Soul system:Return Of The SSS-Ranked Troublemaker-Chapter 62: Game Of Fate (18) Sovereign Of Manifestation.
CRACK.
His head shattered like brittle porcelain, sending shards of bone and a fine spray of blood across the polished floor and the foot of the ornate bed.
For a moment, silence reigned—
Broken only by the slow, rhythmic drip... drip... drip... of thick red liquid pooling beneath him.
The man standing over the corpse exhaled softly, as if bored.
"Clean it," he commanded, his voice cold and detached.
Without a word, the woman in black stepped forward. She knelt gracefully beside the body, pulling a dark cloth from her sleeve. The cloth seemed to swallow the blood into its fabric as she wiped, her movements precise and unflinching.
CHINA’S STUDENT POV.
Meanwhile, in the Jeju Art Museum
Three students stood in front of a grand sculpture towering over the museum entrance.
The wind off the sea played with their hair and robes, carrying the faint scent of salt and stone.
First was a tall male student, dressed in a long white robe that fluttered lightly in the breeze. His dark hair flowed around his closed eyes, yet even blinded, his presence was sharp, almost fierce. His hands were clasped in front of him — an image of serenity masking something much deeper.
Beside him stood a striking female student.
She wore a vivid red qipao, the silk clinging to her figure. Twin buns adorned her head, their dark strands tightly coiled. Twin slits ran up the sides of her dress, revealing strong thighs sheathed in brown stockings that ended in polished black shoes. She tapped her foot impatiently, a scowl on her face.
Last was a student in a robe similar to the first, but trimmed in black.
Their beauty was impossible to categorize — a delicate face with smooth skin, long lashes, and a faint smile playing at the lips. Their gender was an enigma, a whisper on the edge of certainty. They were like a painting brought to life, a work of art more than a person.
"I guess this is the Jeju Art Museum," the androgynous student said, their voice melodic. They smiled, a hand brushing casually against their robe.
"Hmph. It doesn’t even look impressive," the girl muttered, folding her arms and looking off to the side with a huff.
The boy with closed eyes spoke then, his voice like a blade drawn across stone.
"Just go inside. Remember the order... the Hero of Dao must come first."
The moment he spoke, a chill ran through them — the weight of his words sinking into their bones.
"L-Let’s just go," the girl stammered, her earlier bravado crumbling.
They pushed open the grand doors.
Inside, the world shifted —
The museum was unlike anything they’d imagined.
Gigantic carvings of ancient heroes lined the hall, their faces worn smooth by time.
Twisting wooden sculptures dangled from the ceiling like withered spirits.
Paintings of storms and battles covered the walls, their colors raw and violent.
In a corner, a marble statue of a woman whose face was split between laughter and weeping stared down at them, her cracked body glistening under faint lights.
Every step deeper into the museum felt like stepping into another world — one made of memory, sorrow, and forgotten dreams.
"A very precise art indeed..." The androgynous student said, a subtle smile curling at their lips. Their hands were clasped behind their back as they paced around the museum, their footsteps echoing softly in the quiet halls.
"Good thing there’s not much longer until everyone’s gone. Only the staff remains." The female student remarked, glancing around the dimly lit gallery, her tone sharp and calculated.
"If the information was correct, all the citizens were evacuated, including those in the neighboring cities, not just from the city where the portal outbreak occurred." The male student said, his posture unwavering. His cold expression matched his equally stern voice, showing no hint of distraction as he studied the art around them.
"I see. Then who are these people now?" The androgynous student asked, their eyes narrowing slightly as they observed the group before them. Five men stood in front of them, all dressed in black suits, their faces hidden behind eerie, red Dokkaebi masks.
"They could be heroes, or some civilians blending in with undercover operatives..." the male student, Yuan, mused, his head tilting slightly as he studied them. "Although I doubt they’re actual heroes. Look at how they’re welcoming us." His voice was cold, almost amused.
"Hm, indeed, Brother Yuan." The androgynous student said softly, their tone tinged with mild amusement.
"You both know what to do, Chunsi, Guang. It’ll get too messy once I join in." Yuan’s voice grew even colder, his eyes scanning the group of masked men with a calculating gleam.
