Cassidy sat down at the edge, facing the group, his usual cocky grin plastered across his face. There were about twenty-four of them, all clad in dark robes, their hoods casting deep shadows over their faces. According to Oracle, they were all at a solid B-rank level. This wasn't going to be a casual scuffle. But that only made it more fun.
"My oh my! What do we have here? A bunch of misfit cultists, don't we?" Cassidy's voice rang out, thick with mockery.
He leaned back, resting his elbows on his knees, completely at ease despite the overwhelming numbers before him. The cultists stirred, their reactions varying—some tensed, gripping their weapons tighter, while others merely exchanged glances, hesitant and uncertain.
That was the thing about groups like this—once you cracked their carefully crafted illusion of power, they started falling apart.
"I mean, really," he continued, waving a hand dismissively.
"This is what we're doing now? Dressing up in ominous robes, whispering dark secrets in the corners, hoping someone thinks we're scary? Hate to break it to you, but you're about as intimidating as a bad theater troupe."
A few cultists shifted uncomfortably, but one of them, a broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar running down his cheek, stepped forward, his presence more imposing than the others. His gaze was like steel, locked onto Cassidy with pure disdain. "You talk too much."
Cassidy chuckled, slow and deliberate, before clapping his hands together. "Oh, and they have a tough guy! Let me guess, you're the muscle? The one who does all the dirty work while the rest of them stand around looking mysterious? Come on, don't be shy—tell me your title. Something dramatic, I hope."
Belial smirked and chimed in, "I'm betting it's something like 'The Black king' or 'The Crimson Fang.' Always something edgy."
The cultist's jaw tightened, his fingers twitching at his side.
He was resisting the urge to lunge, but barely. Cassidy could see it—the tension, the way his body leaned ever so slightly forward. He was getting under their skin.
That was the trick, after all. Keep them reacting to you. Make them act rashly. The moment they let emotions take over, they became predictable.
Belial stood slightly behind Cassidy, arms crossed, observing with something between exasperation and admiration. He had seen Cassidy do this before, but it never ceased to amaze him how effortlessly he could turn a room against itself. There was an art to his taunts, a calculated rhythm in the way he spoke.
Cerise, on the other hand, remained silent, her eyes flicking between the cultists. Her posture was tense, but not out of fear—she was analyzing, calculating. If things went south, she needed to be ready.
Cassidy tilted his head, his smirk never faltering. "So, gentlemen, what now? Are we doing this the hard way, or are we just gonna stand here glaring at each other all night?"
Another cultist, this one leaner but with a presence just as dangerous, took a step forward.
"You act like you have the upper hand here," he said coolly. "You're outnumbered, surrounded. We don't need to play your games."
Cassidy let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "See, that's the problem with groups like yours. You think numbers mean something. But let's be real here—how many of you are actually willing to die for this little club?" He gestured lazily toward them. "Because, let me tell you, I'm more than happy to start testing that theory."
A flicker of hesitation ran through the group. Just a second, but Cassidy caught it. That was all he needed.
He suddenly flicked his wrist, and in an instant, a bead of water shot out from his fingers. It zipped across the room, too fast for the cultists to react, and before anyone could even register what had happened, one of them dropped to the floor, unconscious.
Silence.
Then chaos erupted.
Several cultists stumbled back, startled. Others instinctively reached for their weapons.
The scarred man took a step forward, rage flaring in his eyes. "You—"
Cassidy was already moving. In a blur, he shot forward, closing the distance between himself and the nearest cultist. With a sharp twist of his body, he slammed an elbow into the man's ribs, sending him sprawling.
Belial cursed under his breath. "And there it is."
The room erupted into action. Cultists surged forward, weapons drawn, haxes shifting the ether in the air. Cassidy, still grinning like a madman, weaved through them with effortless agility. He ducked, dodged, countered. A blade whistled past his cheek, missing by inches. He retaliated with a quick jab, sending his attacker staggering.
Cerise stayed in the darkness. The gun she had was a standard issue built to deal with Hunters, but it wasn't powerful enough to pierce B-rankers. B-rank Hunters were called Balancers for a reason—because they could maintain the ether in their bodies to the point where it was like breathing. In turn, this made their skin stronger than steel.
She could only hope that she could get out of there in one piece.
Belial gritted his teeth, muscles coiling with tension as he surveyed the battlefield. Flint stood at the center, flanked by two other cultists.
