Chapter 290: Rage Pill: When Men Become Rage Monsters
Rage Pill: When Men Become Rage Monsters
Far from where Leon clashed blades with the five masked bastards, another corner of Silver City had already gone to hell.
A place that used to be quiet—just lantern-lit alleys, the sound of footsteps echoing soft against stone—was now thick with blood and smoke. The air was choking on it. Screams tore down the streets, raw and jagged, bouncing between walls like some cruel symphony. Shadows writhed in the firelight. Steel clashed again and again—silver-armored guards locked in deadly struggle against black-cloaked intruders who didn’t fight like men. They fought like this was their last day and they wanted to drag the city down with them.
The screams weren’t just loud. They were broken. Real. The kind of cries that didn’t ask for help—they just knew it wasn’t coming.
Fire leapt from busted windows, licking up at a sky already painted red. Civilians ran—some screaming for their children, some dragging their loved ones, others too far gone to move as their blood spread dark across the cobblestones. The street was littered with bodies. People. Soldiers. Strangers. Dead and dying in the same breath. Some of the fallen still burned—black-robed corpses twitching in the fire, charred fingers curled around weapons they never got to use.
And right there, in the thick of it, stood Captain Black.
A wall of a man, wrapped in soot-streaked armor, his entire frame soaked in blood—his own, his enemy’s, didn’t matter. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move wrong. He stood like someone who knew the weight of war, and wore it anyway. His greatsword shimmered in his grip—mana pulsing along the blade in cold blue light, water magic humming like a live wire. His eyes, locked on the figure in front of him, held no fear.
This wasn’t just some masked foot soldier.
The man standing across from him was tall. Broad. His cloak swallowed the light, like the darkness wasn’t just around him—it was part of him. His presence bent the space around them. Soldiers nearby stepped back without thinking. Didn’t matter that they’d been trained. This pressure was wrong. Heavy. His face was covered, but his power wasn’t. It bled out from him like poison in the air.
This one was no average cultivator.
Grandmaster Realm.
Just like Captain Black.
And when their blades met, the whole damn street held its breath.
The impact cracked stone. Steel rang like thunder. Sparks spat in every direction, and the shockwave blew dust and broken tile off rooftops. Even the buildings felt it.
"Hmph," the cloaked figure let out a low, jagged chuckle—cold and cutting. "So... Duke Leon’s dogs have bite after all."
Captain Black didn’t so much as blink. His voice came low, heavy as a promise. "This dog knows how to guard his master’s home."
The masked man laughed harder now. Louder. Crueler. "Let’s see how loyal you are... when I tear you apart."
He stepped back. Just a single motion—but the air around him flared, his aura igniting like a second fire.
Then his hands moved—fluid, too fast—and the spell came with a rush of guttural syllables. Harsh, sharp, biting through the noise. Wind and fire, fused together into a cyclone of searing flame that shot straight for Black. The heat came first, so hot it warped the air and peeled the paint from nearby doors.
But the Captain didn’t waver.
His sword flared—brighter, deeper blue—and he moved. Not like a man dodging death, but like someone who had danced with it too many times to flinch. He slashed through the inferno. Water surged, parting the flame like it wasn’t even real. He stomped once, hard, grounding himself—and stone exploded upward in jagged spikes, just in time to catch a second spell fired from the side.
The masked bastard retreated a step, eyes narrowing. "You’re good," he muttered, barely loud enough to catch over the firelight. "Still just a dog."
"You talk too much."
Black moved.
No warning. No chant. Just raw, brutal momentum as he lunged—sword arcing through the air like a thunderclap.
They clashed again. Harder. Magic against steel. Power against rage. Cobblestones shattered. Flames spilled across walls. The impact tore through the street like a wave. Windows broke. The rooftops groaned under the weight of it all.
Captain Black growled, low and rough, as he slashed again—this time wide, water bursting out to kill the flames licking at nearby homes. His boots dug into the stone. Earth magic pulsed from his legs, bracing him, feeding his stance with stubborn strength. Every blow sent a fresh quake through the street. Lanterns swung wild. Some burst. Others just flickered out—like the light had finally given up.
Tiles cracked overhead. Pieces of roof caved in. The district wasn’t just burning—it was breaking apart under their fight.
From the ruins and corners, Silver City’s last standing guards watched. Quiet. Frozen. The smaller enemies were done—black-robed bodies sprawled across the street like discarded rags. But this? This wasn’t just a fight.
"Captain Black’s not fighting a man," one of them said, voice barely more than breath. "That’s a monster."
Another jaw clenched tight. "And he’s doing it alone."
"Even if we helped," another added, eyes burning with helpless frustration, "we’d only get in his way."
They all knew it was true. They wanted to help. Every muscle screamed for it. But rushing in now? They’d die. Worse, they’d distract him. And Black didn’t have room for distractions.
So they did what they could.
