The courtyard failed before he reached its center.

Stone fissured beneath his step, fractures racing outward in thin, branching lines. The collapse was quiet—too quiet—like something yielding rather than breaking. Dust chased him in a low, trailing wake.

The air tightened around him.

Not pressure. Not quite.

More like space itself had been stretched thin—strained by the presence forcing its way through it.

They engaged anyway.

Five figures advanced as one, formation snapping into place with practiced precision. Their spacing was exact, their blades angled to intercept, to corral, to kill.

Anton didn’t slow.

The first strike came from his blind side—soundless, perfectly timed.

He shifted a fraction.

Steel sliced empty air.

His hand rose, closing around the attacker’s arm mid-swing. There was no struggle, no contest of strength.

The limb collapsed in his grip.

Not bent—crushed.

Bone gave with a dull, internal crack. Anton dragged the man forward and drove him into the ground. The impact split the courtyard stone, a jagged crater forming beneath the body. By the time dust lifted, the man was already slack.

The formation adjusted.

Too slow.

Anton stepped into it.

A blade carved toward his ribs. He didn’t evade. His fingers caught the flat mid-swing, halting it with abrupt finality. For a heartbeat, steel resisted—

Then it snapped.

The fracture rang sharp in the air.

The guard barely processed it before Anton’s other hand struck his chest.

A short motion.

Compact.

Deceptively light.

The kind that should have done nothing.

The man left the ground anyway.

Force detonated through his frame, launching him backward. He hit the courtyard hard enough to bounce once before going still, breath and life torn from him in the same instant.

Another closed the gap—relentless, precise, exploiting the opening.

Anton met him head-on.

Their bodies collided.

The sound was wrong—dense, concussive, like striking reinforced steel rather than flesh.

Only one of them remained standing.

The guard’s structure caved inward on impact. Air burst from his lungs in a strangled gasp as something inside him gave way. He folded where he stood, eyes already losing focus before his body hit the ground.

Three.

Two tightened formation, adjusting spacing with disciplined urgency. Their blades rose in mirrored arcs, edges aligned to converge.

They moved well.

In sync.

For a fleeting instant, it almost looked like it might matter.

Anton stepped between them.

One hand intercepted a wrist mid-swing, locking it in place. The other drove forward.

A sharp, concussive impact cracked the air—

—and the man behind it folded instantly, his body collapsing around the point of contact. His weapon slipped from numb fingers, clattering against stone.

The last reacted on instinct.

A full-force downward strike—desperation and discipline fused into one final blow.

Anton tilted his head.

The blade missed by a hair.

His hand rose, closing around the man’s throat.

Lift.

No resistance followed.

No struggle.

Just the absence of both.

For a moment, Anton regarded him—green eyes steady, unhurried, as though observing a conclusion already reached.

Then he released.

The body dropped at his feet.

---

Silence followed.

Not earned.

Imposed.

Anton brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve, the gold thread catching faint light through the drifting haze. The ruby at his collar pulsed once—slow, deliberate.

Ahead, the clan leader’s residence stood untouched.

Waiting.

Anton stepped forward.

And left nothing behind him worth remembering.

...

A month of wandering had carried him here—far enough to settle one of the conditions he’d set upon becoming an SS-ranked adventurer.

Two names.

Two deaths.

A concession offered to smooth negotiations with Catherine, the guild mistress. He had known her position, the constraints pressing in on her. Removing those obstacles had been... convenient.

This was one of them.

Gerrard Fitch.

An adventurer turned mogul.

Not merely accomplished—a first-tier saint.

Mid-stage.

To the untrained eye, that might have seemed trivial.

It wasn’t.

The difference between early and mid-stage first-tier saints mirrored the gulf between a mortal and an S-ranked awakened. A categorical leap in power, density, control.

Gerrard Fitch was no minor figure.

He was a pillar in the Empire of Aurelia.

...

"What brings a saint to my abode?"

The voice carried, deep and measured.

"Your head on a platter."

Anton smiled politely as he spoke.

Six figures stood before him now—Gerrard at the forefront, five others fanned behind him in silent readiness.

Gerrard laughed, the sound broad and unguarded.

Then it stopped.

"Who sent you?"

"So you do know you have enemies."

Anton’s gaze drifted briefly across the manor’s architecture.

"With the way you built this place, I’d have thought otherwise."

"You don’t rise to my position without making enemies."

A pause.

"So I’ll ask again. Who sent you?"

"Me, myself, and I."

Anton exhaled.

His aura unfurled.

It didn’t clash with Gerrard’s—it swallowed it. Space seemed to fold inward, pressure layering over pressure until Gerrard’s presence simply... disappeared.

"Peak-stage saint..."

The words left one of the men in a hushed breath.

"What brings such an esteemed sir here?" Gerrard’s tone shifted instantly.

"There’s no need for the act," Anton said lightly. "Your death is already decided."

"Esteemed sir, I’m sure there’s—"

"Not really."

Anton tilted his head.

"I made a rather nice arrangement."

A faint smile.

"Blame yourself for antagonizing the wrong person."

A beat.

"Alright, enough talking. My ears hurt."

His foot nudged a pebble.

He flicked it.

The stone vanished.

A sharp, wet crack followed.

One of the five behind Gerrard dropped instantly—a clean hole punched through his skull, the projectile passing through without resistance.

"Home run."

The disparity was absolute.

A pebble, carrying the full weight of a peak first-tier saint’s stats, tore through an early-stage saint as though he were paper. With [One with the Blade], even something so trivial became lethal.

The gap between early and peak?

Astronomical.

The kind of difference that could elevate a mortal straight into sainthood.

The body fell—

—and Anton stood where it had been.

