The Weapon Genius: Anything I Hold Can Kill-Chapter 186: One Night (Part Eight)

The ceiling groaned under the impact of a distant shockwave, another fracture rumbling down the corridor like the building itself had gasped. Dust showered Seul’s shoulders, and she barely managed to step back as a slab of concrete dropped where she’d been standing seconds ago.

Chul didn’t flinch. He was already moving.

Another pack of prisoners surged around the corner—more emboldened now, the smarter ones shouting signals, forming clusters. They weren’t mindless anymore. Someone was coordinating them.

"South’s under too much pressure!" one shouted, swinging a twin-headed flail that sparked with golden runes. "Split their front!"

"Overload the woman!" another yelled. "She’s the one controlling the damn field!"

Seul narrowed her eyes. "They’re targeting me."

Chul’s voice was rough, amused. "Let ’em try."

He stepped forward. A man leapt toward him, fist wrapped in a burning gauntlet, a trail of blue fire in his wake.

Chul caught the punch with one palm.

Then drove his own into the prisoner’s chest.

The man flew back, the force transferring through his body like a shock pulse. He slammed into three others, knocking the cluster down in a heap. The corridor cracked where his boots had landed. 𝐟𝐫𝕖𝗲𝘄𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝕧𝐞𝚕.𝕔𝕠𝐦

Seul pivoted to the side, palm raised. Another opponent dashed forward with daggers that shimmered like starlight—she twisted the gravity around him mid-sprint, yanking his momentum ninety degrees.

He slammed into the wall, crumpled like paper.

They didn’t stop coming.

Another ten—maybe twelve—turned the corner, yelling, some activating minor barrier skills, some summoning enchanted relics into their hands. More weapon light. More relic glows. This time, it wasn’t just fists and noise.

One carried a curved blade that shimmered like moonlight.

Another had gloves etched with a rune Seul didn’t recognize—but the way the floor cracked beneath his steps made her eyes narrow.

"They’re stacking myth-gear now," she muttered.

Chul didn’t answer. His knuckles glowed faintly. He was getting warmer. More focused.

The air shifted.

One of the incoming prisoners suddenly shouted, both hands out. A rush of colorless energy burst from his palms—not light, not fire, not visible in the usual sense, but it bent the walls, cracked the ceiling, warped everything it touched.

It surged down the corridor.

"Seul—" Chul started.

"I see it!"

The wave of spatial force closed the distance. Fast. Chaotic. Like a windstorm wrapped in invisible blades.

Seul couldn’t nullify it outright. It wasn’t gravity. It was something deeper—space churned out of rhythm.

But Chul stepped forward again. He planted his feet, opened his arms, and for a second, the world paused.

Then his body pulled.

All that force? The wild distortion?

It crashed into him.

And vanished.

Seul felt the vacuum it left behind—air rushing forward, space snapping back.

And then Chul exhaled, eyes glowing faintly as he turned toward the wall.

He slammed his fist outward.

The entire corridor shuddered. A blast of stored force shot through the air—not a clean beam, not a wave, but a concentrated shock that tore through stone and steel like paper.

A new hole opened to their left, ragged and steaming.

Seul didn’t ask.

She jumped, bending the gravity around her and Chul, turning their bodies weightless for a breathless moment.

They flew through the new opening just as the spatial blast behind them slammed into the hallway they’d been in—collapsing it fully.

They landed in a lower corridor, darker than the rest. Dim emergency lights glowed faintly on the ceiling. Dust curled from above. Seul landed on one knee. Chul skidded to a halt beside her.

"Thanks for the lift," he muttered.

Seul rolled her shoulder. "Thanks for saving my back."

They straightened.

A beat.

Then, a thud.

Something—someone—came flying through the wall ahead of them.

She hit the far side like a cannonball, bounced once, and collapsed at the base of a shattered column.

A woman. Bloodied. Barely conscious. Smoke rising from her back.

Chul tensed. Seul’s arm shot out instinctively, but they didn’t need to act.

Because someone else stepped through the hole she’d made.

Boots touched stone. A figure emerged, dragging a katana through the air, its tip scraping lightly against the floor, leaving a hairline groove behind him.

Hanseong.

His shirt was torn along the shoulder, dust streaked across his face, and his hair was disheveled—but his breathing was steady. His eyes were sharp.

Dead calm.

Seul blinked. "Hanseong?"

He looked at her. Nodded once. "Seul. Chul."

Chul let out a low whistle. "Well damn. Thought you were on the other end of the wing."

