Path of the Unmentioned: The Missing Piece-Chapter 91: Slaughterhouse

[Two Weeks Ago — Garrick’s POV]

Garrick was returning from the usual Monday meeting.

Every week. He handled deals with black-market suppliers. Making sure the Vipers stayed well stocked.

It had taken longer than normal today. But the business was done.

Normally, Risha would’ve been with him. Her sharp tongue and scarlet eyes kept people in line. But today, she had stayed behind.

— "Let’s see what that new guy does when we are not around"

She had said. Her tone had been calm.

But her eyes told a different story. Watching. Waiting.

Dain Vorsk.

That name had been bothering Garrick for a while now.

The guy was talented. He had helped root out two spies from within their ranks in less than a day.

But something about him didn’t sit right.

Garrick didn’t have proof. He just had a gut feeling.

And after spending twenty years in the back alleys.

The gutters and the blood-soaked streets of the underworld. Garrick had learned to trust that feeling.

If Dain was here for something, some hidden motive or secret goal. Then now would be the time to act.

With Garrick gone. With Risha gone.

Garrick had laughed when Risha brought it up.

— "If the brat tries something, we’ll know soon enough.

— "You’re more than enough to handle him."

Dain was just a Grade 1 Bronze.

Risha was a Grade 3 Silver, and she wasn’t alone. Nearly a hundred Vipers were stationed at the warehouse.

If Dain tried anything. He wouldn’t be able to leave in one piece.

Garrick leaned back as the car screeched to a stop in front of the warehouse. The building looked the same as always.

Rusted metal, dark windows, dented doors.

The Viper in the front passenger seat got out and opened his door.

Garrick stepped onto the cracked pavement, stretching a little. But as his boots hit the ground.

A strange silence settled over everything.

No guards.

No greetings.

Not even footsteps.

He frowned.

"Where the hell is everyone?" he muttered.

It wasn’t just quiet. It was wrong. The kind of stillness that crept into your bones.

He moved toward the warehouse. As soon as he opened the door, it hit him.

The smell.

A thick, sharp stench. Metallic. Heavy.

Blood.

He froze at the entrance, nostrils flaring.

Then, with his heart pounding, he rushed inside...

And stopped cold.

His breath caught in his throat.

Bodies.

Everywhere.

Vipers, torn to pieces. Some had been sliced clean through. Others ripped apart like rag dolls.

Blood soaked the floor, dripping from crates, pooling beneath lifeless limbs. Faces locked in expressions of terror, mouths still open in screams that would never be heard.

A hundred men and women—his men and women—all dead.

Slaughtered.

"What... what the fuck is this..." Garrick whispered, stumbling forward.

The Vipers who had come with him were behind him, frozen in shock. No one spoke. No one moved.

Thoughts raced through Garrick’s mind.

’Red Fangs?’ No—they wouldn’t dare attack here, not openly.

’Was it Dain?’

No... it was impossible.

Even if he was hiding his real strength, one man couldn’t do this. Not to this many trained fighters.

THUD.

A heavy sound near his feet. Garrick looked down.

A head.

It rolled to a stop against his boot.

His eyes widened.

It was the Viper who had opened his car door moments ago.

Garrick jerked his head up. Only to see the others who came with him—every last one—collapsed on the floor.

Blood spilling out from their bodies.

Dead.

All dead.

And then...

He saw him.

Standing in the middle of the blood-soaked warehouse was a figure dressed in black.

He was tall—too tall. His proportions were off. His presence felt wrong, like something from a nightmare that had crawled into the real world.

He wore a mask— black leather.

With the mouth sewn shut by thick red thread. Twisted into a sick smile.

His eyes glowed red.

Burning.

Evil.

Thick waves of demonic energy poured from him, coating the air like tar.

Garrick couldn’t breathe. His knees buckled. He collapsed onto the wet floor. His pants soaking through.

Something warm spread between his legs.

He didn’t even care.

He couldn’t look away.

The figure stepped forward.

A long sword dangled from his hand. Red-black energy dripping from the blade.

Then, the voice.

"Where... is... that... sword...?"

Garrick flinched. The sound wasn’t human.

It was warped. Like broken glass scraping across rusted metal. It scraped against his mind.

"I... I don’t... I don’t know what you are talking about..."

The figure tilted its head.

Then, in that same cracked, cursed voice.

"Sword... from... Auction..?"

Auction?

Garrick’s mind scrambled. He’d bought weapons before—plenty of them.