As the body replaced Anton where he had been.

[Swap]

Shock rippled through the remaining men, comprehension lagging behind reality.

One reacted on instinct, striking immediately.

Anton raised a hand, deflecting the blow with casual precision.

[Counter]

The effect was instantaneous.

BOOM.

The man’s arm ruptured mid-strike, flesh and bone collapsing into a spray of blood under the reflected force.

Before the scream could form, Anton’s hand drove forward—through chest, through spine—emerging cleanly from the other side.

He withdrew it without ceremony.

"Come at me all at once," Anton said, voice idle. "It’ll get boring otherwise."

"Esteemed—"

"I said don’t speak."

Anton’s gaze flicked to Gerrard.

"Draw your weapons. Or is the great Gerrard Fitch a coward?"

A smile tugged at his lips.

"Even with your esteemed elders present?"

"Clan head," one of the elders said, voice steady despite the tension, "there’s no need to beg. He’s decided. We fight."

Gerrard exhaled slowly.

"...Then stand with me."

His aura surged again, firmer this time.

"For the Fitch household."

Anton clapped once, softly.

"There it is. The aura of a proper leader."

He spread his arms.

"Four against one. Let’s make it interesting."

He stepped forward—

—and vanished.

He reappeared in their midst.

His hand seized Gerrard’s face and drove it into the ground.

The impact cratered the stone, Gerrard’s head snapping back violently as it struck.

"Do something," Anton said lightly. "He’s down."

His voice shifted position mid-sentence.

He stood behind one of the elders.

"Boo."

The man’s neck snapped with a clean twist.

Anton wrenched the head free in the same motion, blood trailing in a brief arc.

He tossed it upward.

Caught it.

"Meteor shower!"

One of the remaining elders roared, panic sharpening his voice.

The sky ignited—dozens of fireballs forming overhead before plunging downward in a blazing cascade.

"Oh, magic."

Anton glanced up, amused.

"You shortened the chant. Impressive."

A beat.

"Shame I have to return it."

[Counter]

The fireballs stalled mid-fall—

Then reversed.

They screamed back toward their caster, doubling in speed, in density, in force.

"Hey," Anton called, turning.

"Don’t feel left out."

He hurled the severed head.

It blurred through the air—

—and punched clean through the other elder’s torso, leaving a ragged cavity in its wake.

Behind him, the firestorm descended.

Impact.

Explosion.

Heat bloomed outward as the barrage detonated against its originator, the force amplified beyond its initial casting.

Anton turned back, smiling faintly.

"Yo. You awake?"

He crouched beside Gerrard, who lay broken within the fractured stone.

"Why...?"

The word barely formed.

"Like I said," Anton replied, settling beside him, almost conversational, "you antagonized the wrong person."

A pause.

"You know that little girl you stole her bread?"

"Well that’s a mild analogy"

A small shrug

"But you stole a pretty lady’s source of income, left the organization, became a new man"

"You did more, but you’ve only survived because she was not allowed to act against by the law of the empire"

A faint grin.

"Unlucky for you, I don’t abide by any fucking law"

"...Catherine?"

"Bingo"

Anton snapped his fingers and rose.

He stretched lightly.

"Okay, I have to thoroughly destroy this place"

Anton paused.

"Whilst killing you"

He nodded

"Yosh, I know just the technique"

His expression brightened.

"Be proud, you’re the first person to witness my little brother’s sword technique in this timeline"

A sword appeared in his hand.

He drew it slowly, steel whispering free of the sheath. The tip lowered until it touched the ground.

"Echelon Breaker."

The moment contact was made—

The world answered.

A wave burst outward.

Not visible at first—only felt.

Then the ground disintegrated.

Stone, structure, air itself seemed to unravel as the force expanded in all directions, erasing everything it touched. Buildings collapsed into dust before they could fall, matter stripped apart at a fundamental level.

A perfect, expanding circle of annihilation.

Anton watched it go.

"...Still cringe."

He shook his head, smiling.

"Anyway. Time to report an exercise well done."

He stretched once more—

—and vanished.

A single cup appeared in his place.

Best Guild Mistress.

...

"Yo."

Anton waved as he appeared in Catherine’s office.

"My mug."

Her voice dropped flat.

She was already glaring.

"You bastard. Was that really the only thing you could swap with?"

"Mistress, should I kill him?" Annabelle added, barely suppressing a laugh.

"I never liked that mug anyway," Anton said, smirking.

"The job’s done."

He pulled out a chair and sat.

Catherine exhaled, composure sliding back into place.

"So soon? It’s only been a month."

"I got bored."

A shrug.

"Figured I’d eliminate the weaker one first."

"Gerrard? He’s the weaker one, but he does have a clan, his elders are all early stage saints"

"Mm, they were fun to play with"

A small smile touched her lips.

"I forget you’re a peak-stage saint."

"Well," Anton leaned back, "so are you. You could’ve handled it—if not for the law."

"Tch. That law."

Her expression sharpened.

"Tsk, that annoying law"

"I can’t wait for the hundred year era of peace to end, it’s been a while I’ve stretched my bones"

"I could stretch it for you"

Anton smirked

"You dare!!"

Annabelle shouted from her position where she stood.

"Shh, let the adults talk"

Anton made a shooing gesture.

Annabelle vanished.

The mug reappeared in her place.

"Ah," Catherine said, feigning shock. "Now that’s just disrespectful."

"She’ll find her way back," Anton said.

"You give her reasons to hate you daily."

"Heh."

Anton stood, heading for the door. He paused, glancing back.

"You know, you never rejected my offer."

A smirk.

"I can stretch you anytime."

He winked.

"Fuck off."

Catherine gestured sharply.

Anton laughed—and left.