The Weapon Genius: Anything I Hold Can Kill-Chapter 183: One Night (Part Five)

The hallway shook with every flick of her chain-whip, metal slicing through the air with precision and weight. Hanseong leaned back, letting one pass within inches of his nose, the wind from its swing tugging at his collar. Another lash came for his legs—he hopped over it, landed in a crouch, and stepped past a third in one seamless motion.

He didn’t counter.

Not yet.

She was testing his rhythm. Looking for tells. One wrong movement, one misread of her angles, and that whip would coil around his ankle or throat. It wasn’t just a weapon—it was a trap, a dance of control and pressure. Every swing wasn’t meant to kill but to manipulate his space, to keep him reactive.

But Hanseong didn’t like reacting.

He stepped in as she pulled back, flicked his katana once—no contact. Just movement. Then shifted his footing again, brushing past another strike.

She frowned.

Not at the dodge, but at what she felt a second later.

A cut along her left arm. Thin. Clean. Blood rose like a thread.

She hadn’t even seen him swing.

Hanseong didn’t pause. He moved forward again, but she backed off, chains wrapping tight around her forearms as a defensive screen.

"I see," she muttered. "You’ve finally learned how to be dangerous."

Hanseong didn’t answer. His eyes stayed calm, sword low. He never held it high—not with her. He knew the way she moved, the way she baited. Raising his guard was permission for her to lock him down.

A yell rang out from behind.

Four inmates stormed the hallway—obviously here to back her up. One had iron knuckles, the other two carried jagged weapons. The last was barehanded, but his arms pulsed with hardened veins, something swirling under his skin like magma.

Hanseong sighed.

He turned his body sideways, katana still low, and walked forward—past his sister, past the steel scrap floor—and into their charge.

The first attacker lunged, swinging down a hookblade.

Hanseong stepped around it, and in that moment—blink-fast—his sword moved.

Not when the man struck.

Not when he missed.

When he passed.

The air sliced once.

The hookblade clattered.

The man hit the ground, clutching his chest.

Another came at him from the left. A sharp thrust with a piece of jagged metal. Hanseong didn’t dodge it—he stepped inside it, one shoulder brushing the man’s arm, and kept walking. His blade barely shifted, no more than a twitch of his wrist.

The man froze mid-motion.

Then his leg buckled.

Then he fell.

The third came from the rear, trying to catch him in the middle. The sound of his footsteps echoed off the walls—and then vanished.

Hanseong blurred forward.

The moment the third man realized he was behind, Hanseong was already two steps past him.

Blood welled across the man’s ribs, his shirt falling apart in thin, burning lines.

Only the fourth man didn’t charge.

He stood, fists clenched, face tight. "You’re fast," he said, "I’ll make you pay for hurting my buddies there."

His foot crushed the concrete below him.

A second later, he was gone.

A shockwave ripped through the hall.

Hanseong’s eyes barely widened as the man appeared above him, fist drawn back, heat swirling around his arm like steam off a boiling kettle.

Hanseong didn’t meet him.

He vanished.

A heartbeat passed.

Then the man stopped moving.

His body jerked once.

Then twice.

And then blood sprayed from a dozen clean slices across his limbs.

Hanseong stood behind him, katana sheathed.

He didn’t even look back as the man collapsed.

The chain whipped again.

This time from the side—his sister, trying to catch him while he was busy.

He jumped, flipped once in the air, and landed behind her.

"You’re slowing down," he said softly.

"You’re hurting my friends."

"They attacked first. Plus I doubt their good friends for you."

Her eyes narrowed. "You’ve always been like this. Cold. Distant."

"Well I haven’t felt more alive."

Cracks spread through the floor beneath them.

Somewhere else in the building, the south wing trembled.

He could hear it—vibrations, concussive bursts of impact. The others were fighting too. Seul. Chul. Maybe even Joon and Hanuel by now.

This entire prison would be fire by dawn.

His sister grit her teeth. "They were mine."

"They were obstacles."

"You’re just going to keep cutting everything down?"

"If it stands in the way."

Another flick of her wrist—this one slower, more controlled. The whip lashed out wide, like a scythe carving space.

Hanseong dodged again.

And again.

Until the third swipe he didn’t dodge.

He parried.

The katana caught the whip mid-snap, and for a moment, the two forces held. Sparks spat from where steel met chain. His blade sang from the strain, but didn’t break.

Then he twisted his wrist—and with a sudden jerk, pulled the chain.

She stumbled forward.

Hanseong moved in.

One cut. Then two. Each one slicing a link in the chain.

Her eyes went wide.

Three more strikes—faster than breath.

The whip fell limp.

A pile of segmented chain scattered across the ground.

She staggered back, panting, holding only a single fragment of the once-dominant weapon in her hand.

Hanseong stood tall, katana gleaming, body loose.

"You relied too much on that," he said.

Her expression twisted—not in fear.

In fury.

"You don’t get it," she hissed.

She dropped the last piece of the chain and lifted her hand.

The air around her shifted.

The floor creaked.

Hanseong’s eyes narrowed.

He felt it before it hit him.

A weight—not from above. Not from behind.

From within.

His bones ached.

His footing grew heavy.

The space between his blinks stretched.

She smiled, voice low and sharp. "You’re not the only one who learned something new."

And behind her—cracks formed in the air itself.

Pressure rippled outward.

He didn’t recognize the skill.

The moment she stepped forward, Hanseong felt the change.

