Supreme Warlock System : From Zero to Ultimate With My Wives-Chapter 408: Corrupted SS Warlock

Warlock Ch 408. Corrupted SS Warlock

Waited.

One breath.

Two.

They followed.

Three stepped in behind him from the alley entrance. Two more cut him off from the opposite end.

Damian didn't turn.

He didn't need to.

He raised one hand and whispered, "[Dark Chains]."

Shadowy tendrils exploded from the floor beneath the feet of the two closest enemies behind him, wrapping around their legs like serpents and yanking them down with bone-snapping force. Their bodies slammed into the ground with a dull thud, muffled by the enchanted dirt and trash below.

Before the other three could shout, Damian flicked two fingers toward the ones behind.

[Curse of Agony]

The air shimmered with red sigils as the curse took hold.

The two bound enemies writhed silently—mouths wide open, gasping for a scream that wouldn't come. The spell warped their nervous system, lighting every nerve on fire from the inside out. One clawed at his own face. The other twitched until he stopped moving entirely.

Now.

Three left.

The closest charged with a curved dagger—runes etched into the blade to bypass basic wards.

Damian didn't blink.

[Telekinesis]

The dagger froze mid-swing.

Damian twisted his wrist slightly.

The weapon spun around, buried itself in its wielder's throat. A quick, wet sound—and the man dropped.

Two remaining. Now backing away. One of them muttered something—possibly a trigger phrase for a failsafe teleport.

Too slow.

[Hex]

Damian pointed. A dark glyph flared across his mask, and a shimmering, corrupted magic circle appeared beneath the caster's feet. It surged upward, swallowing him in a spiral of violet-black energy laced with twisting hex runes.

The man screamed—briefly.

And then he was gone.

When the light faded, there was no ash. No scorch marks.

Just a single, shivering green frog sitting in the middle of the ruined cobblestone. Its eyes bulged, confused. Terrified.

Damian tilted his head slightly.

"Hex… still works," he muttered.

The frog let out a panicked croak and tried to hop away.

Damian's boot came down fast.

-Crunch!

And just like that, it was over.

No drama. No soul left behind.

Only silence.

The last one tried to run.

Of course he did.

He adjusted his cloak and muttered, "Should've run faster."

Damian rolled his shoulders once.

[Blood Manipulation]

The man hadn't made it five feet when his body seized. His own blood betrayed him—veins turning into shackles, freezing him mid-stride. Damian raised a hand lazily, and with a flick of his finger, the man's chest imploded as every drop of blood reversed course in one horrifying instant.

He collapsed, eyes wide, mouth still open.

Damian stood in the center of it all, five bodies cooling around him in silence. No alarms. No patrols. Just the soft flicker of an old light stone overhead, and the smell of iron heavy in the air.

[Enemies Eliminated: 5]

[Targets: Rank B–A Magus Operatives]

[No Threat Detected]

[+EXP]

[Status: Undetected]

[Current Title: SS-Rank Warlock – Corrupted]

[Note: You have previously slain over 100 Rank A Magi.

He let out a slow breath.

For a moment, the silence settled into his bones.

Damian never imagined he'd become an SS-ranked warlock this way.

Not through glory. Not through trials or recognition.

But through the dark path—blood-soaked streets, shadows whispering his name, and bodies left cold in alleyways. He had power now, more than most dared dream of. But it hadn't come from a noble quest or divine blessing. It had come from pain. From loss. From surviving when everyone else decided he was the villain.

A corrupted title.

And he wore it like a hero.

He turned back toward the main street, boots crunching against broken stone. No hesitation. No regret.

He activated [Dark Chains] one last time, and the magic surged beneath his feet—shadowy tendrils rising from the floor to drag the bodies, one by one, into the broken side chamber of the maintenance hallway. Each corpse was wrapped, bound tight, and pulled into the dark like offerings to something ancient and hungry.

He followed them in, crouched beside the closest one, and drew a sigil in the air.

A cursed flame rune pulsed red and hissed alive, burning their faces to unrecognizable charcoal. No identification. No soul trace. No resurrection options.

Just silence.

And shadows.

Clean.

By the time he stepped back into the crowd, his cloak didn't have a wrinkle.

His mask had reset.

And the streets? Still bustling. Still normal.

Like nothing had happened at all.

Damian moved quickly now, taking side streets, rooftops, skipping known watchpoint alleys until he reached the outer barrier of Cassius' mansion.

He dropped his disguise at the gate.

The wards shimmered in recognition and let him pass.

Inside, the warmth of the barrier was immediate—gentle heat, familiar mana signatures, and faint traces of Evelyn's scent in the air. He stepped inside the hall, cloak dripping shadow off his back as the door sealed behind him.

His boots echoed against the tile.

Cassius wasn't in the main room.

But the silence was a relief.

He exhaled and muttered to himself, "They know I'm looking. That means we're close."

But the fact that they'd sent five so fast?

That meant something else too.

Time was running out.

Damian could feel it—pressing against the base of his skull like a migraine, threading through every breath he took as he crossed the marble-floored hallway of Cassius' mansion. The moment the wards had sealed behind him, some part of him had unclenched. But not for long. Because now that he'd seen the truth—the staged kidnapping, the forged sigils, the pain written into the blood Cedric and Alric had left behind—he couldn't sit still.

He needed to talk to Selena.

But first?

Shower. Gods. He needed to get this dried blood and alley stench off him before he spoke to anyone. And that stench of sex this morning.

His boots tracked along the corridor as he made for the second-floor washroom, tugging at the clasps of his cloak with one hand.

Then, right at the staircase landing, Cassius stepped into his path.

Still barefoot.

Still holding his mug.

He raised a brow.

"You haven't reported anything to me."

Damian blinked at him, then scowled. "Cassius. Move."

"You smell like blood and street soup. That means you got something."

"I'm not your servant," Damian snapped.