The screams of those kids still echoed in Lin Feng ears as he walked through the narrow alleyways, head low, hood drawn up. The fog had long dissipated, leaving behind silence, two corpses, and a lingering dread in the air like poison gas. No one had seen. No one had heard.
And even if they had—who would believe what they saw? After all their mind had already been broken.
He paused at the shattered streetlamp beside a boarded-up pawn shop, pulled out the black obsidian butterfly knife, and opened and closed it almost rhythmically. But his mind was elsewhere, down in the depths of the chasm of realization, sorting through everything he had done with his magic.
His lips formed into a smile that didn't leave his eyes.
"So this is why it scare them."
He leaned against the wall, eyes gleaming with that wild glint he only got after a kill. His voice was low, like he was speaking to a ghost.
"Curse Magic… It's not just about pain. It's not just hallucinations. It's not even about death."
He tilted his head back, watching the faint shimmer of stars above the polluted skyline.
"It goes deeper. Straight to the soul."
His fingers twitched with a phantom echo of the Mist of Fear spell—how the boy's eyes had burst blood, how the girl tore her own flesh to escape things that weren't there. And yet… they were. To them, it was all real.
Their souls had been shredded.
"There's a reason this element was banned," Lin Feng murmured, dark amusement in his tone. "I looked into it last month—really dug into what Curse Magic actually is. It's not like the other elements. Fire burns. Ice freezes. Lightning shocks. But this?"
He smiled wide, voice barely above a whisper now.
"Curse bypasses the body entirely. Goes straight for the one thing no one can protect. The soul. You can block a blade, dodge a spell, even survive decapitation with the right healing... but your soul?"
His eyes narrowed.
"No one's ever survived that kind of damage."
"Only those above my level—Intermediate mages, High-tier elites, or freaks with unusually strong souls—might be able to resist it. Everyone else? They crumble. Their minds shatter. Their souls scream. This spell isn't just a weapon... it's a damn sentence."
He paused, then gave a small, bitter laugh.
"They call it 'soul rot'—the kind of pain that follows you into death and maybe even further. If a Curse Mage is ever caught destroying a soul, they're executed on the spot. No trial. No mercy. And if someone kills a Curse Mage mid-spell? The law lets them walk. Hell, it rewards them."
His voice dropped an octave, eyes shadowed by the dim light.
"There's no known defense against soul damage. Not a single one. And that... that makes me the most dangerous kind of monster."
He exhaled slowly, feeling the drain that came after using the spell. Unlike other elements, Curse magic didn't end after casting. It required a constant feed of magical stamina—nonstop, unblinking focus. The moment his concentration broke, the curse collapsed.
"It's kind of like holding a knife to someone's throat," he said, his fingers still nervous. "You have to press just the right amount. If it's too much or too little, they might escape or die. But if you can slowly bleed them out?"
A cold smile appeared on his face.
"You bleed them out slowly."
He drummed the butterfly knife against his thigh, the soft clink of obsidian on leather. And then he uttered the final part of his revelation, the least important part:
"Unlike other elements, Curse Magic doesn't evolve with new spells at the novice level. It perfects the one you already have. Mist of Fear... it doesn't stop at fear. It becomes your worst memory. Then your worst nightmare. Then your own personal hell."
"Right now, I've mastered it to level one."
"But there's so much more it can become."
Lin Feng stood straight, sliding the knife into his pocket, coat flaring with the movement. The night was quiet. Too quiet.
"Can't go after the Tian Lan Academy brats yet," he muttered, adjusting his gloves. "Too much heat, too much security. I need to stay off the radar a little longer."
A shadow passed over his face.
"But there are other kids. Weaklings. Wannabes. Nobodies who think they're something because they passed their written tests."
As Lin Feng resumed his walk toward the motel, the soles of his boots faded away along the cracked pavement.
"Let's see how brave they are... when I make their dreams into nightmares."
With that, the predator melted into the darkness again.
Lin Feng's boots echoed quietly along the cracked pavement and empty alleyways. Dried blood had begun to flake away beneath his fingernails. The rancid stink of the city would not touch him. Not now, anyway. Not while the glow of satisfaction still warmed his bones, all of them.
"I should get back," he murmured as he slipped the obsidian butterfly knife back into the sheath hidden away inside his coat, "New place, new blood, but the same rot underneath."
After the last job, Boss Zhou had finally coughed up the payment—a generous cut for "accidentally" going overboard. Lin Feng played it cool, claiming the soldier had resisted too much and that his emotions got the better of him. After all, "Ecstasy can be... overwhelming."
_______
Lin Feng's boots echoed softly against the cracked pavement as he strolled through the empty alleyways, blood long dried beneath his nails. The weight of satisfaction still lingered in his bones—but that wasn't the only thing he carried now.
A few days ago, Boss Zhou had sent over his cut for the "successful interrogation." A thick envelope, unmarked, dropped off by some dead-eyed runner. Lin Feng hadn't even counted it. The weight alone told him it was enough—enough for a new place, enough to disappear when needed, enough to keep doing what he did best.
"I guess pain really does pay," he murmured, a crooked grin tugging at the edge of his lips.
His new apartment wasn't much—second floor of a rundown complex overlooking the southern fringe of the city—but it was quiet, anonymous, and more importantly… easy to clean.
As he stepped through the door, the heavy metal bolt clicked behind him. Lin Feng exhaled, his grin fading into something colder.
"I need to be careful from here on out," he muttered, eyes narrowing as he surveyed the room. "If anyone finds out I'm using Curse Magic… I'm done. One whisper and I'm dead before I hit the ground."
He tossed his coat aside, revealing a simple black t-shirt beneath—faint crimson marks still clinging to the fabric. The apartment was modest but tidy. A steel table, a battered fridge, and a stove that hissed when touched. But Lin Feng didn't mind.
He walked into the kitchen like he had done many times before, confidently tying on a grease-stained apron. The first thing he did was open the refrigerator, where neatly stacked and organized vegetables and cuts of meat awaited him, with rows of spices arranged neatly alongside.
Just a few minutes later, the air smelled of bubbling garlic and pepper chicken, sizzling away in the pan, thick and aromatic butter sauce added, creating a fine traditional chicken stir fry; there was a cadencial rhythm to his movements that was mechanical, because he had gone through the same motions a thousand times. Because he had gone through it the same motions a thousand times.
He plated the meal with a flick of his wrist, an almost artistic flourish, before setting the dish on the table. He didn't immediately sit. He just stared for a moment, a dark smile forming on his lips.
"You know, most people learn how to cook because they love to eat, or to impress someone..."
He slowly took his seat, cutting into the steaming meat.
"...I learned to cook because it was one of the cleanest ways to kill a person."
He took a bite, savoring the taste.
"...but for me, it was always about survival. I didn't cook to kill, I cooked to survive. I never trusted someone else's hand in the kitchen. There was too much opportunity to disguise a slow and painful death in a palatable dish."
He took a bite, the flavors sharp and bold as he liked them.
"Poisons, neurotoxins, organ liquefiers... I used them all. But to defend against that I had to know exactly what it was I was putting in my mouth. Cooking became survival."
He leaned back, chewing slowly, his eyes blinking against distant memory.
"So, yeah... I guess you could say I'm a pretty damn good as a chef."
He chuckled to himself, tapping his fork against the plate, a nervous energy rattling his bones.
"But I still... I think I prefer to make people scream."