CHAPTER 191: CONFRONTATION

I wasn’t exactly sure.

Even if he succeeded in recreating the graveyard, who would be left to bind?

The thought made my stomach coil.

"Keep an eye on them," I said, turning away. "I’ll return soon."

"Ehm—Eli?" one of the goblins piped up from behind. I turned slightly and saw it was the lanky one, trying to speak while hiding behind Talia.

"Can you not leave us alone with... it?" he said, motioning subtly toward Ariel. "She—uh—she keeps threatening to roast us alive and feast on our corpses."

I glanced back at Ariel, who simply bared her teeth in a wide, amused grin. Her tails swished lazily, but the glint in her eyes was far from harmless.

"I suggest you listen to her and keep still," I said, without looking back. "She means every word."

Talia let out a shaky breath and dropped to her knees, trembling as Ariel cast her a cold glance, flames flickering just behind her eyes.

Without wasting another second, I warped—reappearing at the edge of the cave carved into the mountainside. A gust of wind met me as I stood above the remains of the battlefield I’d torn through earlier. The bones, ashes, and twisted metal littering the slope below were all that remained of the goblin army that once filled this place with noise and bloodlust.

No reason to linger.

I stepped inside.

As I entered, my boots crunched softly against the scattered debris—shattered charms, broken bones, and the faint burn marks where Marcus had fallen. His body lay exactly where I left it: twisted, unmoving, with an expression frozen between fury and disbelief. The shaman from the enemy clan. The one who had thought his puppets and talismans would be enough to stop me.

He wasn’t even worth a second look now.

The chief must’ve seen this on his way in. No doubt the sight of his most trusted shaman lying cold and dead didn’t sit well with him. Maybe it unsettled him. Maybe it fueled his anger. Either way, it meant he was still here.

And he was.

Within a minute, I reached the circular chamber—the one I had first appeared in when all this began. The air was heavier now. Still. The lingering scent of incense and old blood hadn’t faded, but there was something newer mixed in.

A quiet tension. A shift in presence.

The chief sat cross-legged in the center of the chamber, eyes closed, as if meditating—or mourning. But the moment I stepped inside, he raised his head.

Like he had been waiting for me all along.

His gaze met mine.

I narrowed my brow, unsettled by the calmness in his posture. It wasn’t just composure—it was anticipation. As if he’d known I’d come. As if he’d been waiting.

I had expected to find him hunched over, scrambling to reconstruct his graveyard. Desperate. Distracted. Vulnerable. Not like this.

Suspicious, I activated [Analyze], this time allowing the system to fully unravel his details.

Name: Jael the Withering

Level: 57

Title: Goblin Chief, King Candidate, Drugar’s Chosen

Innate Skill: Deathroot

I sucked in a sharp breath.

"Damn," I muttered, the word slipping out before I could stop it.

I remembered now—back when I had glanced at his profile during our earlier encounter, I had only skimmed the surface.

But now that I was actually taking it in—his presence, his expression, and that profile glowing faintly before me—I couldn’t deny the weight pressing against my chest.

Innate Skill: Deathroot.

Even the name alone sent a chill crawling up my spine. It didn’t sound like some minor buff or flashy elemental trick. No, Deathroot sounded ancient. Something that grew from decay and fed on death itself. The kind of ability that turned battlefields into graveyards and enemies into fertilizer.

A raid-boss kind of scary.

Jael moved. Slowly, deliberately. The faint crack of his joints echoed through the chamber as he rose to his feet. His movements weren’t clumsy or worn despite his injuries—just heavy, purposeful, like each step carried the weight of a dozen ghosts behind it.

When he finally spoke, his voice came low and rough, like gravel being ground beneath iron.

"You..." He paused, eyes narrowing, his tone not fully rage. "...you ruined it all."

The way he said it—the steadiness beneath the pain—told me everything I needed to know.

Yeah....He wasn’t here to play games. That much was clear.

I raised my blade, resting it lightly against my shoulder.

"Oh? And what exactly did I ruin?" I asked, letting a touch of humor lace my voice. "Your hairstyle? Your reputation? Be specific."

His glare deepened, but the pain beneath it didn’t waver.

"Do you have any idea how long it took me to get here?" His voice cracked, then steadied. "To build this clan from the bones of those before it. To survive the wars, the curses, the betrayal. And now, all of it—destroyed. All because of you. One man."

I shrugged. "You flatter me."

And then he moved.

With a sudden twist of his arm, he swung his blade in a clean arc—and from its edge came a ripple of black energy, a crescent slash of withering force that surged toward me with a low, guttural hum.

I didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

Instead, I stood perfectly still and let it come.

The slash passed through me like water on polished glass. It didn’t cut. It didn’t burn. My body shimmered slightly—[Fractured Existence] absorbing the impact like it was nothing more than a breeze.

Behind me, the wall wasn’t so lucky.

BOOM!

It erupted into splinters and stone fragments, the force of the blast shaking the chamber and raining dust from the ceiling.

I stared at Jael with a grin stretching across my face, deliberately letting him see that I was completely untouched—no scorch, no tear, not even a singe mark on my cloak.

His eyes widened as realization hit, disbelief shadowing his expression. The kind of look I’d grown all too familiar with—like the moment someone realizes the rules they thought applied suddenly don’t anymore.

"Your innate skill," he asked, voice quiet but tense, like he already feared the answer. "What rank is it?"

I tilted my head, feigning thought.

"Why?" I said, raising a brow. "Jealous?"

"Or just afraid it might be higher than yours?" I teased.

He didn’t answer. Just stared.

Alright, fine.

I gave him a little show.

"S..." I said.

Let the word hang there for a beat. Then repeated it again, slower this time.

"S..."

And once more, just to drive the nail in, I met his gaze dead-on and said it clearly.

"S."

His face froze.

"SSS?..." He muttered. "That...