I Siphon the Dead to Become the Strongest

Guys, my sincerest apologies. That last post was a complete mess. I accidentally posted the unrevised, unformatted version from my drafts, and about a third of the words didn’t even make it into the text box. Please re-read the corrected, full version!

My bad! Thanks for your patience.

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Meanwhile, somewhere...

The air inside the Gate was silent, thick, and tasted of ozone and crushed stone. It was a vast, glistening geode of a chamber, walls studded with violet crystals that cast cold, jagged shadows. In the center of that lethal stillness stood a woman.

Her hair was a cascade of violent magenta, the color of a dying star, swept up into a high, severe ponytail secured with blood-red ribbons. It was a banner of defiance in the gloom. She stood with a relaxed, almost insolent poise, a confident smirk playing on her lips, her sharp eyes—the same ruthless shade as her hair—tracking the lumbering form across from her.

It was a Pyrrhic Cyclops. Nine feet of corded, bark-like muscle packed onto a humanoid frame, its single, baleful eye burning with mindless hunger. It wasn’t just strong; it was a monument to brute force.

And then it moved.

There was no roar, no telegraphing wind-up. One moment it was a statue of rage, the next it had blurred across the chamber, closing the distance in a silent, shocking burst of speed. Its massive, three-clawed hand speared forward in a savage thrust aimed to puncture her chest.

She didn’t move her feet.

Her head and torso simply flowed to the side, a minimal, liquid sway that let the deadly claws whistle past her cheek, missing by a breath. The air pressure ruffled her ribbons.

The Cyclops, enraged by the evasion, unleashed its fury. It became a machine of destruction. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. A relentless, piston-driven barrage of spear-handed strikes, each capable of rending steel, each aiming to nail her to the crystalline wall behind her.

And she danced within the storm.

She never retreated. Never gave ground. Her boots remained planted on the same spot of dusty floor. Her evasion was an exercise in impossible precision: a tilt of the chin, a roll of the shoulder, a subtle arch of the back. Each violent thrust found only empty air by a margin so fine it was insulting. Her smirk never wavered. She was reading the very intent in the monster’s tensing muscles, the micro-shifts in its central eye.

After a dozen failed strikes, the Cyclops overextended, its momentum carrying it forward a fatal half-step.

Her left hand, relaxed until now, snapped up. Not a block, but a guidance. She tapped the inside of the monster’s massive wrist with her fingertips—a touch as light as a pianist’s, but perfectly timed. It was enough. The monster’s own driving force was redirected, its guard swinging wide, exposing the thick, pulsing column of its throat.

In the same seamless motion, her right arm shot forward. Not a wild punch, but a single, devastatingly focused spear-hand. She did not strike with the fist. She struck with the reinforced tip of her proximal phalanx—the bone at the very base of her thumb, hardened to the density of forged iron by countless hours of conditioning.

The strike was not about raw power. It was about transmission.

It landed on the monster’s Adam’s apple with a sound that was not a crack, but a deep, wet THUD, a sound of profound internal ruin. The force did not knock the Cyclops back; it drove downwards and inwards, a gentle, flowing, utterly merciless vector that traveled through the throat, collapsed the windpipe, and severed the spinal nerves at the base of the skull.

The effect was instantaneous and absolute. The monster’s single eye bulged, not with rage, but with shock and sudden, silent paralysis. Its gargantuan body didn’t fly away; it simply folded, its forward momentum transformed into a downward collapse, like a mighty tree sheared at its roots.

It hit the ground with a seismic thud, its body twitching, its nervous system in revolt.

The woman stepped forward, her movements economical and final. She placed a cloth wrapped feet on the side of the Cyclops’s face, pinning its head to the stone. Her hands found its still-functional, tree-limb of an arm. A swift, brutal twist—SNAP-CRUNCH—dislocated the shoulder and shattered the humerus with clinical disregard.

Then, with the same calm precision, she shifted her weight. A focused, downward pressure of her heel onto the temple of the now-helpless monster. A sickening CRUNCH of bone yielding to concentrated force, and the twitching ceased.

Silence returned to the crystal chamber, deeper than before. The woman flicked a speck of dust from her dark purple trousers, her vibrant hair the only splash of color in a scene of monochromatic violence. She hadn’t broken a sweat. She hadn’t spoken a word.

It wasn’t a fight. It was a dissection.

The only sound in the crystal-littered chamber was the settling of dust.

Then, a slow, steady clapping echoed from the entrance.

Clap… clap… clap…

Leaning against the arched stone doorway, her arms crossed and a knowing smile on her lips, was Guild Leader Seo-Yeon. Her sharp grey eyes, the color of polished flint, tracked over the scene of violent efficiency with clear approval.

“You’ve improved,” she said, her voice warm but laced with steel. “Much faster than I’d projected. And here I was, a worried mother hen, rushing over because my most promising fledgling decided to go solo-play in a B-rank gate.”

The woman with the violent magenta hair—Ran—stood from her casual stance over the defeated Cyclops. She turned, and the fearsome, focused smirk softened into something smaller, more genuine. Her posture straightened into one of deep respect.

“You allowed it, Guild Leader,” Ran said, her voice quieter now, devoid of the battle-calm but full of deference. “You just… didn’t plan on supervising.”

Seo-Yeon pushed off the wall, her own presence filling the space not with brute force, but with effortless authority. She walked over, her gaze sweeping over Ran’s form, checking for injuries with a practiced eye. “I allowed it because you’re stubborn as bedrock and twice as dense. And because,” she reached out and flicked a non-existent speck of monster-gunk from Ran’s shoulder, a gesture so sisterly it was at odds with the gore around them, “as the leader of the Crimson Scale, it’s my job to support our rankers. Especially the ones who insist on using their faces as bait for giant fists.”