Then it clicked. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

The curved sword. Decorative one. He had bought it months ago and hung it on the office wall, thinking it was just for show.

He forced himself to speak.

"I-It’s in the office! On the wall! I swear! I swear!"

The figure stared at him.

Then—

"You... are... lying."

The blade moved.

In one smooth arc. It came down—wreathed in red and black energy. Thick with demonic power.

Garrick opened his mouth to beg—

But it was too late.

The sword sliced clean through.

———

The masked figure stood still.

Silent.

The bloodied sword in his hand dripped onto the warehouse floor. Red mixing with black as demonic energy pulsed around him like a heartbeat.

He raised his head slowly. Turning as if sensing something behind him.

Then, he moved.

In one sharp motion. He jerked his arm back and swung his sword over his shoulder.

CLANG!

Steel crashed against steel.

Sparks flew.

Another sword had met his own.

Standing there, blocking his blade with ease. It another figure. Also dressed in black.

But different.

Her posture was calm. Controlled. Her aura cold but clear. Unlike the masked thing.

Her presence didn’t feel twisted or wrong.

It felt sharp.

Real.

Her face was hidden beneath a black hood. Shadows clung to her like a second skin.

But her voice. When she spoke, it cut through the silence like a blade.

"You...will pay...for what you did to him."

The masked figure twitched.

Its head turned sideways. The stitched mouth unmoving.

Then it spoke. Its broken, cursed voice grinding against the air.

"Who... are... you...?"

The woman didn’t answer at first.

Instead, she pressed forward.

Her sword. Shining with a coating of darkness mana. Not demonic but pure darkness—shoved the masked figure back.

Not with brute strength, but with terrifying precision.

Then she spoke again. Her voice laced with anger beneath the calm.

"How dare you touch him."

She stepped forward again, each movement clean and smooth. Like she had trained for this very moment a thousand times.

"How dare you hurt Kyle."

The masked figure hissed. A garbled, high-pitched screech leaking from its sewn mouth.

It slashed forward with impossible speed. Sending a shockwave of red-black mana through the warehouse wall. The steel beams cracked. The floor split open.

But she didn’t flinch.

She sidestepped the slash and drove her sword forward. Darkness swirling around her blade like a living shadow.

The two clashed again. The entire warehouse shook.

Steel screamed.

Glass shattered.

Chunks of the ceiling crashed down as mana collided. One side cold and steady, the other wild and corrupted.

The masked figure unleashed a wave of demonic energy. Blasting everything in front of it into dust.

But the woman leapt through it.

Her movements were almost silent. No wasted steps, no noise, just swift and graceful violence.

She dodged each swing with ease. Her long sword dancing in her hand like it had a will of its own.

And then...

She struck.

One clean cut.

A flash of darkness.

And the masked figure staggered. A deep gash running across its chest. Black ichor spilled out instead of blood, hissing against the floor.

It swung wildly. Roaring in its fractured voice.

But she was already behind it.

One more step.

One more strike.

Her blade pierced through its back and out the chest, coated in pure darkness mana.

The figure froze.

Trembled.

Cracked.

Its body began to collapse in on itself like a puppet with its strings cut. The demonic energy around it vanished in an instant.

The masked corpse dropped to the ground, face first.

Still.

Lifeless.

The warehouse was in ruins. Walls torn apart. Steel bent like paper. Debris scattered everywhere.

Smoke and dust hung in the air like fog.

The woman stood over the body.

Her hood shifted slightly. Letting a faint gleam of her eyes show through the shadows.

She spoke quietly. A whisper, like a question to herself.

"What... are these things?"

She glanced down at the body.

It wasn’t normal. It didn’t bleed like a human. It didn’t die like one either.

She knelt down and touched its arm.

The skin looked like it had been dead for a long time.

Her voice turned colder.

"This wasn’t alive. Not really."

Her eyes narrowed.

"It felt like... like a skinwalker. But worse. Like something had taken control of a dead body."

She stood.

Looked around the destroyed warehouse. Her eyes scanning the wreckage.

The blood. The warped remains of what once was human.

Her grip on the long-sword tightened.

"This... this wasn’t just demonic."

A pause. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"I don’t think this thing was from the demon race at all..."

Her eyes narrowed, unease creeping into her voice.

"Could it be something else? Something worse?"

She didn’t know yet.

But she would find out.

Then, without a sound. She vanished into the shadows. Leaving only silence and questions behind.

———