The Weapon Genius: Anything I Hold Can Kill-Chapter 181: One Night (Part Three)

The yard was alive with heat and tension. Not the kind that boiled into chaos, but the kind that simmered, always ready to tip. Laughter drifted between chain-link fences and cracked bleachers, layered with curses, dice rolls, and the quiet hum of posturing egos. The moon cast sharp silver lines across the worn pavement, broken only by the tall concrete walls enclosing it all.

In the far corner of the yard, under a hanging light rig and rusted canopy, the game was still going.

Jin sat at the edge of a worn metal table, posture relaxed, fingers loosely holding the last of his cards. Four inmates lounged across from him—though "lounged" was generous. Two looked like they were waiting to spring across the table at the first insult, one looked like he was trying not to pass out, and the last, a barrel-chested man with a jagged scar across his cheek, was already grinning like he’d won.

A short pile of cards lay in the center. Beside it? Not money.

Weapons.

Artifacts.

Trophies of blood and reputation.

A jagged khopesh with veins of green fire still pulsing across its edge. An iron ring shaped like a serpent swallowing its tail, coiled tight with an embedded gem that flickered like a heartbeat. One prisoner had thrown in a heavy fur cloak lined with Nordic runes, claiming it had once belonged to a descendant of Sköll.

Another brought out a sleek, narrow dagger etched with what he swore were Ereshkigal’s markings. "Took it off a corpse in the Trial. Lady screamed when I pulled it free. Thing drinks pain."

Each round, more weapons were added. Some summoned by palm-flick inventory gestures, others dragged in strapped to backs or belts. No one flinched when someone summoned a spiked mace with flame-crusted steel, said to belong to a forgotten Mongolian war priest.

Everyone at the table was either broke—or betting everything.

And still, Jin hadn’t said a word since he joined.

He just played.

And won.

Now, only two players remained.

The man with the scar, Daekun, leaned forward, throwing a thick, rune-inscribed vambrace onto the pile. "That," he said, voice low, "is Agni’s Flamebrace. Trial reward I got. Resistance to any heat-based attack. You know how many people would beg for something like that?"

He followed it with a jagged obsidian short blade and a belt threaded with tiny charms, each one flickering with soft red light.

"Three artifacts. Plus everything I won. You want this? Then go all in."

The crowd around them shifted. Someone whistled.

Another prisoner stepped forward, setting a heavy bronze shield onto the table. "Toss that in too. Let’s raise the stakes."

But the tension didn’t build until Jin summoned his weapon on the table.

Muramasa didn’t glow when it hit the table.

It didn’t need to.

It made the air heavier.

Daekun’s smile faltered, just a fraction. A few prisoners behind him backed up instinctively.

"...The hell is that?" one muttered.

"Doesn’t matter," another said. "He won’t walk out with it anyway."

Daekun cleared his throat, re-centering himself. "Fine. Let’s play."

The cards were dealt. Jin’s hands moved slow. Calculated. Every flick of his wrist was quiet, but not casual.

Daekun was sweating. Not from nerves. From focus.

It was poker—but nothing about this was luck.

Jin studied the table. Studied every twitch of Daekun’s hand. Every blink. Every shift in breath.

Something didn’t add up.

Two cards Jin had discarded early were now back in play. He remembered every movement. Every reshuffle. He’d memorized the deck’s cycle.

And now, Daekun was holding an impossible hand.

"You sure about that one?" Jin asked, quiet.

Daekun grinned. "Dead sure."

Jin didn’t argue. He didn’t shout.

He flicked a card from his hand.

It spun in the air with unnatural speed, slicing across Daekun’s shirt sleeve.

Fabric split clean. Skin broke. Blood welled.

Another card followed. Cut along the other arm.

Daekun jolted up, chair scraping back as the remaining cards in his hand scattered.

And with them—so did more.

From inside his sleeves.

Dozens of them.

Marked. Bent. Some with notches, others stained.

