The aroma of roasted meats, spices, and sweet wine filled the air of the grand banquet hall, thick and indulgent—like the arrogance of those seated within.
"Click, click!"
"Dueling Ghost" Zero sat cross-legged on a cushioned sofa, his thick, dark-wheat-colored arms each gripping a massive roasted leg, tearing into the greasy meat with guttural satisfaction.
In stark contrast to Zero's brutish behavior, the others at the long table maintained a composed elegance, though it was laced with a palpable aura of danger.
The man beside him had short golden hair and a face distorted by numerous scars, making his every motion—especially chewing—seem as if a centipede squirmed across his skin. Even now, armor clung to his body, save for the helmet resting nearby.
This was none other than "Space Slasher" Peshurian.
Across from him sat a stunning woman with long ash-gray hair, bronze-toned skin, and tribal jewelry strung around her neck and arms—"Blood Moon Scimitar" Edstrom.
Sprawled lazily on a red velvet couch, burgundy-haired "Thousand Killers" Malmvist swirled a goblet of red wine, glancing at Edstrom with amusement that barely masked his boredom.
"If you stare at me again, I'll carve out your eyes," Edstrom said casually, not even looking at him.
Malmvist grinned. "Such passion. It's a shame it's wasted on threats."
Despite the tension, his gaze drifted elsewhere, uninterested. There was little in the hall worth admiring beyond her.
Few others were present—after all, this was a private gathering of the Six Arms. The rest of the security personnel wouldn't dare set foot here without an invitation.
And yet, this was not a common occurrence.
"Dueling Ghost" Zero didn't look up as he grunted, "We rarely all gather unless there's something worth killing."
"I heard you've taken a liking to that half-elf noblewoman," said a pale man with sunken cheeks and a spectral air about him—"Phantom Demon" Succulent.
Malmvist raised an eyebrow mid-sip. "Didn't expect you to be the gossiping type."
"I'm just a messenger," Succulent said with a lazy smile. "But Ampetif is offering 1,200 gold if you'd part with her."
Malmvist chuckled darkly, eyes gleaming. "Ampetif, eh? Tell that slave-peddling rat this is my prey."
His smirk twisted. "Besides… I doubt you've seen that much coin in your entire life."
Succulent didn't protest—he was used to it. His role in the Six Arms was never about pride, but results.
"Any updates on that noblewoman's background?" Zero asked suddenly, tone more focused now.
Edstrom wiped a bit of sauce from her lips before speaking, "No obvious problems. In fact, she's... impressive. Took out her entire noble house with her fiancé. The Empire put a bounty on her, but she slipped away and crossed the border."
Peshurian gave a low chuckle, scars twitching. "A wanted noblewoman hiding in Re-Estize, clever girl. This might be fun."
"She's worth recruiting," Zero muttered, eyes flickering with dangerous light.
That was the reason for their gathering tonight—plans for the upcoming match between Gazef Stronoff and Leinas. But then—
"Intrusion detected," a dry, hollow voice echoed from the corner.
The man who spoke looked like a walking corpse, clad in tattered robes and radiating death. "Undead King" Davernoch slowly rose from his seat.
"Undead, breaching the perimeter."
Intrusion?
That word hung in the air, foreign and offensive.
"Hahahaha!" Peshurian's laughter cut the tension. "Who the hell's dumb enough to come here tonight?"
"All six of us in one place… this might be the worst luck in the world," Malmvist said, brushing back his hair.
"And the bastard's using undead?" Edstrom tilted her head toward Davernoch. "Looks like he chose the worst possible target."
But even as they laughed, their eyes sharpened. Any attack on their base was not a coincidence—it was a declaration.
Suddenly—
Screams.
They echoed from the outer corridors. Distant, then closer.
The Six Arms didn't flinch. They remained seated, save for Davernoch, who began channeling magic.
Boom!
The doors to the hall exploded inward, and a tide of blood-soaked undead surged inside. Their uniforms marked them as the manor's own men—now twisted husks.
The rich aroma of food was obliterated by the coppery stench of death.
"Tch. What a waste of wine." Malmvist tossed his goblet to the floor.
Davernoch stepped forward, raising his bony hand. "Undead Control!"
A suffocating black aura expanded, enveloping the invading corpses.
But then—nothing.
The undead kept coming, unfazed.
Davernoch's voice creaked like breaking wood. "Impossible. The enemy's necromancy surpasses mine. I… cannot take control!"
That declaration sent a chill through the room. Even Succulent stood up.
"Are you joking, Davernoch?" he asked, his smile vanished.
Davernoch didn't reply with words. He extended a finger and summoned a Fireball, launching it into the horde.
Boom!
The spell exploded at the entrance, charred body parts flying, black smoke billowing. Furniture rattled. Plates crashed.
Davernoch turned slowly, eyes hollow.
"Does this look like a joke to you?"
By now, every member of the Six Arms was on their feet. Their expressions had lost all amusement.