The narrow tunnels of the North District were no longer mere veins of ore; they had been transformed into a gargantuan, screeching meat grinder that vomited fresh blood and shattered bone.

  The "Cleaners" of the Morey Family—a tactical squad of armored elite—burst into this subterranean slum like a juggernaut of cold steel. They carried the inherent arrogance of Mid-Tier Knights, their heavy sabatons crushing the damp stone floor. To them, this was not a battle; it was a routine sanitization, a chore of sweeping away human refuse. However, when the first wave of impact occurred, the "refuse" erupted with a primal, savage ferocity that sent a chill through the hearts of the elite.

  The mine slaves, fueled by Del’s refined potions, fought with eyes so crimson they appeared to be weeping blood. Even when run through by polished steel spears, they did not fall. Instead, they crawled forward along the shafts of the very weapons impaling them, using their broken teeth to lock onto the throats of the soldiers, tearing through flesh and windpipes until the screams were drowned in a gurgle of gore.

  "Dammit! What kind of madness has possessed these animals?" the eldest son of the Morey family roared from the safety of the rear formation. Seeing the impenetrable armor of his vanguard being peeled open by bare fingernails and jagged teeth, a look of absolute, icy cruelty flashed in his eyes.

  To stop the bleeding of his elite ranks, a horrific command was issued. Thousands of non-combatant miners—the elderly, the women, and the children—were driven to the front lines by guards wielding barbed pikes. The sound of slaughter was instantly eclipsed by a chorus of soul-shattering screams. These innocent lives were used as a living meat-shield, pushed into the line of fire to soak up the volleys of magical crossbow bolts.

  Allen Morey stood at the center of this swirling hellscape, feeling as though he were drowning in a literal sea of shredded meat and offal.

  He watched as gardeners he had talked to and foremen he had shared bread with were perforated by bolts, their bodies bursting like overfilled sacks. Warm intestines sprayed across the gaps in his own polished armor. He screamed toward the rear, his voice breaking as he begged his father and brother to stop the massacre, but his pleas were met with the cold-blooded withdrawal of the family line.

  To preserve their core strength, the Morey elite were retreating rapidly, abandoning the forward positions. To ensure no one followed, the rear guard sowed clouds of corrosive dust along the path of their retreat. Allen watched his family’s banners grow distant, his outstretched hand clawing at the air, catching only the stench of copper and the stinging grit of the mine.

  "Don't leave them! Father! Brother!" Allen’s cries were swallowed by the cacophony of metal on bone.

  Because he had stood so far forward in his attempt to save the miners, the family’s retreat had left him isolated—an island of gold abandoned in a rising tide of violet death. Dozens of Simon Family guards, driven into a blood-frenzy by the slaughter, were charging toward him with heavy axes. Allen felt a sense of abandonment so profound it felt like a physical weight. In that instant of absolute despair, the mantra he had heard in the dark echoed in his mind like a clap of thunder:

  "All life is suffering, but the Sand is eternal."

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  His pupils were instantly consumed by an ink-black void. The forbidden pathways of the 【Black Wind Sword】 within his body acted like a starving black dragon, instantly devouring his family’s golden Combat Qi and replacing it with something ancient and cold.

  "First Form... Overcast Sky."

  It was no longer the brilliant, righteous gold of the Morey family. A stroke of darkness, as viscous as ink and as sharp as a razor’s edge, swept out from Allen’s blade. This strike was directed at the roaring enemies before him. Wherever the black arc passed, the heads of three heavy infantrymen were severed in unison. The geysers of blood erupting from their necks were caught by the swirling dark intent, twisted into a mist of deep, bruised crimson.

  Allen still yearned for his family, still craved that bond of blood, but the sword in his hand had already been stained by the darkness of 'Erasure.' He was fighting for his life, using the very power that marked him as an outcast.

  At the other end of the blood-soaked line, Old Pierre knelt in the mud.

  In his arms, his oldest friend lay dying, half his chest cavity obliterated by a stray crossbow bolt. Broken ribs protruded through the skin like white daggers. Pierre had spent his entire life in this pit—cowardly, small, and insignificant as a worm. But deep within the silence of his heart, he had always guarded a ridiculous dream. He loved the sword. It was the only faith he had left, born from years of peeking at the noble training grounds from behind a fence.

  "Well... it’s not like I’m going to make it out anyway," Pierre whispered.

  He stood up, his body trembling. His frame, withered by age and rotted by toxins, became a frantic, unstable vessel for the Black Sand power.

  Crack. Snap.

  The sound of his own bones fracturing under the high-pressure energy load filled his ears. He picked up a shattered, rusted blade, and a look of divine resolution ignited in his eyes.

  "Second Form... Return to the Void."

  Pierre’s skeletal body blurred into a shadow. As the broken sword swung, it felt as though the air itself were being siphoned out of the tunnel. Four charging guards didn't even have time to raise their shields before their bodies began to disintegrate under the strange, vibrating force. Their flesh and armor scattered like sand caught in a hurricane.

  Pierre looked at his own arm, which was beginning to crumble into dust, and a smile of absolute liberation touched his lips. He knew he was dying, but in this final moment, he had finally delivered his counterattack against a fate that had treated him like trash.

  Chaos rippled through the purgatory.

  "Get back, you filth! Out of my way!"

  At the rear of the collapsing front, Vivian was mounted on a terrified warhorse, trying to cut a path through the retreating crowds. To clear her way, she frantically hurled alchemical firebombs into the dense pack of her own fleeing servants. One fireball landed in a group of miners, instantly turning a dozen people into charred fragments.

  However, her status as "High-Born" prey made her the brightest target on the field.

  "Haha, look at this one! She’s worth a fortune!" A Mid-Tier Knight from the Morey family surged forward on a heavy charger. The wind pressure from his broadsword knocked Vivian clean out of her saddle, sending her tumbling into the filth.

  "Stay back! I am a daughter of House Simon!" Vivian shrieked, her face smeared with mud and blood.

  "No," the knight laughed, leaning down from his horse with predatory intent. "You are just a 'political asset' that Lord Morey requires. And since you're so pretty, the boys and I will have some fun before we turn you over."

  Deep within his laboratory, Del slowly opened his eyes. It was a magnificent, harrowing spectacle.

  Through the "Black Sand Anchors," he could feel it all. Allen’s inner conflict and explosion of power, Pierre’s final sacrifice, the terror of the masses—it all converged into his Dantian as the purest form of nourishment.

  "Allen has awakened. Pierre has completed his rite," Del whispered to the darkness of his room, his voice echoing with the chill of the abyss. "The sacrifice of flesh and blood is complete. It seems... the harvest has truly begun."

  In the depths of the Meteor Mine, the new order of the Black Sand was rising, built not on gold or titles, but on a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood.