The Berserker’s Creed

Fourth-rank. Some of his strength had returned.

Not much, but it would suffice.

Rhine stared at the sorcerers wearing the faces of his former colleagues, mimicking their voices and crudely imitating their mannerisms. The sight was nauseating.

This was the nature of a sorcerer’s disguise. If these were mere imposters, the fate of his real colleagues was easy to imagine. Sorcerers were hardly a benevolent sort; they always chose the simplest way to eliminate loose ends.

They killed them and took their place.

What goes around comes around. Rhine didn’t mind personally sending them to join the original owners of their masks in the afterlife.

On the other side, the two sorcerers had heard that the failed attack on Daniel was due to a male servant barely fourteen years old. But such rumors were often a mix of truth and fiction, and the idea of a fourteen-year-old boy beating two third-rank sorcerers into submission was too absurd to be believed. So, they had paid it no mind.

Now, however, the situation left them no choice but to believe.

Despite his arrogant words, Rhine’s mind remained as cold as ice.

His earlier surprise attack had worked only because he’d caught them off guard. With his current strength, he couldn’t completely overwhelm these two, who appeared far more professional. For now, he was merely bluffing, observing their next move.

Since they had resorted to disguises, their entire operation hinged on maintaining a low profile. From their perspective, if they couldn’t eliminate him within this room, protected by a Soundproofing Barrier, and the commotion spread outside, it would jeopardize their entire mission.

Instantly, the two sorcerers reacted. A silver arrow shimmering with a metallic gleam shot straight for Rhine’s head. At the same time, the floor of the room began to tremble slightly, while the table where Rhine stood started to shake violently.

Third-rank Arrow Shot and second-rank Hand of Resonance.

One was swift and silent, a spell capable of inflicting physical damage comparable to a direct hit from a heavy crossbow bolt. The other was subtle and precise, using the principles of resonance to affect buildings or objects.

These enemies were on a completely different level than the last two. If the previous pair were common hired thugs, these were clearly professionally trained spellcasters—more decisive, with no wasted movements or incantations, and significantly faster casting speeds.

Clang! Rhine tilted his head slightly. A faint blue, triangular rune flashed for a moment by his cheek. The magic arrow missed his head, veering off its original path to graze his face before embedding itself in the wall behind him.

“Alright, I take it back,” Rhine said. “Dealing with you lot requires at least a little effort. Wouldn’t want you to flip the table with me still on it.”

A boast wasn’t a promise, irreversible like spilled water. Rhine, ever flexible with his principles, leaped back from the trembling table. He then cast Lightness on himself and kicked the wooden table over, creating a makeshift barrier.

A strange silence fell over the scene as both sides paused. It wasn’t that they didn’t want to act, but because of spell cooldowns.

Even the most powerful sorcerers had casting buffers. While continuous spellcasting was theoretically possible, it placed an immense burden on the soul. The consequences of rushing the ‘channeling’ ranged from flawed execution and spell failure to severe backlash against the caster themselves.

However, an unwritten rule existed among sorcerers—

The lower the rank of the spell, the shorter the cooldown!

For a first-rank spell like Lightness, a fourth-rank sorcerer like Rhine needed less than a second for the buffer to pass.

So what was he waiting for?

Flash. Tremor.

First, a brilliant light erupted from behind the corner of the table, blinding the two sorcerers. Immediately after, an intense fear washed over them, as if they were vampires and the light was their ancient, eternal enemy.

Dual casting. It was a skill only high-ranking sorcerers could master, and combining different spells could often produce an effect greater than the sum of its parts.

Just as they assumed their opponent was also a sorcerer and this was merely a harmless diversion, a chilling glint of steel flashed through the air, piercing one of the sorcerers’ throats.

‘A throwing knife… he used a throwing knife!’

Another third-rank sorcerer, dead so easily from a conventional attack. Third-rank sorcerers weren’t a dime a dozen; they were typically existences that stood above thousands, if not tens of thousands!

To be clear, the stereotype of third-rank sorcerers being weak cannon fodder only existed because their opponents were simply on another plane of existence.

“Breaking a sweat, aren’t we, little brother? How does it feel, not even being able to cast Iron Skin?”

Rhine rose from behind the table, a kitchen knife in hand, and advanced on the sole remaining sorcerer.

The man was about to wave his wand in a desperate last stand when Rhine made a pressing motion with his empty hand. The triangular rune pulsed in his palm, and an unseen pressure forced the wand down.

Scorching Ray.

Mirror Reflection.

The instant-cast spell etched into his very soul was his final trump card, but Rhine had anticipated it, raising a defense. The moment the red light flared, it was reflected by a translucent mirror back into the caster’s own chest, leaving a gruesome, charred wound that would be difficult to heal and reeked of burnt flesh.

“How… how did you know…?”

“Heh. I saw right through you. Nine times out of ten, instant-cast spells are light-based. You’re still too green.”

With a flick of his wrist, Rhine sent the kitchen knife flying. It traced a graceful arc, spun once in the air, and landed squarely in the sorcerer’s forehead. Answering his question before death was the greatest mercy Rhine could offer.

At least the man died knowing why.

Rhine surveyed the trashed kitchen. Three bodies lay strewn about, each in its own grisly state, but the expressions frozen on their faces were identical—utter disbelief.

He sighed and brushed the flour from his clothes. His black servant’s uniform was now marred with ugly white and gray splotches.

With a look of disgust, he stepped over the body by the wall and went to the sink, washing his hands before trying to wipe his uniform clean. Finally, he walked over to the still-intact food trolley, opened the door without a second thought, and pushed it out first.

‘If that dead thing wearing the head maid’s skin sees me walking out of here, she’ll absolutely lose her mind.’

‘But what does that have to do with me? They made the first move. Worst case, I kill them all. Annoying as it is, dealing with the aftermath is worse than just killing them. Oh, wait, I mean… properly explaining this to the Cavendish family…’

Just as he pushed the trolley out of the kitchen, he came face to face with three more furtive-looking servants. For a moment, everyone just stared at each other.

“Mr. Rhine, is something wrong in the kitchen?”

“Nothing at all~”

Thump.

The door, not fully closed, swung open, and the body with a kitchen knife in its head slumped sideways into view. It was a comical, yet tragic sight, as if the corpse were using its last ounce of unlife to heroically refute Rhine’s blatant lie.

‘Son of a b*tch, couldn’t even do me a solid, huh!’

In the blink of an eye, another fierce battle erupted in the hallway. This time, the food trolley did not survive. Precious ingredients scattered across the floor, and a certain someone’s methods grew increasingly ruthless.

If I kill everyone, no one will know I was here. —The Berserker’s Creed.