Through Spartan’s eyes, Michael studied each figure in turn.
It didn’t take long for Michael to mark one the leader.
It was the one with the basin.
Then, with a single silent pulse across the link, Michael commanded his undead to strike.
The six armored figures moved as one.
The nearest undead seized the first robed mage by the skull and twisted. There was no surprise—only a dull crunch as the man’s neck snapped cleanly.
Another undead caught a second by both shoulders and jerked hard to the side, the impact breaking bone. A third robed figure fell limply under a crushing blow to the base of the neck.
The fourth and fifth died almost in the sa heartbeat—one throat crushed under a mailed fist, the other’s skull caved in with a punch.
Only the leader remained.
Michael’s awareness flowed like water through the six bodies.
Spartan advanced, iron gauntlet outstretched. In one swift motion, he clamped onto the leader’s arm and wrenched it backward until the shoulder joint tore with a soft wet pop. The man’s breath hitched—no cry escaped, a body instinctive reaction even without conscience and his body spasd in place.
A second undead took hold of the opposite arm and did the sa. Soon his limbs were left dangling useless.
Michael then turned his attention to the ritual circle on the floor and when he saw it was still running, a slight sense of relief ca to him.
’Good,’ he thought.
Michael didn’t want it to end yet.
This was related to his actions just now.
Michael flexed his hands in the real world, feeling a quiet satisfaction settle into his bones.
Transporting the bodies would be simple enough. He would have Spartan and two others carry the corpses. The leader he would take alive—there were questions that needed answers.
Why this place? Who ordered it? What purpose did the illusion serve beyond re theft?
Michael truly didn’t like the feeling of his life being in danger which made him quite resentful.
And after the answers ca...
He would kill the man.
And raise him.
Raise him as an undead.
Because whatever else he felt, Michael could not deny the simple, ruthless truth.
Six robed figures had held him and every other Rank 2 powerhouse in this place completely helpless.
That power was too valuable to waste.
Unique abilities like this—ritualists who could cripple an entire building without spilling a drop of blood—were rarer than most treasure.
They would be...
He searched for the word.
Assets.
No matter how little he liked the idea of filling his ranks with the dead, making everything so ssy aside from gaining more evolution points, he wasn’t blind to the benefits.
"Bring them to ."
Another command was sent.
One by one, Michael directed his undead to gather the bodies. One undead hoisted the limp corpses over broad shoulders. Two more flanked the leader, gripping him firmly by the upper arms.
The leader’s head lolled to the side, mouth opening in a wet gasp—still caught halfway between awareness and the spell’s haze.
This amused Michael because it made him confirm that if he was deep within the range of the illusion spell, it would capture him again.
To be free again, he’d need another dose of Thor love hamr.
Six acknowledgents rippled back, as silent and inexorable as the tide.
And in the vault beneath the auction house, five undead left, leaving the steaming basin and the still-pulsing ritual array behind them.
Michael waited.
Soon, five undead approached him.
Two carried the limp corpses across their shoulders like sacks of grain, arms swinging loosely. Another held a body under each arm, gauntlets sunk into the robes. The last two had the leader between them.
They ca to a halt in a neat line before him.
Up close, Michael could see how fragile the robed man looked—pale and clammy, blood leaking slowly from both ruined shoulders.
Michael frowned at this.
His gaze only relaxed when he saw that the man cloy soaked it all.
He was worried about leaving an obvious trace.
Michael’s eyes were still fixed on the man..
He was unconscious.
Just like the Duke’s daughter. Just like the dark elf.
Once removed from the spell’s reach, awareness slipped away.
But unlike them, he had no intention of leaving this one in peace.
He stepped forward and studied the man’s slack face for a mont, considering.
Words, he suspected, wouldn’t reach him. Not in this state.
So Michael chose the simplest thod.
He drew back his hand and struck the man across the cheek—once, sharply. The man’s head snapped to the side, but no sign of waking.
Michael’s lips pressed into a thin line.
Again.
This ti, knuckles t skin. A bright red welt blood across the cheekbone.
A low groan escaped the man’s throat.
Michael’s brows lifted a fraction.
"Promising."
He reached out, pressing his thumb into the hollow beneath the jaw—hard enough that he felt the pulse flutter, then hamr.
Pain.
A body never ignored pain for long.
The robed man sucked in a ragged breath, eyes fluttering.
Michael waited, thumb still pressed to the nerve.
Slowly—like a man clawing his way out of deep water—the leader’s eyes opened. Unfocused. Bloodshot. But awake.
For a mont, confusion warred with fear on his bruised face. Then, with visible effort, he lifted his gaze and t Michael’s eyes.
Michael inclined his head faintly.
"Good evening," he said, voice soft and cold. "I see you’re finally joining us."
The man’s lips parted, but no sound erged beyond a wet gasp.
"Don’t waste energy trying to cast," Michael continued calmly. "Your arms are broken. Your channels are likely disrupted. And if you try to bite your tongue or trigger a failsafe, I assure you—I’ll know."
The last part was a bluff.
It just ca to Michael and he figured he should say it.
He really didn’t have much experience in this aspect.
The man swallowed convulsively.
Michael felt a flicker of grim satisfaction.
Michael turned, nodding to the undead who held the leader upright.
"Hold him," he ordered.
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