Chapter Six: Possessed by a Spirit

Scarface was utterly shocked. Damn, is this brat possessed? I always said he was no good—now even ghosts come for him. Hell, I'd love to cleave him in two and be done with it.

"Fifth, Fifth, you son of a bitch, wake up! You're possessed!" Scarface shouted in his raspy, broken voice.

"Master! Master! Fifth, that bastard, is possessed!" If Scarface had any skills, they were with blades and guns—he knew nothing about the supernatural. For real expertise, only the old man in black could help, but by now the master had surely returned to the surface. No matter how Scarface called, he wouldn’t hear. The only hope was that the master would soon notice something amiss and come back down to the tomb. Then, they could figure out how to drive out the ghost—best to let Fifth suffer a bit in the meantime, a taste of Liu’s methods would do him good.

Scarface had barely finished the thought when Fifth lunged at him with a strange howl. Scarface braced himself, sidestepping the charge, his hands gripping Fifth’s shoulders like iron claws. With a grunt, he hoisted Fifth overhead and slammed him hard to the ground.

Scarface was pleased with himself—surely the brat would behave now. But before the thought had fully formed, Fifth rolled and sprang at him again, baring his teeth, eyes wild and animalistic, showing no sign of pain—nothing human at all.

A guttural, inhuman laugh rattled out. Scarface eyed him—still fierce, huh? Skilled hands give courage, after all. He stepped in, twisting his wrist to bring the hilt of his knife down hard on the back of Fifth’s neck, intending to knock him cold and then decide what to do.

But something strange happened. Instead of collapsing, Fifth grew even more violent. He leapt up, hands clamping tight around Scarface’s throat, legs locking his lower body in place. In moments, Scarface's mind spun, sweat beading on his forehead, the air strangled from his lungs, eyes bulging, veins popping. Damn it, what a humiliating end for Liu—an old hero, to die like this at the hands of this bastard!

But just then, an idea struck. He shifted his feet, spun backward, and hurled himself against the tomb wall.

With a heavy thud, Scarface mustered all his strength. Fifth’s skull crashed into the bricks, and finally, the grip on Scarface’s throat loosened just enough.

Taking the chance, Scarface wasted no time. He blocked with both arms, flipped up like a hawk, and drove a fierce kick into Fifth’s chest.

A sharp crack echoed—the force snapped three of Fifth’s ribs, blood gushing from his mouth.

Gasping for breath, Scarface staggered back two steps, having just danced at death’s door. He glared at Fifth, more alert than ever. This was life and death—he was ready to kill now, knife poised, eyes flashing coldly.

Fifth’s face was smeared with blood, mouth dripping a mixture of spit and crimson, trailing down his cheeks. His bones crackled and popped, fingers sprouting claws three inches long—he looked every bit the revenant demon.

Possession, how did one break it? Scarface panted, cursing his memory—the old master had taught him, but the fight had left him too shaken to recall. He eyed Fifth with a bitter laugh—never thought I’d end up buried in a tomb, almost finished by you. When I get my hands on you, I’ll make you wish you were dead.

Still, he had to deal with the situation carefully. Best to lure the brat out of the tomb, where the master and the others could subdue him. Even if Scarface wanted to hack him in two, that wouldn’t sit well with the old man. Then again, maybe it was Fifth who’d cleave him instead.

Fifth’s body began to warp again—his bones stretched, cords of sinew bulging beneath his skin, tearing it open. His arms elongated like water snakes, hands becoming talons that swept toward Scarface.

Damn, no wonder this brat’s always had the face of a monkey—must’ve been a gibbon in his past life.

Scarface didn’t have time to think. He raised his blade to meet the attack.

A metallic clang rang out—the demonic claws struck steel, showering sparks, the force undiminished as they raked for Scarface’s chest.

He barely dodged, but the claws tore five deep holes in his shoulder, blood welling up.

The monster that was once Fifth kept growling, eyes wild and bestial, utterly devoid of humanity.

Taking advantage of his momentum, Fifth gave Scarface no respite, lashing out again and again with his elongated, clawed arms. In moments, Scarface was riddled with wounds, his black shirt stained a mottled brown.

How can this damned long-armed fiend be so strong? If he doesn’t kill me, I’ll bleed to death. Scarface’s temper was gone, worn away by the relentless assault. But a glance caught something—he’d maneuvered close to the shaft they’d descended earlier. If he could just lure the thing out, he might have a chance.

Damn you, long-armed freak, take this!

He flicked his wrist, sending a handful of steel darts from his sleeve straight at Fifth’s face.

The monster’s arms swept through the air, batting the darts aside with a clatter. Scarface didn’t wait to see if they’d hit. He curled himself into a ball and leapt for the tunnel.

“Master, something’s wrong! Fifth, that bastard, he’s turned into a long-armed demon! Quick—”

He didn’t finish before he saw the monster’s head and shoulders emerge from the tunnel behind him.

What are you, a leech? Still not letting go! Scarface cursed as he sprinted down the tomb passage, flinging every dart he had left. By the time he reached the end, his sleeves were empty.

With a sweeping kick, he sent a pile of broken weapons and rusty swords flying behind him, then dove for the exit. Scarface would swear this was the fastest he’d ever run in his life—bar none.