Hacking the Game Didn't Go as Intended [Part Two]

CHAPTER 214: Conform or Die

The vaulted corridor stretched long and hollow, the dim glow of widely spaced mana lamps barely keeping the darkness at bay.

An elderly court official strode forward, his heavy boots echoing against the cold stone floor. Two armed escorts flanked him, their armor clanking softly with each step.

The council meeting had been exhausting—filled with bickering nobles and veiled threats—but at last, it was over. Now, all that awaited him was the solace of his chambers, a stiff drink, and the welcome embrace of silence.

Then, without warning, the silence came first.

A sharp clink rang out—a body hitting the ground. Then another.

The man froze. His blood ran cold as he turned his head. His men—both seasoned warriors—lay sprawled on the floor, their swords unsheathed but unused, as if they hadn't even had the chance to fight back. The blue light cast eerie shadows over their lifeless forms, their bodies unnaturally still.

Then, from the darkness, something moved.

A hooded figure emerged like a specter from the gloom, his form melting out of the shadows as if he had been born from them. The air thickened, a sinister pressure settling over the corridor, crawling against the elder's skin. A malicious aura radiated from the figure—cold, calculated, and undeniably lethal.

"High Justiciar Hadrian Vexford."

The voice was smooth, yet carried an edge of amusement, a threat wrapped in velvet.

Hadrian squared his shoulders, his thick beard barely concealing the grim set of his jaw. He had faced kings and criminals alike—he would not cower before a nameless shade in a corridor.

"Who are you?" he barked, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "I warn you, skulking in the dark does not exempt you from the laws of this realm. Answer me, or suffer the consequences."

The hooded man tilted his head slightly, the faintest smirk visible beneath the mask's lower edge. His voice turned condescending, laced with enjoyment.

"It seems you've worn the Justiciar's mantle for far too long, old man. It has made you delusional." He stepped closer, his movements impossibly fluid, like a phantom. "Do you truly believe your word is law, even in this moment?"

Hadrian stiffened, a flare of anger in his gaze. "I asked you a question—who are you?"

The smirk deepened. The hooded figure leaned in ever so slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper, yet it carried through the corridor like a dirge.

"I'm sure you already know who I am afflicted with."

The cold finality in those words sent a chill down Hadrian's spine. His breath hitched, his throat tightening involuntarily. He knew. By the gods, he knew.

A single word escaped his lips, barely above a whisper. "Mhaledictus..."

The name felt cursed, as if saying it aloud might summon death itself. His heartbeat thundered in his chest. His eyes darted left and right, searching for an escape, for anything—anyone—that could break the moment.

The hooded figure chuckled darkly. "Don't bother."

As if on cue, more figures slithered forth from the shadows, silent as wraiths, encircling him in a noose of darkness. Hooded, faceless, watching. Trapping.

Hadrian swallowed, the iron-clad confidence he had wielded mere moments ago crumbling beneath the weight of inevitability.

The first figure took another step forward, his presence suffocating. "Most of the others have already conformed. It's time you did the same."