They turned their backs on the fight—and sprinted toward the screams. Pulled people out of burning homes. Hauled rubble off broken bodies. Every soldier who couldn’t fight a Grandmaster threw themselves into saving lives. Because someone had to.
"This whole district’s gone!" a sergeant yelled through the smoke. "Evacuate the survivors! Get them out—before the next spell brings the rest of it down!"
More shouting followed. Through the ash and the chaos, they moved—carrying children, dragging the wounded, shielding civilians from falling beams and burning rooftops. Rage burned in their hearts, but it had nowhere to go. So they channeled it into action. Into rescue.
Because that was the only thing left.
And in the eye of that crumbling storm, two Grandmasters kept tearing each other apart.
Captain Black fought like the war had never ended. Like it had just shifted names.
His blade roared with elemental force—water mana coiling and bursting from each swing like it had a will of its own. Every slash cracked stone. Every clash sent shockwaves tearing through the street. The sheer weight of his strikes forced the masked figure to keep moving, to dodge, to weave—fast as hell, fast like a blur of shadow barely held together by flesh.
But that bastard was slippery. Too slippery.
Fire lashed out in waves. Wind sliced past, nicking Black’s armor, hissing against the air. But every time the bastard tried to put space between them, Black closed it again. Like death itself kept stepping forward, slow, heavy, inevitable.
Sweat rolled down their faces. Armor groaned under pressure. Blades dripped—some wounds shallow, some deep, all of them real. The kind of pain that added weight to every breath.
Black’s wide swing cut clean through the enemy’s cloak. A searing line opened across the man’s ribs—burned, bloodied. He staggered, hissed like a feral thing, one hand clutching the wound.
But Black wasn’t untouched either.
His shoulder guard was wrecked, barely hanging on. A red line cut down his cheek, sharp and cruel—like the battle had marked him on purpose, carved its signature into his skin.
"Hah... still standing?" the masked man spat, voice lower now, fraying at the edges. "Tch. Let’s see how long that lasts."
He dropped low, ducking under a brutal arc of Black’s blade. His spin came fast—sweeping for the captain’s legs with the kind of grace that didn’t belong to something human.
But Black didn’t give him the chance.
His boot smashed into the man’s ribs with a sick crunch. The impact threw him back, sent him skidding across rubble and broken stone. And Black was on him again. No hesitation. His sword came down like judgment, slamming into the ground hard enough to crack it wide open beneath them.
Blood splattered.
Stone split.
Both men were wounded now—properly. Deep. But neither one backed down.
"You’re good," the enemy growled, breathing like he was choking on heat. "But not good enough."
And that’s when it changed.
Black’s eyes narrowed. His breath hitched—just for a second.
He saw it.
A small vial, glass catching the light, slipping between the man’s fingers. The liquid inside glowed. Red, dark, and dangerous.
And Black knew.
He didn’t need an explanation. Didn’t need a name. But the man gave one anyway—his voice curling into something smug and sadistic.
"You know what this is, don’t you... Duke’s dog?" the masked man said with a sneer. "A Rage Pill. Once I take it... I’ll be stronger than you. For ten whole minutes. That’s all I’ll need to snap your ribs and break your pride. I’ll become death for you. A god of death."
The cork popped with a flick of his thumb. Casual. Like it was nothing.
Then, slow as hell, he lifted the hood that had covered his face.
And what lay beneath wasn’t human.
Rotten yellow teeth showed through cracked lips. His face was a battlefield—scars, burns, twisted flesh, like something had melted hate into his skin. One eye hung half-closed. The other burned wild, mad. His skin was lined with the wreckage of a hundred fights, and not one of them had been clean.
Black didn’t blink.
He’d seen worse.
But he also knew what came next.
Rage Pills didn’t just give you strength. They gave you destruction. For ten minutes, you could become something more than human. But the price? It was blood. It was bone. It was his everything.
"You’ll burn yourself alive," Black said quietly. His voice didn’t shake, but the weight was there. "Once pill effect subsides... you’ll be a corpse."
The man grinned wider. "Ten minutes," he whispered, "is all I need... to tear out your fucking heart."
And then—he threw it back.
The pill hit his tongue.
The second it did, his body convulsed. Like lightning had ripped through his veins. His spine jerked, chest snapping back. A guttural gasp tore out of him, low and wet, but it got swallowed fast—by the chaos inside him.
His muscles rippled. Twitched. His skin buckled like it was trying to crawl off him. Dark veins burst into view—pulsing, alive, writhing like snakes just under the surface. He arched. His breath came in ragged, steaming gasps, each one hotter than the last. Steam poured off him. His heat was off the charts—inhuman, wrong.
He clawed at his own chest, teeth grinding together, body shaking like he was about to tear open from the inside out.
Then he screamed.
Not a word.
Not a curse.
Just a sound—raw and violent and goddamn awful.
"RAAAHHHH!!"