CHAPTER 303: 303

The tunnel echoed with the clash of steel and the roar of battle. The zealots group simply pounced on them.

Kael and Rhys fought side by side like predators who had trained in the same jungle.

Their movements were sharp and calculated. When Kael ducked under a heavy swing and drove his fist into a zealot’s gut, the man folded like a sack of grain. Kael didn’t hesitate—he grabbed the zealot’s collar and flung him sideways into a beam, the crack of bone ringing louder than his scream.

Beside him, Rhys took down another attacker with brutal grace. Her knee struck the zealot’s jaw, knocking his weapon into the air. She snatched it mid-spin and tossed it back to one of her soldiers behind them. "Drive them back! Hold the line!" she barked, voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.

Kael vaulted over a rusted pipe, landed with a grunt, and drove his boot into the kneecap of another zealot. The man fell howling, clutching his shattered leg. "Don’t let them box us in!" Kael roared, eyes bloodshot and mouth curled in a grin too wild for the moment.

The zealots, though lacking polish, fought with desperation.

Their armor was mismatched, some with cracked chest plates, others with rusted swords, but they fought like wolves.

A few formed a defensive half-circle near the rear, slashing low at incoming zealots while their comrades covered them. Others used what they could find.pipes, broken boards, even their fists.

Oil packs were tossed down and spread along the ground. The floor turned slick, slowing down the zealots’ charge.

One guard yanked a rusted grate from the wall, jamming it into the tunnel entrance as a crude barrier. Another stabbed a zealot in the thigh, only to be tackled by a second one. Rhys yanked the attacker off the downed guard and stabbed him in the side without missing a beat.

The zealots were unhinged. Their eyes glowed with wild belief, their faces hidden behind cloth wraps or broken masks with symbols scratched into them.

They shouted verses, random cries, or just screamed as they swung their weapons. They fought dirty—biting, spitting, lunging low, using broken blades and jagged rebar. Their clothes were stained and torn, like monks twisted by nightmares. They weren’t just here to kill; they were here to bleed for something.

Suddenly, the tunnel trembled. A roar echoed down the path as a towering zealot broke through the barricade. He was half-naked, muscles veined and skin painted with dried blood. A shattered priest mask clung to his face, cracked down the middle. He held a massive hammer, dragging it behind him like a weapon of judgment.

"Let Crimson Tide burst forth the raving waves!" he screamed. "You shall not leave this sacred ground alive!"

Kael’s eyes widened. He barely dodged the hammer as it came down, exploding the wall beside him in a burst of stone and dust. He dropped into a roll, grabbing a hanging lantern and hurling it at the ground in front of the priest. Fire flared up—brilliant and angry. The zealot, Enoch, screamed and stumbled back.

Rhys surged forward, her elbow smashing into the side of his skull. The blow rocked the giant, and the guards swarmed him. Kael leapt on the zealot’s back and drove a blade into his shoulder, twisting with a snarl. Enoch screamed and toppled forward.

One by one corpse piled up as the zealots were taken down.

With the brute down, Rhys gave a quick signal. "Check the bodies! Move fast!"

The guards stepped forward, pulling masks off, checking for pulses. One of them froze. "Lord... Sir..."

Rhys turned sharply. "What happened? Stop acting like you’ve seen ghosts."

The man looked pale. "Sir Rhys... most of them... they’re the missing people. The ones we’ve been looking for in the lower districts."

Rhys blinked, then stepped closer. "What? Check again."

"We did. We checked twice." The guards were visibly shaken.

Kael muttered, "The people who disappeared... were they commoners or awakened?"

The guards looked between each other before one spoke. "Commoners, sir. Just normal people."

Kael’s brows furrowed. His mana flared. He dropped to one knee, scanning the bodies. "They didn’t awaken by themselves..."

Rhys frowned. "What do you mean?"

Kael’s tone was cold and sharp. "Someone tricked their minds. Made them believe they were strong. Their bodies responded to the belief. They fought like E-ranks... but none of them were truly awakened."

Rhys took a step back. "That’s... that’s not possible. That’s like a miracle..."

"It is possible," Kael growled. "If the illusion is strong enough. If you believe it deeply enough... the body reacts. But it doesn’t last. It’s unstable. The difference between low ranks isn’t wide, so it can be masked. But this... this is someone’s manipulation.Also they were ingrained with technique that burnt life span."

