Steadily Upgrading Everything!

John focused every last drop of his strength on the lock.

His Soul Piercing Gaze flared brighter than before, the golden beam narrowing into a razor edge of spiritual force.

The metal shuddered violently under his assault, vibrating so hard that the talismans attached to it began to writhe like living things, their red inscriptions twisting in agony.

The air grew heavy, a suffocating pressure filling the tunnel as though the seal itself resented his intrusion and was lashing out in anger.

A low, almost inhuman hum resonated from the lock, building into a deep, throbbing pulse that matched the beat of his heart.

John gritted his teeth, his forehead slick with sweat, as he forced his will against the barrier.

Then it struck.

The backlash came like a tidal wave of raw spiritual force, slamming into him before he had a chance to brace.

His Soul Piercing Gaze shattered instantly, the golden light snuffed out as if it had never existed.

Pain exploded through his mind, and a violent force hurled him backward like a ragdoll.

He was airborne for what felt like an eternity before reality crashed back, literally.

His body slammed into the far wall with a bone-jarring crack, the impact echoing through the stone chamber.

A choked cry escaped his lips as blood burst from his mouth, spraying the dusty floor in vivid red.

His vision swam, the edges darkening, and his head rang as though a bell had been struck inside it.

For a moment, the world tilted and threatened to spin away entirely.

But through sheer stubbornness, he forced himself upright, swaying like a drunkard, each breath heavy and ragged.

Clark appeared beside him in an instant, moving with a flicker of motion too fast for the eye.

Without a word, he pressed a small pill between John's lips. "Here, take this."

John spat it out almost as quickly as it had entered his mouth, the little object bouncing across the stone floor.

With a faint, grim smile, he reached into his own pouch, retrieving a familiar round Healing Pill, and swallowed it in one motion.

"I still don't believe you guys completely," he murmured, his voice hoarse but steady, his eyes locking onto Clark's without hesitation.

Clark didn't react with anger.

He simply stood there, silent and unreadable, then turned his gaze toward the sealed lock.

The object was still whole, still defiant, but something about its oppressive aura had lessened.

The seal had weakened, however slightly.

"I told you he can't break that seal!" Crimson's voice cut through the air like a rusty blade. He stepped forward, irritation written plainly across his face. "Look at this, we wasted three of my Nine Heavens Fruits for nothing! We should just kill him now!"

Benneca said nothing at first, her cold, empty gaze fixed on the trembling lock.

She studied it for a long, tense moment before finally speaking.

"John, do it again." Her tone was flat, but there was no mistaking the authority in her words.

John inhaled deeply as the Healing Pill's warmth began to spread through his body, dulling the sharp edges of pain.

Slowly, he stood straight once more, his expression unreadable.

But this time, he didn't move to attack.

He stayed still, eyes closed in thought.

The silence stretched, broken only by the faint creak of Crimson's impatience and the distant whisper of the talismans.

Then John exhaled a slow, deliberate breath.

"Sorry," he said, his voice calm but firm. "I won't."

Benneca's brows lifted, ever so slightly, while Clark's eyes narrowed in quiet interest.

Crimson, however, grinned like a wolf who had finally cornered prey, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword as though he had been waiting for this refusal.

"Why?" Benneca's voice came again, this time laced with a thin edge of coldness.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop a degree, and a strange, invisible pressure began to settle over John like the weight of a falling mountain.

John didn't flinch.

His spine remained straight, his eyes clear and unwavering. "Because it's highly likely I'll lose consciousness the moment I break this door," he said evenly. "And when that happens, I don't know what you'll do. Maybe you'll kill me, maybe you'll turn me into a slave. Either way, I won't gamble my life just because you say it's safe."

Clark's lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing, neither confirming nor denying the suspicion.

Crimson's sword was already out, the steel glinting faintly in the dim light as he twirled it idly in his hand. "Shithead," he said with a cruel smile, "if we could kill you, we would've done it already. But you've got Benneca's sword, so here you are, still breathing."

John ignored him, his gaze locked firmly on Benneca.

Her eyes, still as lifeless as deep water, didn't blink. "I gave you my Silent Sword. There is no way I can kill you, nor allow anyone else to kill you," she said, her voice still cool, measured. "And as for making you a slave… I'm sure you're not stupid enough to overlook that possibility. You should have realized that if I did such a thing, I would never be able to claim my sword back from you."

"I know that," John replied calmly, his voice steady and deliberate, "but I'm also sure you're not stupid enough to hand over your Silentsword without some sort of insurance. You can track it, retrieve it whenever you want. So don't think for a second that I'm the fool here." His gaze didn't waver, his eyes locked on Benneca as though he were speaking to no one else in the world.

The subtle echo of his words lingered in the cold underground chamber.

Benneca's lips pressed into a thin line.

She said nothing, but the flicker in her gaze betrayed a moment of calculation.

Crimson's brows knitted together, the red in his hair catching the dim torchlight like streaks of flame.

He shifted his stance, clearly not liking where this was going.

Clark, on the other hand, suddenly burst into a booming laugh, startling the oppressive stillness.

The sound rolled around the stone walls, bouncing off the talisman-covered door like a challenge to the heavy atmosphere. "Nice!" he said, wiping a tear from his eye, his laughter still shaking his chest. He slapped John's back hard enough to make him take a half-step forward. "Not only are you capable, you've got brains. You should've been born a Silentsword."