"And try not to destroy any art, you know how important it will be in the future..." Yuan added, a note of warning in his words.
Chunsi and Guang nodded in acknowledgment, their expressions grim but determined.
"I wonder who tipped them off..." Yuan thought to himself as he continued his walk through the museum, his attention still divided between the art and his next move.
Suddenly, one of the men in black, growing impatient, yelled in English, "FUCKER, COME HERE!"
The androgynous student paused, a smirk forming as the man attempted to charge. But before the man could even make a move, something sharp pierced through his neck, his hands, and both feet. The sound of something slicing through flesh echoed through the room as he froze, unable to move.
"W-what the hell is this?!" The man stuttered, panic creeping into his voice as he felt his body lock in place. "I can’t move! Brothers, help me!"
From the shadows, Guang stepped forward, his left hand raised. A puppet, made from dark, twisted strings, seemed to float beside him, its eyes glowing with a faint, ominous light.
"A puppet ability?" The man muttered, his eyes widening in disbelief.
"Shit, he’s dangerous!!" One of the other masked figures hissed, drawing a sword as he pointed it at Guang.
"Good ol’ sir, I could take that as a compliment," Guang’s voice was quiet, almost melancholic, as he adjusted his stance. "Although, I’m not born with this ability..."
The man, still struggling against his restraints, gritted his teeth. "T-then what is it?!" He growled, lifting his sword with shaky hands, his eyes burning with defiance. "Free my brother!" he demanded.
Guang’s gaze softened, his expression almost sad. "I didn’t expect you to be this naive. Don’t you know?" His voice dropped to a whisper, yet the words carried weight. "The artifacts that are capable of manifesting abilities... they’re called the Sovereigns of Manifestation."
The name hung in the air like a heavy shadow, the tension thickening as the men in black realized the severity of the situation. The Sovereigns of Manifestation were not just powerful relics—they were harbingers of fate, able to grant abilities that defied the laws of nature.
The Sovereign of Manifestation.
It was a certain artifact capable of manifesting one’s abilities—either inherited by birth or passed on through a ritual. Among the many such relics, one of the most famous in China was the Puppet of Kū Jià.
Legend had it that there was a woman who, desperate for her love to return her feelings, crafted a puppet—a masterpiece so detailed, it almost resembled a living person. Despite her tireless efforts and countless attempts at witchcraft, her love never wavered. She tried everything: potions, charms, and incantations, but nothing worked.
In the depths of her despair, she sought out a famous witch, known for her dark and ancient knowledge. The witch listened to her plea and then gave an ominous command: "Marry the puppet you have created."
At first, the woman was horrified. But the witch’s words didn’t end there. "Marry it and cry with it. The puppet’s body must be soaked in your blood and tears. Only then will you return to your lover, and he will accept you. He will love you as you have always desired."
The woman, driven by desperation, followed the witch’s instructions. She soaked the puppet in blood, her tears mixing with it, binding their fates. When she returned to her lover, as promised, he took her in his arms. He never questioned how or why—it was as though a deep, unspoken bond had suddenly blossomed between them.
But, as with all tales of magic, there was a price.
The woman never knew the truth—neither she nor her lover would ever be free again. Their souls were bound within the puppet, and no matter how many years passed, they would remain prisoners, trapped in the wooden shell of the object they had once desired so desperately.
Guang flexed his fingers, the tendons in his hand tightening with dark intent.
A shiver ran down the spine of the man who had foolishly thought himself a match for Guang’s power. "AHHHH!" The man screamed, his body twisting in unnatural ways as the strings of Guang’s control manipulated him. He was still alive, but every inch of his body was contorted in agony, stretched in ways that defied human anatomy. His joints cracked and twisted, but the pain was far from over.
"That’s right, keep suffering..." Guang whispered, his voice cold and merciless. His smile was chilling, the beauty of it betraying the cruelty in his eyes. "I’ll show you the true power of Kū Jià."
With a delicate flick of his wrist, the puppet-like control over the man intensified. Guang’s fingers moved with precision, as though each motion was a stroke of a fine artist’s brush, weaving suffering and torment into a perfect, twisted masterpiece.
