Victory!

As the cooldown for his fear ability reset, James felt a weight lift from his chest. The lingering tension of the fight eased, allowing him to breathe a little easier.

Mathews had been unusually silent since their last encounter. No matter how much James provoked him, the old man had chosen to ignore it, his fear keeping him at bay.

James glanced at the hall's exit, a blinding white light streaming in but offering no view of the outside world. He had tried to step through that door before, only to find it blocked by an unseen barrier, trapping him within the hall.

With a grunt of frustration, he planted his sickle into the ground and stood defiantly in the middle of the room, waiting for Mathews to make his move.

"Let me tell you something, old weasel," he called out loudly, his voice echoing off the walls. "I can stand here without rest or sleep, but how long do you think you can hold out? This yellow smoke of yours must be exhausting to maintain!"

After a long pause, an old, weary sigh emerged from the swirling smoke. "Eh... As I get older, I find myself more afraid of death."

The yellow mist began to coalesce, and Mathews's frail figure emerged from the haze, looking more gaunt than ever. "I'm willing to make compensation. Let's just leave it at that."

He reached for a storage bag at his waist, tossing it toward James. "This is all my belongings. Consider it an apology."

James watched the bag land on the ground, then turned to face Mathews's pained expression. A bitter smile tugged at his lips as he took in the sight of the old man. With his life force diminished, Mathews's already thin face appeared even more haggard and pale.

"But..." Mathews continued, "it would be best if we could reconcile. I don't want either of us to end up dead here."

With a cautious approach, James moved toward the storage bag, his eyes never leaving Mathews, who stood with his hands behind his back, his posture deceptively calm.

Sensing James's wariness, Mathews stepped back slightly, signaling that he meant no harm. But just as James bent down to grasp the bag, a cold, calculating smile crept across Mathews's face.

Suddenly, 'Bang!' The storage bag erupted in a burst of yellow smoke, enveloping James in a thick, suffocating cloud.

"A monster like you has taken so many lives from me, and now you want to take my things? Die!" Mathews's eyes blazed red with fury as he roared, "Mathews, move!"

In an instant, Mathews transformed into a swirling mass of yellow smoke, the smoke around James dissipating. Before James could react, the old man reappeared behind him and delivered a powerful palm strike aimed at his lower back.

The force of the strike sent shockwaves through the air, and Mathews cackled, "Hahahaha, die for me! Huh...?!" But his laughter was cut short as a sudden realization struck him. Though he had hit James, something felt terribly wrong.

Before he could process it, a wave of terror washed over him. 'Skill—Fear!'

In that moment of confusion, while Mathews grappled with his own panic, a silver-black sickle sliced through the yellow smoke, plunging deep into his chest with a force that felt like death itself.

Realizing what had happened, Mathews instinctively swatted at the sickle, forcing James back with a roar of disbelief. "No! No! This is impossible! How are you still alive?!"

James smirked, retracting his scythe with an air of disdain. "Humph. Take a good look, old man. What did you just try to take from me?"

The battle had taken a turn, and with that, the balance of power shifted in a way that neither had anticipated.

Mathews stared in utter disbelief at what lay before him. Where he had expected to see the broken body of James, he instead found a tattered black robe, shredded to pieces, propped up by nothing but a few stiff, straw-like strands.

"This...this...this!" His voice trembled as his finger pointed at the remnants of the robe, eyes wide with shock.

He couldn't make sense of it. How had James pulled this off? He had been so sure his strike had landed.

From the shadows, James emerged, his sickle casually slung over his back. A smug grin spread across his face as he stepped forward, clearly enjoying the look of confusion on Mathews's face.

"Old weasel," James chuckled, "I've really outdone myself this time." His voice dripped with satisfaction. "I told you before, you've got to learn to use your skills with a little creativity."

James had seen through Mathews's plan the moment the storage bag hit the ground. He knew it was a trap, yet rather than dodge it, he chose to play along, to lure Mathews into thinking he had the upper hand. James's trump card, his fear-inducing skill, was powerful, but it wasn't enough to guarantee victory. He needed to manipulate the situation, to force Mathews into an attack, and then counter it.

One thing James had noticed throughout their battles: no matter how favorable the circumstances, Mathews always struck from behind. That was his pattern. And so, at the moment of the storage bag's explosion, James used his own trickery; binding his robe with straw and slipping out unnoticed, leaving his empty garment standing as a decoy.

"You've lost," James said, his voice calm but final as his eyes locked onto Mathews.

Mathews, feeling the last remnants of life force ebbing from his body, let out a bitter laugh. His gaunt face twisted into a miserable smile. "Yes, I've lost. But you won't live much longer either!"

With a sudden, desperate surge, Mathews lunged at James, no longer holding back. His frail form crackled with every bit of strength he had left as he charged forward, his face twisted with grim determination.

James watched the old man rush toward him, unflinching. He raised his sickle calmly, aiming it with precision, and murmured, almost softly, "Harvest of Life."

In an instant, Mathews's body froze mid-stride. Thin, light red threads of life force began to stream from his chest, snaking through the air and coiling themselves around the sickle of death. The energy drained from Mathews, his life force siphoned away in seconds. His body shriveled, skin tightening over bone until he collapsed to the ground, nothing more than a lifeless, mummified shell.

A notification blinked in James's mind:

[Detected that the host killed an F-grade upper-grade (life force loss state) and devoured 77 points of life force. Life force purification started. Life force storage +20. Growth value +154 points.]

James huffed in disappointment. "Damn it. After all those injuries, I only got 20 points of life force? What a rip-off." He kicked at the dust, frustration lining his voice. "I lost hundreds of life points in that fight, and this is all he had to give?"

He paused, though, considering his own words. "Though... if that old weasel had any more life left, I probably wouldn't have made it out alive." He shook his head, the realization settling in. Mathews's hesitation, his fear of losing his life force; was the only reason James had survived.

"It'd be nice if 'Harvest of Life' came with a cooldown reduction after a kill," he muttered, daydreaming about how easy group battles would be if he could just keep harvesting. With a sigh, he traced his fingers along the edge of his sickle before tucking it away.

Turning back to Mathews's crumpled body, James rifled through the remains and pulled out a storage bag from the old man's robes. "This should be the real deal this time," he said, weighing it thoughtfully in his hand, though he couldn't help but chuckle at himself. "I mean, it's not like this is a wallet or anything."

With a curious glint in his eye, he opened the storage bag. To his surprise, it wasn't filled with what he had hoped for. Instead of spells or the precious blood crystals he had been searching for, the bag held piles of spirit crystals, various spiritual medicines, and a collection of martial arts equipment.

"Seriously?" James groaned, his tone laced with disappointment. "Isn't this supposed to be a magic hall? Not a single magic skill in here?"

Despite his complaints, he quickly brushed it off. He had suspected from the start that this so-called magic hall was more of a shady front, likely a trap for those foolish enough to stumble into it.

Just as he was about to stow away the bag, something unusual caught his eye; a small, antique black mirror sitting quietly among the other items. It seemed out of place amidst the more ordinary supplies, its surface gleaming with an almost unnatural sheen.

James's hand hovered over it, curiosity piqued. "Now, what do we have here?" he murmured to himself, feeling a strange pull toward the mysterious object.