The sound of tearing fabric echoed relentlessly in Mythy’s mind. Amidst the chaos and panic of the party, the space around the thirteen-year-old boy simply froze.

  The brilliant blue mana aura that usually surrounded him warped. It darkened into a deep, bruised purple, before fully corrupting into a pitch-black void.

  "GRAAAAH!!!"

  The boy’s roar tore through the cavern. It wasn't a cry of pain; it was the sound of pure, unadulterated wrath. Hundreds of pitch-black magical chains erupted from the thin air like vipers. Their razor-sharp edges whipped outward, decapitating the front lines of the undead horde in a frenzy of absolute violence.

  "You pieces of shit! Go to hell! Fucking trash!"

  Mythy cursed like a madman, his voice cracking with fury. He didn't stop. He commanded the chains to violently shred the corpses over and over again. "What gives you the right... what gives you the right to tear my clothes?!"

  Black, putrid blood sprayed across the stone walls. The undead tried to regenerate, guided by their Necromancer, but Mythy’s rage was infinitely faster and more destructive. The black chains pulverized the reforming bones into dust before they could even connect.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Sarah collapsed to her knees, tears streaming down her face. She sobbed, weakly begging Mythy to stop, but her voice couldn't reach him. The boy had plunged completely into a dark, isolated world of absolute fury.

  The rotting bodies were ground down until they lost all structural integrity. There wasn't even a chunk of flesh left large enough for the Undead Mage to resurrect. With a final, vicious flick of his wrist, Mythy’s chain wrapped around the Undead Mage itself, slamming it into the ground before he personally crushed its skull to powder beneath his heel.

  Then, dead silence.

  The only sound left was Mythy’s hoarse, ragged breathing. On the floor of the 8th level, there was no dust left to revive. There was only a massive, shallow pool of black blood—the remnants of the boy's explosive tantrum.

  Mythy took a deep breath. The black chains dissipated. He turned back to the paralyzed party. The dark abyss in his eyes receded, replaced by an eerie, empty calm. A deeply twisted, unnatural smile stretched across his blood-spattered face.

  "Let's keep going," Mythy said, his voice terrifyingly polite and soft. "We're almost done clearing this place."

  Michael, Uncle, Meijin, and Mosin... no one dared to speak. They could only force fake, stiff smiles in return, desperately trying to suppress the absolute terror vibrating through their trembling muscles as they followed the small boy down to the next floor.