The crowd went silent.

A sharp exhale cut through the air. Then a voice—cold, unimpressed.

"...You cheating piece of shit," one of the inmates muttered.

Daekun flinched. "Wait, wait, it’s not—"

A prisoner lunged. "I want my amulet. I lost it three rounds ago!"

Another shoved him from the side. "That orb on the table? That was mine!"

"You said you played fair!"

Jin stood slowly, not even bothering to draw Muramasa.

He raised his fingers again—and flicked another card.

It sliced along Daekun’s chest, his shirt peeling open.

The wind caught it—and half a dozen cards fluttered from inside his vest.

Jin caught one before it hit the floor.

"Crimson Jade," he murmured, reading the mark. "Used it two turns ago. That’s how you beat the full house."

"Shit," Daekun breathed. "He really memorized everything..."

Another voice—Baekho’s, cool and amused—slipped in from the back. "I’d give him the artifacts and walk away if I were you. He’s not the type you get a rematch against."

Daekun’s body pulsed.

His veins bulged.

His arms snapped wide—and muscle surged across his frame. A system glow shimmered along his gauntlets. "You think you can humiliate me!?"

Prisoners backed up. One pulled a blade. Another activated a defensive field.

Jin didn’t move. He just stepped forward.

Muramasa remained untouched.

"Give me what you owe me," he said.

Daekun hesitated. His eyes flicked to the sword. The crowd. His busted hand.

He dropped the vambrace.

Jin opened his inventory with a glance. All the gear vanished in flashes of clean light.

"You can win it back," he said evenly. "Next time. If you survive this."

Daekun roared and leapt.

The crowd surged. Blades came out. One guy started charging at Daekun.

It wasn’t a riot yet—but it was close.

Jin stepped back, slipping through a group just as someone threw a chair. Daekun crashed into another table, knocking down items and prisoners alike.

Someone shouted

"Stop this"

Then a few moments later into the chaos—

The voice cut through it once again, only this time is was far louder.

Cold.

"I said enough."

Heads turned.

A figure stood on a ledge above the yard.

Slim. Controlled. Hair tied tight. A black jumpsuit tailored perfectly to her frame—unlike anything the others wore.

Silver trim marked her cuffs. Her hands were bare.

She jumped down at Daekun.

He tried to run but it was too late.

Her fist slammed through his chest in a clean, silent motion. His body folded. Spine cracked. No power display. No aura burst.

Just death.

Instant.

She landed without a sound.

Daekun’s body hit the concrete a second later.

She looked around once.

Nobody moved.

Not one person.

"I absolutely detest cheaters," she said aloud, " Now if any of you try to disrupt the peace you’ll face the same fate he did."

Jin, already in motion, ducked behind a support beam and made his way toward the stairwell leading up and around. He moved like fog—tracing the edges, avoiding spotlights, ears still ringing from the shift in mood.

Jin moved swiftly, his footsteps light as he crept along the outer wall, barely making a sound. His mind raced with the information he’d gathered over the past few minutes—the woman, the way she moved with such authority, the crushing strength in her strike, and the unnerving calm with which she’d dispatched Daekun. He knew she wasn’t just another tough inmate. There was something more there—something deeper.

The way she’d fallen. No, jumped—dropped—that wasn’t just a regular move. She had been positioned higher up, far above the courtyard level, almost as if she were watching from somewhere with the view of a commander. Her descent had been controlled, purposeful. No panic. And no hesitation. It was as if she had been expected to land there, to make an entrance, to establish herself.

That wasn’t normal for someone just wandering the yard.

He needed to find out more.

He glanced up at the ledge from which she had descended, his mind calculating the distance. It was clear now—she wasn’t just roaming the prison like the rest of them. She had to be someone with authority. And given the path she’d taken, the only logical conclusion was that she had come from somewhere high up—possibly the warden’s office. Jin’s gut told him this wasn’t a coincidence. This woman’s position and strength were clearly no accident. He had to get to the top.

