In A Fantasy World I Can Absorbs Abilities

Isper wandered the streets.

The once-prosperous city he had first set foot in was now unrecognizable.

The Holy Capital, once proud of its radiant wealth and power, had utterly collapsed.

Grand mansions built of marble and stone stood charred and gray.

Here and there, flames still consumed buildings.

The grand glass windows, once symbols of opulence, had been shattered—

Only tattered scraps of gauzy curtains now fluttered in the breeze.

The paved stone roads had been mangled by fleeing carriages, panicked horses, and falling debris.

Dark, dried bloodstains dotted the streets—signs that clergy attempting to flee by carriage had met grim ends.

Ornate religious gear, once adorned with brilliant patterns, now lay muddied and soaked in blood across the ground.

Most of the grand mansions' gates had been broken.

Walls that once enclosed lush gardens had crumbled, revealing the ruins within.

Manicured trees had been torn up.

Rose vines, left untended, had shed their petals.

Their blood-red color resembled tears of blood.

In corners of the street, abandoned belongings lay scattered—left behind in hurried escapes.

In front of one home, a blood trail led from the steps into the dark interior.

Isper walked beneath a collapsed balcony, his footsteps soft and quiet.

He wondered where the clergy and their families had vanished to.

Had they escaped? Were they among the fallen?

"Still… perhaps it's a relief this wasn't a district where commoners lived," he thought, glancing around.

All that surrounded him were mansions—clearly the residences of high-ranking clergy.

There were no signs of commoners' shacks, no bustling marketplaces.

Even through the broken windows, the interiors still gleamed with opulence.

Isper scanned the vast ruins.

Scorched stone, burned-out homes.

And yet, there was no sign of the poverty and suffering that often leaves its own scars on a city.

This devastation was not the kind carved into a land by hunger and despair.

It was the silence of erased suffering—

As if commoners had never existed here at all.

The contradiction gnawed at him.

Just then, laughter and clamor broke the silence.

A group of knights emerged from a mansion, their arms full of bundles.

Their armor was scratched and dust-covered, but their faces gleamed with triumph.

Some slung silk-wrapped packages over their shoulders, while others carried heavy silver candlesticks or gold-inlaid holy books.

"So this is what those priests hoarded?"

One knight held up a gleaming golden goblet, turning it toward the light.

"What do you think—was this for holy water? Ha! They probably used it for wine, knowing how corrupt they were."

Another knight chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder.

"They probably treated fine wine as more sacred than holy water.

Check this out—I found it in the dining hall!"

He held up a massive silver tray, piled with gold plates and incense burners—

likely once used for sacred rituals, now destined for more… practical purposes.

Another knight raised a thick golden candlestick, broader than his arm.

"Worship with this? Pfft. Those priests weren't worshiping God—they were worshiping gold."

He tapped the candlestick and laughed.

"Meanwhile, some poor soul has to work a whole day just to eat.

Look at this candle—it probably costs more than a gold bar."

"They've never known hunger.

Never gone a day with an empty belly," another knight muttered, running his hand across a soft velvet cloth.

Having risen from peasantry to knighthood, he had never even dreamed of such luxury.

"This one's mine. I'll turn it into a banner for my house."

Isper's gaze dropped to one of the bundles.

At that moment, the leading knight noticed him and called out.

His eyes flicked across Isper's tanned skin.

"Aha—knight of the Pamir Empire, are you? Don't worry, we're just claiming our fair share.

You should look around too—there may be something here that once belonged to your ancestors."

He gestured toward the loot.

"These wicked, false priests hoarded it all. Taking it back is not theft—it's justice."

He ended with a short laugh.

And indeed, to them, this was righteous retribution.

The gems and gold within these mansions had been extracted through the suffering of innocents—

Stolen from the starving to feed the greed of the holy.

This was not simply pillaging—

It was punishment and they believed in it, wholeheartedly.

Isper gave a silent nod and removed his hat out of courtesy before turning away.

Ancestors…

That word rang strangely to him.

He had no memory of his origins.

No knowledge of his bloodline, no sense of where he came from.

If he had once known, it had long since been erased.

His identity had been stolen.

He was a man of no roots.

"Whether as a human or a demon… I've always drifted like a floating reed."

Still, in some ways, life after becoming a demon had been… less lonely.

Perhaps that was an improvement?

A faintly bitter smile tugged at his lips.

The days he had laughed while crossing the desert felt like memories from another life—

And in truth, they were.

The human known as Isper had long since died.

He kept walking, without a destination.

Through the burning cathedral, past looted cardinal estates, and shattered murals—

He felt the fleeting nature of power and life alike.

"That house… is that the one that ordered Michael's assassination?"

His eyes landed on a grand mansion of extraordinary scale.

So vast that one would have to run a full minute just to reach the front door.

"If I remember correctly… It was commissioned by the cardinal's mistress.

If this is the mistress's house, just how massive must the main estate be?"

He shook his head.

The sheer luxury made the current pillaging seem justified.