Benneca's head turned, her cold gaze slicing through the air toward Clark, and the laughter died instantly.

The amusement in the chamber evaporated, replaced once again by her razor-edged composure. "So," she said flatly, her voice echoing faintly in the underground space, "what's your solution? Because there's no scenario in which you walk out of here without breaking that seal for me."

"We could just beat him into the ground over and over until he caves," Crimson cut in sharply, his tone half-serious and half-taunting. He tilted his head, his sword hand twitching slightly. "Break him, heal him, repeat it a hundred times. He'll give up eventually." His crimson hair swayed as he shifted, his smirk daring someone to tell him he was wrong.

No one even looked his way.

The dismissal was enough to make his jaw tighten.

John didn't move his eyes from Benneca. His posture straightened, and a faint, knowing smile touched his lips. "The only way I'm breaking that seal," he said slowly, each word deliberate, "is if you give me a Silentsword with my name etched into it."

The words fell into the chamber like a weight, and for a moment, there was nothing, no sound, no movement, only the heavy silence of tension wound too tight.

Then Benneca's spirit pressure surged forward like a tide, pressing into him with invisible force.

John's half-healed wounds flared painfully, his ribs aching as though they were being crushed.

The cold glint in her eyes deepened into something darker. "You want to die?" she asked softly, but her voice carried the kind of edge that promised she could grant that wish without hesitation.

Her irises darkened until they were almost completely black, like a bottomless void staring back at him.

Crimson's grin widened as though savoring the moment, while Clark simply observed with an amused glimmer in his eyes.

"So," Clark said casually, breaking the moment, "you've done your homework. You know that anyone with their name on a Silentsword can't be killed by another Silentsword. Treason, and all that."

"But you've forgotten one thing." Benneca's voice cut through like ice. She stepped forward slowly, pulling a slim dagger from her belt. "Only a true-blood Silentsword can bestow such a weapon. And I, John Coral, am not one."

John didn't flinch. In fact, he chuckled—a short, humorless sound. "You can't scare me with theatrics. Torture me, threaten me, it doesn't matter. My answer won't change. And as for who's a true-blood…" He turned his head slightly, his eyes landing on Clark. "I know you are."

Benneca stopped mid-step, her dagger lowering just slightly.

Crimson's eyes widened, his smug grin faltering for the first time.

Clark, however, only let out a sharp bark of laughter before it built into another full-bodied laugh.

"Hahaha! John, I like you." Clark's voice rang with genuine amusement and a faint trace of admiration. "Fine. I'll bestow a Silentsword on you. Our clan needs men like you, men who can stare down death and still bargain."

"Clark!" Benneca's voice was sharp.

"Have you turned into a shithead too?" Crimson added instantly, both of them speaking almost in unison, their frustration echoing in the stone chamber.

John's lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile at Clark's words.

He shifted his gaze toward Benneca and Crimson, letting a faint smirk play across his face as though he'd just won a silent battle. "Well," he said, voice carrying a casual authority, "he's said it now. So don't bother me while I heal." His tone was almost playful, but there was steel behind it, a deliberate provocation, just enough to get under their skin.

Without waiting for a reply, John reached into his Spatial Bag, the faint ripple of spatial energy spilling into the cold air.

From within, he drew a folded tent, its black fabric glinting faintly in the flickering light of the cave's torches.

With the smooth, practiced motions of someone used to living on the move, he set it down and unfurled it.

The material shimmered faintly, runes etched into its surface catching the light before fading again, as if swallowing the glow.

He ducked inside, the sound of the tent's flap closing soft but final.

From within, his voice came again, slightly muffled but still clear. "Clark, you can forge me a sword here while I heal."

Clark chuckled, a deep, unbothered sound, and inclined his head as though the decision had already been made. "Alright," he said, his tone carrying a note of approval.

He moved toward the far side of the chamber, his boots grinding softly against the gritty stone floor.

Kneeling, he reached into his own storage and pulled out an assortment of forging tools: a small, portable anvil, a compact set of hammers, and several long rods of dark, lustrous metal that seemed to drink in the torchlight rather than reflect it.

Each movement was deliberate, the air around him slowly warming as the forging setup came to life.

Crimson, however, was far less amused. His crimson-red hair shifted slightly as he stepped closer to Benneca, his eyes narrowing toward John's tent. "We should kill him before Clark finishes forging that sword for him," he muttered, his voice carrying a dangerous undercurrent.

There was no joke in it this time, just the flat, practical tone of someone stating the most obvious solution in his mind.

Benneca didn't even look at him.

She exhaled softly through her nose, a faint, contemptuous snort, before turning away entirely.

Her black coat flared slightly with the motion as she strode toward the far end of the chamber.

Without a backward glance, she ascended the worn stone staircase, her boots tapping steadily against the steps until the sound faded into the open air above.

It was as if she had decided, in that instant, that none of this concerned her, at least for now.

Crimson remained behind, his gaze fixed on the closed tent.

The flickering light from the torches cast long shadows across his face, the sharp angles of his jaw and the dangerous glint in his eyes making him look like a predator biding his time.

Meanwhile, Clark continued his preparations in the far corner, setting the metal in place and heating it in a compact, rune-inscribed forge that glowed like molten gold.

The rhythmic sound of tools being arranged filled the cavern, mingling with the distant, faint crackle of the torches.