Infinite Mana Exorcist
Chapter 39: The fallen clan

Chapter 39: The fallen clan

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The large city of Syrus stood eerily silent, devoid of life. Yet, despite its emptiness, an ominous noise echoed through the ruins—metal clashing against the earth, rocks crumbling under force, and distant, unrelenting sounds of toil and suffering.

Syrus had once been a city of wonders, renowned for its vast mineral wealth. It was the city of riches, where both the powerful and the desperate sought fortune. Rare gems and magical artifacts were traded in its bustling markets, drawing merchants, adventurers, and opportunists from across the world. It had been a tourist marvel, a place where fortunes were made and destinies altered.

That was before the catastrophe.

The Night Terror attacks had changed everything.

A city once thriving with trade and culture had been brought to its knees. Syrus had never been a fortress; its security had been weak, relying too heavily on the assumption that no one would dare to challenge its wealth. But when the Night Terror struck, they were unprepared. The city suffered immeasurably, wave after wave of destruction tearing through its streets, leaving behind nothing but despair and ruin.

Yet, somehow, the people endured. They survived the carnage, clinging to what little remained.

But then, everything changed.

The city of Syrus shut its gates to the world. No visitors. No traders. No cries for aid. The outside world assumed it was bitterness—a city betrayed, abandoned in its time of need, now seething in resentment. But the truth was far worse.

Inside the walls, the city had fallen to something far more sinister.

The survivors had not reclaimed their home. They had been enslaved.

Those who once walked freely through Syrus’ grand streets were now forced into labor, their spirits crushed beneath the weight of their oppressors. The warriors who had once sworn to defend their people were broken, forced into servitude or given a cruel choice—serve the new ruler or perish.

A monster had claimed the city.

And so, Syrus became known by a new name—The Fallen Clan.

---

In the heart of the ruined kingdom, a vast platform stretched endlessly, spanning at least five hundred meters wide. The ground was embedded with towering yellow spikes, jagged like the branches of a twisted forest. These formations were one of the many wonders of the Fallen Clan.

Magical Mana Crystals.

Rare. Priceless. A source of unimaginable power.

And yet, for those who toiled here, they were nothing but shackles.

"Faster, you bloody bastard!"

The roar of an enraged voice thundered across the platform, followed by the sharp crack of a whip slicing through the air.

"Ahhhhh!"

A piercing scream rang out as a young elf girl collapsed onto the stone floor, her frail body trembling from the force of the blow. Her pickaxe slipped from her grasp, clattering uselessly to the ground.

Tears welled in her eyes as pain seared through her back, her delicate skin torn open by the cruel lash. Blood dripped down her trembling form, soaking into the dust-covered ground.

"P-Please..."

She tried to speak, but before she could finish, another brutal lash struck her bare back.

Her scream of agony echoed into the sky.

The massive beast towering over her pulled his whip back, his pale face twisted in amusement. His armor, old and broken, reeked of blood and decay. He had no eyes—only deep, hollow sockets that should have been blind, yet still, he could see. He was a creature resembling the Night Terror but far more intelligent, far more sadistic.

He was a Punisher.

And he was not alone.

Dozens of these creatures stood at every corner of the crystal platform, overseeing the enslaved workers, ensuring obedience with the crack of their whips. They were monsters, enslavers of an entire people, the enforcers of a cruel rule that turned the once-proud citizens of Syrus into little more than tools.

Those who disobeyed were flogged.

Those who resisted were eaten.

When these creatures had first arrived, the people had fought back, desperate to reclaim their home. But they were no match. The beasts were too powerful. Their leader—unstoppable.

He had crushed Syrus’ greatest warriors within seconds.

"Get up, child, before I change the menu on my lunch break!"

The monster ran a hand through his sweat-drenched beard before rolling his long, serpentine tongue over his cracked lips. His hunger was evident, his patience thin.

Syla, the young elf girl, bit her lip, swallowing the searing rage that threatened to consume her.

She hated this.

She hated the chains around her wrists.

She hated the stench of blood that filled the air.

She hated the torn rags she wore, the never-ending labor, the relentless beatings.

She hated them.

But more than anything—she hated herself for being too afraid to fight back.

She had thought about it countless times, about picking up a weapon and striking down these monsters. But every time the thought crossed her mind, a memory surfaced—the sight of her father, his head crushed and devoured before her very eyes.

She could still hear his dying screams.

And so, with trembling hands, she reached for her pickaxe.

"Ahhhhhh!"

With every ounce of strength she had left, she struck the crystal.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Each swing fueled by hatred.

Each scream a reminder that she was still alive.

And that she still wanted to die.

---

Meanwhile...

Deep within the golden palace of the Fallen Clan, guards stood in eerie stillness, their monstrous forms blending into the grand architecture of the throne room. The walls were adorned with intricate carvings, ancient artworks depicting forgotten glories.

A throne of gold and velvet dominated the center of the hall, exuding power and dominance.

And in that throne sat a man.

His fingers idly toyed with the ornate crown in his grasp, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hat. He was dressed entirely in white, his clothes pristine—a stark contrast to the blood-soaked land he ruled over.

His eyes remained closed for a long while, his mind deep in thought.

Then, abruptly—his eyes snapped open, a dark frown carving across his face.

"That brat!"

His voice erupted with fury as he hurled the crown to the floor.

"Why is he messing with me?! This has gone too far! He murdered thirteen of my own in just two weeks!"

His anger boiled over as he rose from his throne, his hand pointing toward a figure standing in the shadows.

The armored figure, clad in metal from head to toe, was so still he could have been mistaken for a statue. But as soon as the ruler’s gaze fell upon him, he moved.

Dropping to one knee, the knight bowed his head.

"Why have you called me, Ruler of the Fallen Clan?"

The man sneered.

Clichéd bastard.

Suppressing his irritation, he exhaled a sharp breath and shoved his hands into his pockets, seeking comfort in familiarity.

"Travel the lands," he ordered, his voice laced with venom.

"Find me Asher Vance and his team."

His eyes darkened.

"Bring him back dead or crippled. That kid is too much of a nuisance."