Hanseong glanced behind him. "Was."

He gestured to the unconscious woman. "She decided to get in my way."

Seul stepped forward. "You took her down?"

"She brought backup. Didn’t help."

Chul smirked. "She getting up again?"

"Doubt it. She’s breathing, but she won’t walk for a while."

The trio stood together now, silent for a few seconds.

They could still hear the echoes of conflict. Explosions. Shouts. The building groaned somewhere far off.

Seul was the first to speak. "We need to regroup. If everyone else is fighting like this..."

"Then the main force hasn’t even shown yet," Hanseong finished.

Chul cracked his neck. "Then let’s find them. Hit first. Hard."

He turned—and stopped.

All three of them did.

Because something shifted.

The gravity. The scent. The air.

Not in front of them. Behind.

Slow, heavy footsteps echoed through the hallway they’d just come from.

Deliberate. Solid. Confident.

Then, a sound—soft at first. Crisp. Sharp. The slow rhythm of clapping.

Chul’s fist clenched.

"Well now," a voice called out, feminine, low, with a rasp like embers catching dry leaves. "I have to admit. You bastards made a hell of a mess."

The footsteps stopped.

Then a figure stepped through the cracked stone and dust behind them.

She wasn’t like the others.

She stood tall, frame lean but coiled tight with muscle beneath a fitted jacket that looked like part prison uniform, part enforcement gear. Jet-black pants streaked with crimson markings hugged her legs, heavy boots echoing with every step. A single baton sat strapped across her back—though unlike the average guard’s, this one looked molten at the edges, its grip wrapped in ash-dark leather. Her sleeves were rolled up, revealing arms inked with chain-patterned tattoos that shimmered slightly in the emergency lights.

Her hair was slicked back into a tight braid, silver streaks running through black. And her eyes?

Burning. Copper-gold. Focused entirely on them.

"I was wondering what all the noise was about," she said, letting her clapping hand fall to her side. "I figured it had to be something interesting."

Seul took a step forward, her stance guarded. "You must be the leader, then."

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Cute. But no."

Hanseong’s hand hovered just near his blade, still relaxed. "She’s not the warden," he said, tone even. "She’s one of the Eight."

Seul blinked. "Eight?"

"The Warden’s command structure," Hanseong said. "Eight elite officers. Each assigned a cardinal wing. They call them the Cells."

Chul scoffed. "Cells? You serious?"

"The Warden’s clever. Names each commander after the prison blocks they control. Keeps things thematic."

The woman stepped forward, raising her chin slightly.

"Jung Ma-Rok," she said. "One of the Eight Cells, but you guys can call me Cinder."

The way she said it wasn’t boastful. Just fact.

Her gaze moved from Hanseong, to Chul, to Seul—measuring, not intimidated. Then it settled back on Hanseong.

"You know a lot, boy."

He took one slow step forward. "I took out one of yours."

"Oh?" Her lips curled. "I wonder who has the big mouth."

"Big guy. Loved to shout. Didn’t love the katana."

Ma-Rok clicked her tongue, almost disappointed. "So it was Sang-Dae, that fool’s been running his mouth since before the takeover. Always said he could take down anyone who came through the front."

Chul tilted his head. "You’re taking this well."

"I’m not here to mourn," Ma-Rok said simply. "I’m here to return the favor."

She raised a hand—and in a sudden surge, the temperature in the hallway spiked.

Chul’s breath fogged out. Not from cold—but from sheer heat.

Seul narrowed her eyes, stepping slightly forward, gravity warping faintly around her.

"What is that?" she muttered.

Ma-Rok didn’t answer. Instead, she tapped a point on her wrist. A glowing brand unfolded across her forearm—lines of molten metal forming a sigil that burned like an ember.

The air around her shimmered.

Ash began to rise from her boots.

The concrete at her feet darkened.

"You came into my wing," she said, voice calm now, the rasp gone, replaced by something smoother. "You broke my corridors. You hurt my people."

Her eyes flashed.

"I’m not the Warden but I’m going to show you why I was put in charge."

With a sharp twist of her hand, the baton on her back lifted into the air, floating for a moment as it ignited. Flames wrapped it like a snake, coiling down the shaft until the entire weapon glowed red-hot and it started to change and shift into a thin metal glowing rod.

Seul braced herself.

Chul cracked his knuckles.

Hanseong didn’t blink.

Ma-Rok smiled—just slightly. Enough to show teeth.

"Let’s see how many of you I can send to solitary."

The ground beneath her feet fractured.

And the hallway lit up.