-black fire. As it neared the wall, Kael clenched his fist—and the aura detonated outward in a silent pulse.

BOOOOOM!!!

The upper wall exploded with a deafening shockwave, an eruption of smoke, flame, and concrete dust. Shattered windowpanes cascaded like glittering rain. The entire building shook violently, support beams groaning as if under a god's wrath.

Inside, screams echoed as figures stumbled to their feet, disoriented and coughing.

From the smoke, a thunderous clang rang out.

CLANG!

The black sword slammed down into the center of the room like judgment itself, cracking the floor open in a spiderweb pattern. The ground hissed where the blade touched, the aura melting through steel supports beneath. A thick smear of blood followed the sword's trajectory—a message written in crimson.

Then they saw him.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Kael stepped through the gaping hole in the wall, debris scattering beneath his heavy boots. His figure was backlit by the fires from the blast behind him. His aura now billowed outward in waves, a dense, suffocating mist of shadows, soaked in malice and rage. Electric pulses of red lightning snapped and crackled around his body as if the very air rejected his existence.

Behind his silver-faced mask, a wide, twisted grin began to stretch.

"Kekekekek..."

His voice was gravel and ice.

"It's good you're all here," he said, his voice reverberating unnaturally. "Saves me the trouble of hunting you down… one by one."

The four leaders froze. Even Jax, who only moments ago had been laughing smugly, instinctively stepped back, his face drained of color.

Kael's killing intent filled the room like a tide rising. The temperature plummeted. Breath became mist. Light dimmed as if the shadows themselves were drawn to him.

He walked forward—each step echoed like a death knell—and pulled a bloodstained bounty poster from within his cloak. Holding it up with two fingers, his other hand twitched near the hilt of his backup dagger.

He asked, low and cold, the voice seeming to crawl up their spines.

"I'm gonna ask this once. So you better listen."

He paused. The tension was thick enough to snap bone.

"Which one of you f*ckers put this bounty on him?"

Then, with a sudden surge, his aura exploded outward, shattering nearby furniture, tearing banners from walls, and knocking several guards to the ground. It wasn't just energy—it was raw hate weaponized, bearing down on every living soul in the room.

And in that moment, none dared breathe.