Chaos Mirage Mist Turns the Tide
If he failed to kill Julian today...
Steffan knew it was over.
Not this battle but everything he had painstakingly constructed through bloodshed, ambition and brute will. All his pride, his future, his dreams – everything would gradually fall to pieces under Julian’s looming presence. The very thought of it was enough to send him teetering on the brink of insanity.
His blood-red eyes flared with burning hatred as a ferocious roar tore itself from his throat, echoing across the ruined hall.
"You have destroyed everything, Julian! I will tear you to pieces!" Steffan exploded into action. Black lightning streaking across the ruined floor, broken marble cracking beneath his every stride.
The gap between them was almost nonexistent as a palpable wave of death intent swept through the hall, causing those around him to hold their breath involuntarily.
Julian remained completely still. Facing the oncoming storm, he merely watched Steffan charge him and sighed softly. "...
Here we go again."
Steffan’s fist, so huge it was capable of smashing solid stone into powder, rocketed toward Julian’s forehead. In less than another second, it would have struck.
Then...
Something felt wrong.
Steffan’s expression suddenly changed.
His body jerked violently.
The confident momentum behind his charge disappeared without warning. His footing slipped as though the ground itself had betrayed him.
Instead of driving forward...
He stumbled.
His balance completely abandoned him.
"W-What?!"
Before he could recover, his body pitched backward.
Bang!
His back slammed against the stone steps.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
He bounced down the staircase several times before finally crashing to a stop in an undignified heap.
Silence.
The entire hall froze.
Everyone stared at the unbelievable scene, unable to process what had just happened.
Lina Ashford blinked several times, her beautiful face filled with confusion.
"...Did... did he just fall?"
Liza Voss narrowed her eyes, carefully replaying the moment in her mind.
"...No."
"There was something strange."
"Something disrupted his movements."
Standing calmly at the top of the stairs, Julian couldn’t stop the corner of his lips from curling upward.
So it worked.
The Chaos Mirage Mist concealed within the black wing-engraved ring on his finger had finally taken effect.
Without changing his expression, he silently praised the Tyrant System.
Not bad.
For once, this unreliable system actually did something right.
The quality is surprisingly impressive.
Honestly... it’s almost as dependable as those legendary German-engineered products everyone keeps praising.
Now all it needs is fancy packaging.
His amusement lasted only a second.
Julian’s gaze shifted toward the unconscious bodyguards scattered across the hall.
Without hesitation, he crouched and picked up a handgun lying beside one of them.
His fingers settled comfortably around the grip as he gave it a quick inspection.
Loaded.
Good.
With one smooth motion, he raised the weapon.
The barrel pointed directly at Steffan.
Julian’s golden eyes were calm, cold, and utterly devoid of hesitation.
"Let’s see you dodge this."
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Several loud gunshots broke the stillness of the mansion. The muzzles flashed brightly against the backdrop of the main hall, sending the sound of bullet fire hurtling at Steffan. For a brief second, death was staring him in the face, but despite the absurdity of his body, Steffan’s fight instinct, cultivated through a lifetime of bloodshed, was incredibly sharp.
His pupils contracted.
Almost on reflex, he lunged sideways. His body skidded and rolled across the slick floor, the bullets whistling past the place he had stood a moment ago. Crack! Crack!
The rounds ripped through the marble stairs behind him, sending fragments and chunks of stone flying through the air like shrapnel and showering the floor with dust and stone.
None of them had even touched him. Steffan skidded to a halt before jumping back onto his feet. He let out a breath.
"What..." his voice was low, filled with a strange sort of disbelief.
"What is happening?"
He attempted to walk towards Julian, but his body went in the complete opposite direction.
Steffan’s expression hardened, then froze.
Again. The same impossibly strange feeling washing over him. It felt as if his body had betrayed him, refused to obey even the simplest command. "Move," he ordered his legs, and they pushed backwards, his muscles responding with the wrong action, as if the link between his mind and his body was twisted into some abhorrent shape.
It was an unsettling, but all too familiar feeling.
"So," his voice hardened, "It was you, again." He narrowed his bloodshot eyes at Julian, filled with murderous intent. "What did you do to me?!"
Julian stared back and gave an innocent shrug. "I believe you’ve gotten me confused with somebody else. If you can’t stand properly, I suggest you stop blaming others and practice your footwork more."
"You..."
Steffan’s face contorted with fury for a moment, but the rage disappeared almost as quickly as it arrived. He wasn’t just a fighter; he was the undisputed King of Martial Arts of the Farlands-a master of death-and panic was a luxury he couldn’t afford, nor was uncontrolled rage. Taking a slow, steady breath, Steffan stopped all movement completely. If his body was to betray him, his only option was to stand completely still.
Closing his eyes for a heartbeat, he calmed the whirlwind inside his mind before he focused his entire attention on his body.
Every twitch.
Every shift in balance.
Every involuntary movement.
His breathing gradually became steady.
His racing thoughts settled into sharp, disciplined clarity.
Seconds slipped by.
One...
Three...
Five...
Nearly ten seconds later, something clicked.
His eyes widened ever so slightly.
"It isn’t paralysis..."
His voice was barely above a whisper.
"It isn’t poison..."
His gaze dropped to his own feet.
"My movements..."
"They’re... reversed."
The realization hit him like lightning.
Whenever he intended to move forward...
His body stepped backward.
When he wanted to dodge left...
His feet instinctively shifted right.
Every command his brain issued was being inverted before it reached his muscles.
It wasn’t that he had lost control.
His control itself had been flipped upside down.
A lesser warrior would have collapsed into confusion.
Steffan did the opposite.
Once he understood the nature of the problem, his expression gradually regained its composure.
If his body insisted on moving in reverse...
Then he would simply fight in reverse.
Slowly...
Carefully...
He began testing each movement.
When he wanted to move forward, he consciously commanded himself to step backward instead.
His body obeyed—and carried him forward.
Again.
Left became right.
Right became left.
Every motion felt awkward, unnatural, as though he were learning to walk all over again.
His instincts constantly clashed with his conscious mind, and every successful step demanded immense concentration.
It was exhausting.
Frustrating.
But with each passing second, his movements grew steadier.
Little by little...
Step by painstaking step...
The legendary Martial Art King began adapting to the impossible.