MTLNOVEL Chapter 207: Gearing up
Did Dared think he was chosen randomly?
No.
He could never forget.
After that battle—though he had only been a baby—the tale was eventually told to him. His mother died in that struggle, and the royal family did nothing. No, it was far worse. It was someone from the royal family who ordered the assassination… but they didn't know his mother came from an ancient lineage.
She had left her clan to explore, only to be pinned down by the king—impregnated and discarded like nothing. When the old man from her family came seeking justice, his power was terrifying. Had it not been for the strength of the royal family's ancestors, the king and every conspirator behind the assassination attempt would have been wiped out.
But instead, they watched as his mother bled and died.
They watched… and wanted to kill him too.
He hated the royal family.
They cared only about face, not feelings. Cold. Merciless. Arrogant.
Since the day he was told the truth, he scoured every hidden record of the assassin organization. And as the eldest prince, he had access—no matter how deeply buried the truth was.
He discovered the fall of that organization stemmed from that one mission: the failure to kill him. And within those files, he found the name of their surviving family.
Dared.
When he saw that name, he clenched his fists until blood spilled.
He imagined their pain—when they lost their only son. It gave him satisfaction.
Even after the trial, though he felt no real attachment to his mother, the pain lingered. What stung more was the look of disgust from the royal family and the others. They wouldn't speak their minds—not out of kindness, but fear.
He hated that more than anything.
His so-called father. His brothers. His sisters.
He hated them all.
Old, scheming foxes dressed in silk and lies.
Even though the royal family ordered the assassination…
Dared's family would still pay the price.
Part of the reason he joined this organization was to hunt them down.
But he never expected to meet Dared here, of all places.
It seemed the dying remnants of the assassin organization made a desperate bid for survival.
He had been watching Dared ever since.
It surprised him how long it took to recognize him—but the mark, the aura, the bloodlust... it all made sense. And he loved it.
What would he do to Dared?
He would break him.
Torment him.
And then kill him—in front of the very parents that failed to protect him.
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"Eldest… prince, you—" one of the four beings stammered, but Caius simply smiled.
"Huh? Oh, stop calling me that. We're colleagues now," he replied with a smile as he turned to leave. "I'll be in my abode. Call me when he returns."
The four exchanged wary glances.
They knew.
That talk about him being weak and barely surviving the blood pool?
Utter bullshit.
After bathing in that crimson essence, their potential had skyrocketed—and Caius… the so-called waste of the royal family… was now something far beyond.
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"Fuck it…" Dared muttered, anger seething in his chest.
He had recognized the eldest prince the moment he saw the mark on his arm—an injury his father had inflicted long ago. His father had told him about it once, but had never said the boy's name. Now he understood why.
"Hahaha… kid, what will you do?" Azerak asked with amusement.
"Kill him?"
"Yes," Dared said coldly, "Right after I meet that woman."
Azerak burst into laughter.
"I advise you not to."
"Why?" Dared frowned.
"Does he have a treasure that protects him? He is royalty, after all…"
Azerak snorted.
"No. You forgot who he interacted with earlier?"
Dared's eyes widened.
"Lady Liya…"
"Exactly," Azerak said with a grin as Dared took a deep breath, calming himself.
He had nearly made a grave mistake. He needed to think clearly.
But suspicion gnawed at him.
"Why are you helping me?" Dared asked.
"Come on, I'm stuck in your body. If you die, I die too," Azerak said.
Dared narrowed his eyes.
"I'm not stupid. Why really?"
Azerak chuckled darkly.
"Guess. But I'm enjoying the show. I want to see how far you can go."
Dared dropped it, but he knew something was off.
"Brat, I'm serious," Azerak thought to himself, "but still… I need your body to reach the peak—then I'll devour you and take your place. Hahaha! But not yet. You dying now would ruin all the strength I've recovered. I'd have to start over as a mortal… how annoying."
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In the top twenty abode, within Zone 18, Liya frowned.
"Stupid Number One... Jake, isn't that your name? Just wait. I'll make you regret siding with Caius. But Caius… what's wrong with him? Doesn't he love me anymore?"
She paused.
"No… he does. I just need to try harder."
She nodded to herself, conviction sharpening her gaze.
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Finally, Dared arrived at the hall where his Cosmic Executioner awaited.
She reclined on a luxurious chair, nibbling lazily on blood-colored fruits.
"Glad you all could make it. There are clothes inside. Go in and change," she said, tone flat and uninterested.
Dared looked at the remaining nine people and followed them into the building.
In the center of the black-marbled room floated a swirling blob of liquid darkness, shifting and pulsing like a sentient void.
"What… is this?" Number 83 whispered in awe.
"I got here earlier," Number 85 replied. "She said just touch it. Imagine your outfit, and it'll become that. It's light, adaptive… and has its own defense mechanism."
Everyone turned as Number 81 stepped forward and touched the liquid.
The dark blob leapt up his arm and engulfed his body, forming a tight-fitting combat outfit. In a flash, it shifted again—becoming a simple shirt and pants, then again into casual wear.
Everyone stood stunned.
One by one, they stepped forward, transforming the void to their own designs.
Dared approached.
His fingers brushed the cool surface—darkness surged into him, urging him to imagine.
He closed his eyes.
The blob pulsed.
And then it began.
Darkness crawled up his body, wrapping around him like a living shadow. It solidified into armor—cold, lethal, and efficient.
The result was terrifying.
Jet-black, tightly woven nanoweave clung to his form like a second skin. Silent. Matte. No reflection. Designed for stealth, for murder.
Carbon-reinforced bands lined his joints—flexible, unyielding. His gloves were fingerless, but the knuckles gleamed with alloy plates—meant to shatter skulls in a single blow. His boots were light, yet layered for balance, silence, and killing intent.
No capes. No theatrics.
Just death.
He looked at the others. Each wore different outfits, molded by their thoughts.
But all shared the same core:
They were made to kill.
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