His fists clenched. "Someone fed them lies... and turned them into weapons."

Rhys went quiet. The air felt heavier.

Kael’s mind turned to the memories of war. He remembered the battlefront orators—men and women with no physical strength, but voices that moved armies. Their speeches could ease fatigue, dull pain, and push soldiers past their limits. Just for a while. Long enough to kill or die.

"We’re dealing with someone like that," Kael muttered. "Someone with a voice sharp enough to tear a mind open."

Rhys inhaled deeply. "We need to press forward."

Kael nodded. His voice was tight, cold. "Yeah. Before they vanish again."

Rhys turned to her squad. "Moori! Go get the list of missing people. Send for reinforcements and a recovery team. We need to secure the area and pull survivors out. Bring stretchers, healers, and the updated records."

Moori saluted and took off through the smoke-filled tunnel.

Rhys gave a final glance to the burning lantern remains and the fallen zealots. "Let’s move."

They pushed through a shattered stone archway, the walls slick with mold and rust. Rhys tossed a smoke bomb behind them. The cloud filled the corridor, covering their retreat. It wasn’t perfect, but it would buy them time.

On the other side, they stumbled into an old drainage chamber—wide, circular, with high walls that echoed every breath. Water trickled down cracked tiles. The silence here felt unnatural.

Kael stared into the dark, his eyes flicking from corner to corner. "We’re close to a fight," he muttered. "I can feel it."

Rhys glanced at him, then looked away. The way Kael smiled right then—it wasn’t sane. It was the smile of someone who didn’t mind stepping into hell, as long as he got to drag someone back out with him.

"Let’s keep going," she said.

Kael cracked his neck. "Oh, we’re not done yet."

As Kael and Rhys moved deeper into the underground passages with the city guards, the air became heavier. The stone walls around them were wet and chipped, water dripping from above and echoing into the tunnels. The path ahead widened, and a strange melody echoed in the air, broken by the sudden clash of weapons and guttural screams. A battle was already underway.

Just ahead, a massive underground basin of water shimmered with torches placed around its edge. It was like a crude battleground, half-flooded, half stone, with mist swirling above it. On one side, men and women in white sleeveless robes were charging forward, blood covering their fists, faces, and bare arms. They moved like berserkers, with unshaken rage and faith burning in their eyes.

"For the War God! Break their bones! Rip their soul!" they howled.

Kael narrowed his eyes. "It’s the mad dogs from the Church of the War God," he muttered, cracking his neck.

Across from them stood eerie figures clad in deep crimson robes, their faces hidden behind wooden masks carved into strange, unnatural smiles. They were the Crimson Choir, twisted followers who used song and voice as weapons.

One of them opened his arms and let out a melody that echoed like a whisper at first, but soon turned sharp, slicing through the air like a blade.

"Cover your ears!" Rhys shouted, already grabbing cloth from his pouch and stuffing it into his ears.

But two of the War God’s priests were already affected. Their wild eyes grew dull, and they suddenly turned on their own, fists flying, catching their own allies off guard. The berserkers were caught in a moment of confusion. One of them was taken down by a hook to the jaw. Another flew into the basin, splashing water everywhere.

Kael grinned. "Oh, you bastards are having fun." He kicked off the ground, shouting over his shoulder, "Move! Kill the singers!"

He charged straight in.

Rhys followed with the guards, but Kael was the first to dive into the chaos. His eyes gleamed with madness as he weaved through the chaos, not killing but breaking bones, cracking jaws, and sending bodies tumbling with brutal precision. A choir priest tried to chant, but Kael grabbed a stone from the ground and smashed it into his teeth.

"No one is in the mood to hear your singing today," he whispered coldly.

A priest of the War God ran past him, still screaming. One arm was broken, but he roared louder with every strike. "Glory! Rage! Tear them apart!"

Another crimson priest tried to escape across the basin but was pulled down by two berserkers who punched him until his mask shattered.

One of the hypnotized fighters leapt toward Kael, snarling like a beast. Kael ducked under the swing, grabbed his arm, twisted it behind, and slammed his head into the wall.

"Wake the fuck up," Kael hissed. "Wrong enemy."