F-Rank Soul Eater

Chapter 215: Sophia’s Father?

The manor’s upper hall was a blur of gold silk and violence.

Black gripped Sophia’s wrist with the strength of a hydraulic press.

—and his expression, unchanged, even as she thrashed.

"Let. Me. Go," she hissed.

She wasn’t just a saintess, she was still a cadet of the Imperial Soulforge Academy.

And she would act as one—

Sophia threw a lightning-fast punch toward his jaw, which Black caught effortlessly in his palm.

But she didn’t pull back. Instead, she grabbed his shoulder, using it as a fulcrum to launch her entire body into the air.

She twisted mid-flight, her silk-clad leg whipping around to crack against his temple.

The force was enough to make his grip falter. Sophia landed light as a cat, immediately tearing the cumbersome golden skirt of her gown to mid-thigh.

Revealed beneath was her cadet-issued dagger, strapped to her leg—a blade she had intended for a very different kind of wedding night.

Black wiped a trickle of blood from his lip, his eyes darkening.

He didn’t draw a weapon. Instead, he dropped into a low, flowing stance, his hands open.

Seeing this, she frowned. She shoukd have expected this.

Even though the Los Elegidos family was merely a Baron family, there were still a noble family.

Meaning that the descendants were thought a certain fighting technique.

Black, being a child of this home, definitely knew how to fight.

The battle was a dance of brutal efficiency.

Sophia lunged, her blade whistling through the air in a series of jagged arcs.

Black moved like water, his body swaying inches away from the soul-steel.

He didn’t just dodge; he deflected, using the heels of his palms to smack the flat of her blade, sending vibrations up her arm that numbed her fingers.

When he struck, it was a precise, two-finger jab to her shoulder that sent her reeling.

Sophia spat blood, her eyes burning with a cold rage.

She didn’t care about the technique; she cared about the kill. She dove back in, her movements becoming more erratic, and definitely more desperate.

Meanwhile, deep within the stone passage, the air grew colder, and was filled with the scent of ozone.

As Soren stepped into the inner sanctum, the cocoon containing Chronovore in his soul began to pulse.

A familiar, ravenous hunger gnawed at his gut—the Shade was smelling something.

In Soren’s experience, that could only mean that a wounded shade was nearby.

However, Soren had come to understand while Chronovore was a greedy eater, it was also a picky one.

After all, it had not hunkered to eat the Shade Stealer and the other Animavores.

And there was no doubt that those were wounded Shades because of the harm that had been done to the souls of their soulbound warriors.

It could only mean one thing. Whatever it was that was exciting Chronovore, must be special enough.

Soren gritted his teeth, forcing the hunger sensation back into the darkness.

They burst into a room that looked less like a vault and more like a high-tech dungeon.

Chained to the far wall was a man who looked like a ghost of the Old World.

His long blond hair was matted with filth, and his skin was a sickly, translucent grey, stretched tight over a skeletal frame.

Syringes and medical tubes were plunged into his neck and chest, pumping fluid that seemed to be the only thing keeping him alive.

Polystar’s eyes didn’t linger on the prisoner for long.

Instead, he spotted a massive, silver-reinforced safe in the corner.

"The Anchor," he breathed, rushing toward it. "It must be in here."

The safe before him was a masterpiece of mechanical and no doubt aether sealing techniques.

Polystar didn’t reach for a tool; instead, his blue soul energy flared.

His fingers began to shift, splitting into thousands of tiny, vine-like branches that slithered into the keyholes and seal-cracks of the safe.

He was hacking the tumblers manually, his forehead beading with sweat as he navigated the internal traps.

Soren, however, couldn’t take his eyes off the prisoner.

The man’s suffering was an open wound in the room.

Polystar obviously didn’t care. If he left the man, it would just weigh heavily on his conscience.

He rushed over, drawing his dagger. With a heavy, concentrated strike, he brought the blade down on the man’s left shackle.

*CLANG!*

The chain shattered. The man’s head lolled upward, his sunken eyes blinking in the dim light.

"Don’t worry, old man," Soren whispered, already moving to the next chain. "I’ll get you out of here."

The man’s gaze fell upon the dagger in Soren’s hand. He saw the crest of the dagger—the mark of that one family that made weapons for the Academy.

"You... you are from the Imperial Soulforge Academy," the man wheezed, his voice sounding like grinding stones.

Soren nodded. "Yes. I am."

"Then you came here... with her. My daughter. Sophia."

Soren froze, the dagger hovering over the next chain.

"You’re Sophia’s father?"

Before the man could answer, Soren’s Blackfield screamed a warning.

A massive spike of intent flared behind him.

Soren jerked his head to the side just as a heavy boot whistled past his ear, slamming into the brick wall with enough force to crater the masonry.

It was Red.

The twin didn’t waste a breath. He spun on his heel, launching a follow-up kick toward Soren’s chest.

Soren crossed his arms to block, but the impact felt like being hit by a speeding train. He was launched backward, his back slamming into the stone wall with a sickening thud.

His dagger slipped from his grip, clattering across the floor and sliding toward the shadows beneath the prisoner. Soren lunged for it, but Red was already on him, a flurry of strikes forcing Soren to roll and dodge.

In the chaos, the old man’s hand snaked out from his rags.

He caught the hilt of the fallen dagger, pulling it silently beneath his leg, his eyes never leaving the boy who had come to save his daughter.