This wasn't good.
It was almost like staring down two Troxil's—and someone entirely new.
Flint.
Belial had never fought a Troxil himself, but he had witnessed their brutality firsthand during the Gate Raid. They were relentless, their attacks like rolling thunder, impossible to stop once they gained momentum. And Flint? He was something else entirely.A walking mystery. Formidable, to say the least—though Belial hated to admit it.
A sharp hiss of water sliced through the air.
Cassidy flicked his wrist, and in an instant, a towering wall of water surged up between them, severing the third cultist from the fight. The barrier shimmered in hues of blue and green, its surface rippling like liquid glass, fluid and smooth. But beneath that serene facade, it was unyielding, harder than diamond.
"Well, that evens the odds a little," Cassidy mused, his ever-present grin unfaltering.
Belial barely had time to register the shift before Cassidy turned to him, his tone light yet edged with unmistakable command.
"Keep Flint busy. Don't kill him. We need him alive."
Belial frowned. "What? You're just gonna take on twenty of them alone?"
His eyes flicked across the battlefield. Twenty-three B-rankers still stood, each one dangerous in their own right. Even a single one would be a challenge—but twenty? That was sheer lunacy. Sure, Cassidy was an A-rank, but even for him, this was beyond reckless.
Cassidy, however, didn't seem concerned in the slightest. He simply winked. "I got this."
Belial wasn't convinced.
Even with Cassidy's abilities, facing that many opponents alone was suicide. The air between them thickened with tension, a charged silence brimming with the promise of violence. The cultists, cloaked and armed, stood poised to strike, their eyes gleaming with murder.
Cassidy, in contrast, stood relaxed, as if this were all some elaborate game rather than a battle teetering on the edge of chaos.
"You're insane," Belial muttered under his breath, shifting his stance.
Cassidy smirked. "Yeah, yeah, I get that a lot."
In a sudden movement Flint lunged.
Belial barely had time to react before steel came flashing toward him, the deadly arc of a blade streaking through the air. He twisted at the last second, narrowly avoiding the strike as the force of the attack sent a sharp gust slicing across his face.
This guy wasn't holding back.
Belial locked eyes with him, and for a fleeting moment, he glimpsed the sheer cold precision in Flint's gaze. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion—just the lethal efficiency of a trained killer.
And Cassidy expected him to just stall?
"Great," Belial muttered, shifting his grip on his weapon. "Just perfect."
Flint came at him again, faster this time.
Belial parried, the clash of metal ringing like a war drum. Sparks flew as their blades met, the force behind Flint's strikes nearly overwhelming. He was strong—absurdly so. Belial barely had time to adjust before another attack followed, a relentless onslaught that left no room for hesitation.
Each strike was calculated. Precise.
Flint wasn't just trying to overpower him—he was dissecting him, analyzing his movements, searching for a weakness. Belial gritted his teeth, forcing himself to match the tempo, to stay a half-step ahead before the inevitable breaking point.
Meanwhile, behind him, Cassidy finally moved.
The air rippled, then exploded as water erupted around him, twisting and shifting like living serpents. It coiled around his arms, his shoulders, snapping and writhing as if eager to strike.
The twenty B-rankers stiffened.
Cassidy smiled.
"Alright then, gentlemen. Let's have some fun."
The cultists hesitated only for a second before the first wave surged forward. Cassidy didn't wait. He moved like water itself—fluid, unpredictable. A flick of his fingers sent a whip of water lashing out, slamming into the first opponent with bone-crushing force. Another gesture, and a towering surge of liquid rose behind him, cresting like a tidal wave before crashing down upon a group of cultists, scattering them like ragdolls.
Belial barely spared him a glance, too focused on not getting gutted by Flint. But from the corner of his eye, he caught glimpses of Cassidy's movements—evasive, graceful, utterly effortless. He fought like he was dancing, every motion flowing into the next, an artist in the middle of his masterpiece.
And yet, he wasn't taking it seriously.
Belial cursed under his breath, ducking beneath a sweeping strike. Cassidy was toying with them.
Of course he was.
Because for all his recklessness, for all his grinning bravado—Cassidy never fought fair.
Belial barely had time to react before Flint was on him again, blade flashing. He raised his weapon just in time, the impact rattling through his arms.
And as the battle raged around them, as water and steel clashed in a whirlwind of chaos, one thing became painfully clear.
Just then, a faint glint of metal caught the edge of his vision