The warden’s office was likely nearby. He’d seen the map earlier, and based on the way the prison was built, it made sense that the higher floors would hold more important rooms—the ones that weren’t easy to access. Jin needed to get up there. He needed answers, and it seemed like the only place to find them was where this woman had come from.

As he made his way toward the staircase, he reached into his inventory, the weight of the weapons he’d acquired still fresh in his mind. Muramasa, of course, was at the forefront of his thoughts. The sword had always been his go-to, but now that he had access to more legendary artifacts, his mind itched to try something new. The power of these weapons—the sheer potential they offered—was undeniable. They weren’t just trophies. They were tools that could push his skill further than ever before. He could feel the hum of possibilities, each one a challenge to his body and mind.

"Focus," he muttered to himself. "Not the time for distractions."

But as he continued up, he couldn’t help but feel that familiar thrill at the thought of mastering something new. Every weapon had its own unique design, and each one would force him to adapt. He didn’t need to use them all—Muramasa was more than enough for most situations—but it would be foolish not to test the limits of what he had. Besides, the more varied his approach, the better his chances when the time came to face off against the true threats lurking within these walls.

The elevator shaft was nearby. Jin passed it without a second thought, heading straight for the stairwell. He wasn’t going to risk using an elevator and possibly getting spotted. The stairs, however, were quieter, and if he was careful, he could make it to the higher levels undetected. He didn’t have much time.

As he ascended, his thoughts wandered briefly to the fight that had just erupted below. The chaos had worked in his favor, but he had to admit—he had never expected things to go this smoothly. His group was moving just as silently, just as efficiently. They were all trained for this. And though the group had split up, Jin trusted every one of them to handle their part. They had their orders, and once they all converged, they would move in unison.

But first, Jin needed to secure the information he was after.

With every step up the stairwell, he felt the pressure build. The woman, her aura, the way she moved—he could feel it all tugging at his resolve. She was someone worth fighting. And if she was connected to the leader of this place, that meant she was involved in whatever was brewing here. She wasn’t just a pawn. She was a piece of the puzzle.

When Jin reached the top floor, he slowed, keeping his breath low and steady. Every sound sharpened—his footfalls muffled, the light groan of the aged concrete under his weight, the faint hum of some generator buried in the wall.

He moved low along the corridor, eyes flicking over every detail. Paint peeled in long strips across the walls, and the old prison tiles were cracked in jagged patterns like a map of violence. A set of doors lined either side of the hallway, most of them rusted shut or dark inside. But ahead, at the far end of the stretch, one door stood intact.

Thicker.

Polished.

Steel-plated, with reinforced edges and clean seams that hadn’t been touched by dust. There were no signs, no labels—but etched faintly across the center was something the others lacked:

[WARDEN CONTROL – L6 ACCESS]

That was it.

Jin picked up his pace, eyes narrowing, his grip on Muramasa still calm and measured. He didn’t need to draw it yet. Not unless—

A low rumble cracked through the building.

Dust drifted from the ceiling tiles above.

The lights flickered once. Then again.

Jin stopped. Instincts screamed. Something was coming.

His eyes snapped toward the stairwell. No one. But it wasn’t behind him.

Below.

A force rose from the yard beneath—building, swelling, breaking upward through the concrete. Then—

BOOM.

The wall to his right exploded.

Not crumbled. Not cracked.

Exploded.

Chunks of concrete blew inward like shrapnel, a spray of stone and rebar ripping through the corridor. Jin didn’t hesitate. He moved before he even registered it—backpedaling two steps, twisting to the left, shoulder-first into the nearest unlocked door.

The room was dark. Empty. Filing cabinets and overturned chairs. He ducked inside as the blast washed over the hallway, slammed the door shut behind him, and dropped low.

Silence.

Then a boot hit the floor outside.

Hard.

Deliberate.

She was here.

Jin’s eyes narrowed.

So they’d made him.

No problem.