She tilted her head, her grey eyes softening. “But let’s be clear, kid. I’m not here just because you can make a Cyclops regret being born with that impressive Gentle Throat-Tap move of yours. And I didn’t drag you out of that dead-end solo hunter life just because you have talent falling out of your ears.”

Seo-Yeon poked Ran in the forehead. “It’s the hard work. The ten thousand hours of making your thumb bones tougher than a troll’s ego. The obsessive pursuit of fluid close-combat strikes while everyone else is chasing flashy energy beams. You’ve got the drive of a starving badger in a carrot factory.”

She sighed, the sound fond and exasperated. “You’re going to be one of the Crimson Scale’s most powerful assets. A pillar. Not a decorative one, either. A load-bearing, hold-up-the-whole-dang-roof type pillar.”

Then she grinned, the warmth breaking through like sunshine. “Which means you have way, way, waaaaay more training to suffer through. More gates. More monsters. More of me sighing dramatically outside of them.” She slung an arm around Ran’s shoulders, ignoring the fact that Ran had just murdered a B-rank monster with her bare hands. “Now come on, you overachieving maniac. Let’s get some BBQ. My treat. You need calories to fuel your journey to becoming… even more stupidly precise.”

Ran allowed herself to be steered, a slight, respectful smile on her face. The terrifying fighter was gone, replaced by a dedicated student being herded by the only person she truly listened to. “Yes, Guild Leader.”

“And stop calling me that when it’s just us! It’s Noona or Seo-Yeon Unnie, you little gremlin!”

“I’m only a few years older than you,” Ran pointed out, her tone the respectful deadpan of someone stating a meteorological fact.

“And in those few years, I’ve accrued enough worry-lines to be your honorary noona,” Seo-Yeon retorted, her grin wide. “You’ll always be the little sister. The terrifying, Cyclops-murdering little sister.”

As they neared the glowing archway, Seo-Yeon raised a single finger without even looking at her protégé. “Tell you what. Land one clean hit on me before we step through. Just one. Not a love-tap, a real I felt that tomorrow strike.” Her grey eyes glinted with challenge. “If you do, the treat is upgraded. No mere BBQ. You can eat anything you want. My wallet weeps, but a deal’s a deal.”

Ran stopped walking. The respectful softness vanished from her eyes, replaced by a hunter’s focused gleam. She didn’t need a signal.

She lunged.

It wasn’t a telegraphed movement. Her body became a coil of released tension. Her right hand shot forward, not to strike, but to palm the clenched fist of her left arm as she pulled it back—a bracing, torque-building motion—and then she unleashed the punch. It was straight, true, and fast enough to blur, aimed not at a vital point, but squarely at Seo-Yeon’s center of mass. A respectful, but serious, test.

The title of Guild Leader of the Crimson Scale was not ceremonial.

Seo-Yeon didn’t block with her hands. She simply lifted her left foot, clad in a sturdy, low-heeled boot, and placed its sole in the path of the punch. The impact was a muffled thump. Ran’s knuckles met leather and an immovable object. The force dissipated without rocking Seo-Yeon back an inch. She hadn’t even uncrossed her arms.

Ran recoiled, shaking her hand slightly. A wry, respectful smile touched her lips. “Can you give me a handicap, Guild Master?”

Seo-Yeon’s smile was beatific. “Alright. I won’t use any abilities. No skills, no enhancements. Pure, unadulterated me. Let it all out.”

“That,” Ran said, falling back into a low, rooted stance, “is what I was waiting for.”

She took several rapid steps backward, creating space. With sharp, practiced tugs, she tightened the cloth wraps on both her fists until the fabric strained. Then she began to move. Her arms became pistons, punching not at Seo-Yeon, but at the air in front of her—short, explosive jabs that compressed the atmosphere with sheer, focused force.

PAM. PAM. PAM.

With each strike, a visible distortion shot forward—a compact cylinder of pressurized air, an Aero Cannon. Two of them screamed toward Seo-Yeon, one aiming for her head, the other for her knees.

Seo-Yeon, her hands still casually in her pockets, tilted her head to the left, letting the first cannon shear past her ear with a sound like ripping paper. As the second one arrived, she leaned her torso back with the grace of a limbo dancer, the air blast passing beneath her chin. Before her body could fully right itself, she was already moving forward.

She leaned low, her form becoming a streak of controlled motion. The ground where her foot pushed off didn’t just crack; it cratered with a dry POP of shattered stone. More Aero Cannons came—a barrage Ran fired as she retreated. Seo-Yeon wove through them like a dancer in a storm of invisible knives. She spun on the ball of one foot, her body twisting flawlessly between two cannons that passed so close they ruffled her jacket. It wasn’t frantic evasion; it was casual, almost contemptuous precision.

She closed the distance in a heartbeat.

Ran, seeing her approach, planted her feet, her body coiling for a massive, close-range counter-punch.

Seo-Yeon vanished.

Not into thin air—her speed simply exceeded Ran’s ability to track. Ran’s punch swept through empty space. Her sharp eyes darted left, right, her stance defensive.

A soft chuckle came from above.

Ran glanced up. Seo-Yeon was perched atop a jagged outcropping of the cave wall, about fifteen feet up, looking down at her with affectionate amusement. She hadn’t even sounded winded.

“You need to focus more,” Seo-Yeon said, her voice gentle but carrying the weight of a lesson. “You’re watching my body. You need to watch my intent. The air is loud. Your eyes are late.”

Ran lowered her fists, breathing deeply. A sheen of sweat glistened on her brow, but her expression was one of pure, grateful concentration. The hit had not been landed. The free meal was lost. But the lesson was priceless.