CHAPTER 310: 310

The woman’s eyes widened in horror.

Before she could pull back,a cultish attacked Kae.

Kael just slammed his palm and pressed against the chest of one of the robed cultists who had stepped forward to defend her.

The man gasped, pausing like a statue. No sound came out of his mouth. His eyes widened.

And then his life began to fade.

The air around Kael stilled as the cultist’s skin dulled and dried, his strength draining into Kael’s hand. Within seconds, the man’s body dropped like a sack of bones—dried, hollow, and lifeless.

The Saintess froze.

Another cultist screamed. "He’s draining him! He’s devouring him!"

"Demon!"

"Devil!"

Kael turned his head slowly, his hair now flickering like black fire. He didn’t need his sword. His hands were more terrifying now.

Another tried to attack. Kael ducked the strike, grabbed the attacker’s face with both hands and again he devoured the man.

The man’s eyes rolled back. His body twitched once. And then he slammed on the ground.

Just a husk as if it was corpse.

"I warned you," Kael muttered darkly. "Don’t let me touch you."

The Saintess tried to regain control. She chanted something under her breath. The chain rattled, glowing with red light.

Kael charged forward.

The chain shot toward him like a whip, cutting the air with a scream. But Kael caught it mid-strike. His grip tightened.

His aura flared up as he yanked again, pulling the Saintess off balance.

She staggered forward. He slammed into her, knocking her to the ground. Her hands flailed, trying to summon something. But Kael’s hand wrapped around her throat.

"No more games," he said coldly.

Her nails scratched his wrist. Her eyes glowed bright for a second then dulled.

Kael didn’t speak again.

He devoured her silently, slowly.

The process wasn’t loud or flashy. It was terrifying because of how quiet it was.

Her struggles weakened. Her body twitched, then sagged. Her face lost color. Her limbs went limp. Her violet eyes turned hollow.

By the time he was done, all that remained in his hand was a dried husk. Her skin had grayed. Her bones seemed to press against paper-thin flesh. She was no longer human—just a shell.

Kael dropped the corpse with a dead thud.

The rest of the cultists fell back, horrified.

One screamed louder than the others. "He... he strangled the Saintess... like it was nothing..."

"The Chain of Lamentation didn’t work."

Another fell to his knees. "He’s not one of us. He’s a monster..."

Kael turned his head slowly toward them. His gaze, sharp and cold, made several recoils instantly.

His voice was low. "If you don’t want to end up like her... run."

But none of them moved. Frozen in fear. Too late to escape.

Kael reached down, picking up his sword with one hand, the Saintess’s cursed chain with the other.

He stood in the eerie silence, the corpses of cultists littered behind him, the ancient hall still bathed in its flickering red light.

His clothes were torn, his shoulder bleeding, but his eyes burned with something darker now. He had seen too much. Fought too long.

And yet, in this dark place filled with madness and old gods, it was Kael who seemed the most terrifying.

The silence after the Saintess’s fall was suffocating.

Kael stood amid the corpses, his sword resting in one hand, the Chain of Lamentation writhing like a captured serpent in the other. His aura pulsed irregularly, no longer the steady rhythm of a trained warrior, but something wilder. Darker. Corrupted.

One cultist broke the silence.

"W-we must retreat!" he stammered, turning to flee.

Too late.

Kael raised his hand. The chain slithered up his arm like a living extension of his will. With a flick of his wrist, it lashed out like a viper, wrapping around the fleeing man’s neck mid-run.

CRACK.

The cultist’s body dropped, spine broken by the force of the pull.

"Move, damn it! Move!" another screamed, casting a blast of red energy.

Kael didn’t dodge. The blast struck him square in the chest, staggering him a step—but he didn’t fall. Instead, he lifted his head, the corners of his lips twitching into a smile.

"You call that power?"

He surged forward.

The chain lashed again—two more cultists dropped, one pierced through the throat, the other dragged forward, face skidding across stone until Kael slammed his boot into the man’s skull, shattering it.

The remaining cultists panicked. They cast spells wildly—flames, blades, psychic spears. But Kael was faster now. The aura around him had changed. It was erratic, surging like a storm unleashed.

He ducked under a burning arc, spun, and drove his sword through the gut of a robed figure. With the blade still buried, he grabbed another by the face and drained him dry, his hand glowing faintly as the cultist withered in seconds.

"Stop him! Circle! Circle!" one of the last cultists shouted.

Three of them gathered, chanting in unison. A summoning circle ignited under their feet. An infernal glyph glowed red-hot, and a massive beast began to emerge—horned, clawed, formed from smoke and hate.

Kael watched calmly.

Then he hurled the chain like a whip into the center of the summoning.

The circle shattered with a sharp snap, and a backlash of energy exploded, burning the three summoners alive in a flash of red fire. Their screams echoed through the sanctum before ending in ash.

Kael stepped forward through the dying light.

Only two remained.

One dropped to his knees, shaking. "Please... please, no..."

Kael stared at him, no anger in his face. Only cold certainty. He raised the sword—and brought it down.

The last one tried to fight. He charged, with his dual daggers drawn to slash, screaming in rage. Kael caught his arm mid-swing, twisted it, and stabbed his own dagger through the cultist’s eye.

Silence returned to the place.

Kael stood alone.

Around him, the ground was soaked in blood. Broken bodies littered the ancient hall. Some burned, some drained, others butchered.

He dropped the chain. It coiled lazily on the floor, as if sated.

Kael’s breathing was rough. His skin was pale. But his eyes... his eyes glowed darker now. He looked around at the massacre he had wrought—not with regret, but with grim resolve.

Whatever sanctity this place once held had been shattered.

He turned and walked slowly toward the far end of the chamber, where a sealed stone door stood covered in dust and ancient script. As he approached, the runes glowed faintly.

The real secret of the Crimson Choir lay beyond.

Kael raised his hand and the door began to open.