It wasn’t just gravity—this wasn’t like Seul’s controlled, directional pulls or sudden spikes in pressure. No, this was layered. A shift in momentum, like the weight of every move he had already made was catching up to him at once.

He tried to slide back.

His boots scraped.

Too slow.

A second pulse radiated outward—silent, invisible, but the air shimmered faintly with displacement. Dust along the hallway floor jumped and spun midair like a time-lapse storm. The walls creaked again, and deeper cracks spiderwebbed across the ceiling.

His body responded a second too late.

She appeared just in front of him, faster than she should’ve been—propelled, he realized, not by speed, but by stolen inertia.

She’d redirected his retreat momentum into her advance.

He bent low, ducking the elbow she threw toward his throat. Her other arm swept in with a raw strike, no weapon—just weight. Like being hit by a wrecking ball. He twisted away just in time, and her punch buried itself into the concrete wall behind him, shattering the surface like it was cheap plaster.

Hanseong flipped backwards off instinct, landed a few paces away, and finally exhaled.

She’d gotten stronger.

Far stronger.

And now that she didn’t have the chain to rely on, she was fighting with her full body—reinforced, recalibrated by the physics-defying nature of her skill.

He shifted his footing, drew his blade in front of him.

"So, this is your real strength," he muttered.

She rolled her shoulder, cracking her neck once. "Told you the whip was just to keep things tidy. But you want a real fight?"

Her hand lifted.

"Then stand still."

A pulse exploded outward.

It wasn’t sound.

It wasn’t pressure.

It was weight—years of momentum, compressed and forced into a directional blast that came for him like a train.

He moved.

It was the only option.

He vanished from sight, reappearing at the far end of the corridor. His body skidded along the floor from the force of his own sudden momentum. He staggered slightly, used the wall to push himself into a crouch, and narrowed his eyes.

That blast had warped the floor—tiles cracked, rebar exposed beneath concrete. One of the steel doors had buckled inward from the pressure.

And she hadn’t even stepped forward.

Not yet.

She turned her head slightly, tracking him with calm focus.

"I always knew you were fast," she called. "But speed won’t help you out of this one."

Another pulse. Smaller.

More precise.

Hanseong didn’t wait.

He shifted again, flickering forward—not in a straight line, but along the edge of the wall. His blade shimmered, trailing that faint aftercut that marked his phantom slash. He circled her—twice—before striking in a sudden arc.

Her body tilted backward, hands sweeping through the air.

She caught the edge of his strike—not with a weapon, but by redirecting the path of her own body, slinging herself backwards with stolen inertia and flipping onto a railing post. She landed like a cat, grinning.

"That little cut didn’t even land."

Hanseong didn’t answer.

He shifted again—this time vertically, up to the next floor level using a shattered section of stairway. The building rattled again with far-off tremors—one of the other squads must’ve been unleashing something big.

Another reminder: they had limited time.

Which meant he couldn’t spend it all here.

Footsteps echoed in the distance.

More.

Two men first, then a woman followed.

Prisoners.

Not ordinary, if the confidence in their strides meant anything.

Hanseong scowled, stepping back to the lower level.

They spotted him immediately.

"That’s one of them," one shouted. "The intruder!"

The woman sprinted ahead of the others, a heavy axe appearing in her grip with a flicker of light. The head of it crackled green with some kind of charged energy, and her scream cut through the air like a war horn.

Hanseong didn’t flinch.

She came in swinging—overhead, raw power, enough to crush a man’s ribcage in a single blow. But by the time the axe reached where he’d been standing, he was already gone.

His blade flashed.

Not once.

Not even fully visible.

Just a motion in the air, like something swept past them too fast for the eye to follow.

The woman staggered. A breath left her mouth, then blood.

One line. Clean. From shoulder to hip.

She dropped before she realized she’d been hit, weapon still humming beside her twitching hand.

The other two—the ones that had shouted—lunged forward with a curse. One brought up a wicked, black-edged cleaver, the other manifesting a shield from his inventory, edges glowing faintly red. 𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

Hanseong moved forward—not around them, not dodging.

Through them.

Two steps.

Two slashes.

Neither man reacted at first. Then the one with the cleaver let out a low gasp and collapsed to his knees. The shield-bearer stumbled, trying to lift his weapon again before falling forward, eyes wide.

Across both of their chests bloomed identical slashes—deep, clean, diagonal. No wasted motion. No second strike.

Hanseong exhaled, then turned his gaze to the woman still frozen in front of him.

She hadn’t even had time to move.

He was already behind her.

His hand closed around her wrist. She tried to twist away.

Too late.

The edge of his katana settled against the base of her neck—light, controlled, but unmistakably final.

His sister stared in silence. Rage coloring her expression. Her fists clenched, feet tense, but her breath caught when she saw the blood dripping from the other three.

She opened her mouth.

"You move," Hanseong said quietly, "and she dies before you blink."

Jura didn’t speak. She was trembling.

"You’ve always wanted to be strong," he continued, not looking at her directly. "I get it. But power without control... is just cruelty waiting for a reason."

He pulled the woman in his hands back, stepped slightly forward, and tilted his katana—just enough to shift her closer to his chest, blade never leaving her throat.

Then his eyes finally met his sister’s.

"You still want to fight?" he asked, voice steady.

He pointed his blade at the corpses crumpled behind him.

"Because your new family’s dying one by one."

The threat wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

The tone alone made it land like a guillotine.

She flinched.

But she didn’t step back.

Not yet.

And Hanseong didn’t lower his sword.