"Should I… go inside?"

Curiosity overtook him.

Without even realizing it, he stepped into the mansion.

Its interior was just as extravagant as the exterior.

Gold-leaf ceilings and glittering chandeliers cast dazzling light throughout the halls.

On the marble floor lay a beautiful middle-aged woman—collapsed, face-down.

Her hair was in disarray, her once-fine dress torn and ragged.

Still… there were no signs that she had been physically assaulted.

She was simply… lost in a daze.

So that must be the mistress, Isper thought.

Just then, a presence approached from behind.

It wasn't hostile—in fact, it felt welcoming, even familiar.

Isper frowned slightly.

Is there anyone here who would greet me warmly?

The person walked right up behind him and gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder.

"Yuran hyung! What are you doing here?!"

Startled, Isper turned—

The rabbit-folk hunter Yuka, who had just called him "Yuran," blinked in confusion.

"…Oh? You're… Sorry! I thought you were someone else."

Yuka looked closer and apologized awkwardly.

"But… who are you, and why are you here?"

From behind, the man had looked exactly like Yuran hyung.

Even his face was strikingly similar.

But after a second glance, it was clear—it wasn't him.

Had Yuka seen him from the front first, he would never have made the mistake.

Isper, flustered by being called Yuran out of nowhere, gave a soft smile.

So… there's someone out there who looks like me?

But that name—Yuran—echoed in his memory.

And then it hit him.

Yuran—his brother.

The one he used to run and play with as a child.

"Yuran… Yes, that was his name!"

As Yuka bowed apologetically and began to leave, Isper reached out and grabbed his wrist.

His voice trembled.

"Please… take me to Yuran."

While Isper was having a tearful family reunion, Michael and Alfred were sweeping through the capital in search of the Light's escaped soul.

From the sky, the Holy Capital was a portrait of devastation.

On the outskirts, the Holy Knights—having just received the call—were arriving in full force.

There were too many of them.

If they entered the city now, the troops inside—still busy reclaiming lost artifacts—might get caught in the crossfire.

Michael smiled and glanced at Alfred.

"Should we handle them ourselves? Everyone seems a little too busy collecting justice right now."

Alfred chuckled in agreement.

"Hmm, why not. No need to bother the others. Besides, I've been itching for some action."

The grandfather and grandson met each other's eyes and began to draw on their power.

With a mighty beat of his wings, Marcus descended through the night sky, his flames sweeping across the approaching Holy Knights.

A torrent of fire illuminated the darkness, cutting straight through the enemy's ranks.

The knights raised their shields in panic, trying to form a protective formation.

But Marcus's flames weren't ordinary.

They were the wrath of a dragon—a fire that consumed even divine energy.

"It's a dragon! That's Michael—that cursed apostate!"

The vanguard panicked, trying to escape the inferno.

Just as they attempted to form a defensive magic circle with their holy shields, another force descended from above.

Miaomiao, the sphinx, launched into a graceful spiral from Marcus's back, gathering blue magic into her paws.

Her golden eyes shimmered as she cast her spell.

A booming voice echoed across the battlefield:

[Arena Sabulum!]

Beneath her, a massive magic circle spread out—

And a howling sandstorm erupted from the earth, engulfing the Holy Knights in blinding force.

Cries of panic rang out as knights were swept away in the storm.

And then, from above, glowing arrows rained down.

Michael, perched atop Marcus, drew a deep breath.

From his fingertips, arrow after arrow materialized and pierced the chaos below.

Even when the knights raised their shields, it was no use.

Every time they tried to call on divine energy, Michael absorbed it all.

His arrows changed form mid-flight, twisting around shields like serpents and piercing straight through their armor.

Cries of pain filled the night as knights fell one by one.

Those who remained alive screamed in terror.

"I'll lend a hand," Alfred murmured quietly.

From the shadows of the ruined city, a massive shape began to stir.

A tide of darkness rose, flowing up into the sky like liquid night—

Then shifting into the shape of a giant hand, which swept around to attack from the rear.

Still seated on Marcus, Alfred extended one hand and manipulated the shadow, wrapping it around the knights like a trap.

What followed was a one-sided massacre.

Alfred calmly watched as the last knight was dragged into the shadows.

With a simple gesture, the man's body twisted unnaturally and was pulled into the darkness—without even a scream.

Countless Holy Knights had been wiped out—by just two people.

Now, the battlefield was silent.

Corpses lay scattered across the blood-soaked ground.

From the bodies scorched by Marcus's fire, smoke rose and twisted the moonlight above.

Alfred turned his head.

A shadow he had sent out earlier had just returned.

It twisted in the air and formed a vague shape, relaying its findings directly into Alfred's mind.

He narrowed his eyes.

"A powerful soul has crossed the sea," he murmured.

The Light's spirit—the one that had vanished—was moving.

A faint smile touched Alfred's lips.

"So… he took the bait after all."

Michael smiled as well and reached out to clasp his grandfather's large, calloused hand.

"Then… shall we go get him?"