what if I'm an undead! then so what?-Chapter 39: Did I get Isekaied?

"I’d like to know why I’ve been called from so far away all of a sudden?" said a man who appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He had long, flowing black hair that rested partially on his shoulder, an air of dignified detachment, and a sharp pair of glasses perched on his nose. His gaze was fixed on another man seated behind a grand obsidian desk, lined with ancient markings that glowed faintly like dying embers.

The man behind the desk wore an intricate mask—dark as obsidian and laced with silver filigree tracing angular, almost arcane patterns. Crimson eyes glowed faintly beneath its surface, piercing and unyielding. The mouth of the mask was fixed in a grim, permanent line. Subtle etchings curled into what could almost be mistaken for a snarl, imbuing the mask with both elegance and menace. It radiated a silent, oppressive aura, as if the mask itself were watching.

"Time Mon—Mugen," the masked man spoke in a tone that was steady and slow, as if discussing the weather. "Rumors have reached me... troubling ones. You’ve been involving yourself with that traitor. Tell me, do you perhaps wish to follow his path?"

"Blight Sove—sorry, Kuroshi," Mr. Mugen responded with equal calm, not the least bit shaken. "While under suspension, I believe I have the right to spend my time however I see fit, wether or not I meet with a good friend of mine or not doesn’t have anything to do with you or the otse.."

Kuroshi tilted his head slightly, an unreadable gesture behind the mask. "I see. Then let me make this clear—you are expected to return to active duty next we—"

"—I’m afraid that won’t be possible," Mugen interrupted, adjusting his glasses as they caught the faint glow of the office’s low lighting. "I have lectures to prepare for. The accademy resumes activities next week, and maintaining my perfect attendance record is crucial. My students’ respect hinges on consistency."

There was a pause.

Kuroshi’s voice turned sharper. "Are you defying the Order?"

Mugen’s posture did not shift. "It seems the authority you were granted has inflated your sense of power. Let me remind you, Kuroshi—you only lead the Order because you suggested forming it and the three of us acted on it. You were chosen to represent the ideals, not to rule them. In my eyes, we are equals."

"Your rebellious tone is becoming more and more familiar," Kuroshi muttered, tapping his fingers lightly on the surface of the desk. "That’s how Isagi started out too. You’ve been influenced by him."

He tapped the desk once more.

In an instant—like shadows slipping from the corners of the room seven figures cloaked in black materialized around Mr. Mugen. Each held a blade, pointed at his vital points: heart, throat, temples, kidneys. The air grew cold and dense with tension.

Mugen glanced at them with slight disinterest, exhaling softly. "Kuroshi, don’t make me regret choosing not to stand against you."

There was a subtle flash of motion—almost too fast to see.

In a blink, the seven cloaked figures crumpled to the ground. Heads rolled across the obsidian floor, cleanly severed. Blood pooled around the bodies, silent and thick. None of them had managed to react.

Mugen dusted off his sleeves and turned away.

"I could very well choose to side with Isagi," he said, walking toward the door. "Two against one. Then, even the full might of the Order wouldn’t make a difference."

Kuroshi’s voice lowered to a dark growl. "Fine. But you have one month. After that—don’t bother coming back."

Mugen didn’t reply. The door slid shut behind him with a soft hiss.

Left alone in the office, Kuroshi clenched a fist. "Damn it... These bastards, who do they think they are? I’ll have to prepare for a countermeasures incase of the worst case scenario"

He tapped the desk again.

A single figure appeared before him, silent as death. It was a man in a sleek black suit, dark shades obscuring his eyes. He looked more like a businessman than a warrior, his demeanor eerily composed.

"Raizen," Kuroshi said. "How goes the search for the Zenexian Fragment?"

Raizen remained silent for a few seconds, as if weighing his words.

"We’ve narrowed it down to a location somewhere in Africa," he finally replied. "However, we were mistaken in our previous assumption. Africa isn’t disconnected from the supernatural world... it’s just veiled far more deeply than we anticipated. The continent harbors entities... things older than most of us. Taking the fragment will not go unnoticed."

Kuroshi leaned back slightly. "So, what you need now—is strength. Or simply put, enough force to make the continent’s powerhouses tremble."

"Yes," Raizen confirmed without hesitation.

Kuroshi’s laugh was low and menacing. "Then I’ll play my part. I’ve been cooped up in this office far too long. Consider yourself fortunate, Raizen—you’ll witness the Blight Sovereign’s power firsthand."

Raizen nodded once, though sweat formed at his brow. Even he, with all his stoicism, felt the chill of that laugh reverberating through his bones.

---

The Solstice Spring was an annual event held in Shibuya, celebrated both by humans and those hidden in the supernatural underworld. On the surface, it resembled a typical seasonal festival—colorful lanterns, food stalls, street performances.

But beneath the glamour, hidden from human eyes, was the real event.

A battleground.

The Solstice Spring was an underground tournament for Supernaturals of all types. Vampires, lycans, warlocks, elementals, spirits, and even more obscure races competed in everything from one-on-one duels to team battles. The prizes were high—money, influence, relics, and sometimes even ancient contracts of power.

"So you’re telling me all this now?" Masaru exclaimed. "I thought it was just a regular festival!"

Akane smirked. "Did you really think we’d come all the way here for food and fireworks?"

Masaru blinked, considering the possibilities. "This... this might actually be a good opportunity. I could watch some of the matches, study the different fighting styles. Maybe even participate?"

Akane crossed her arms. "The events is limited to people around your level of strength so you won’t gain much from watching, also You can’t just ’maybe participate’. If you go in, you have to win. Otherwise I’ll kill you!."

Masaru’s confidence shaken by her sudden words, it seems her pride runs deep. "What if I team up with Eve? I think we’d make a solid pair."

At the mention of her name, Eve froze. Her eyes widened with panic.

"I—I... I don’t think I can... I’m not a fighter..." she stammered, visibly nervous.

Masaru chuckled. "Relax, I was only joking."

Akane, however, wasn’t smiling.

"If you’re serious, then promise me this: you’ll win," she said sharply. "If not, then forget it. This isn’t a schoolyard brawl—it’s a proving ground. Weakness is blood in the water."

Masaru grinned, puffing his chest slightly. "No one significantly stronger than me is allowed to enter, right? Then I’ve got this in the bag."

Several hours later, Masaru found himself walking through a hidden elevator beneath the luxurious Sapphire Tower Hotel in Tokyo. The underground arena was unlike anything he had imagined.

Crowds of Supernaturals gathered in groups—some cloaked in enchanted garments, others revealing wings, tails, horns, or glowing runes. The air was thick with tension and energy, as if the very walls pulsed with anticipation.

To his surprise, Masaru spotted someone familiar among the crowd.

"Reika Mizuki... the Man Crusher?" he muttered to himself, trying not to stare.

Reika’s jet-black eyes locked onto him immediately. She strode over and wrapped an arm around his neck.

"Oh, if it isn’t the little vampire wannabe," she cooed mockingly. "And Akane too? What a surprise!"

"You shameless fox," Akane muttered, brushing past her. "Here to prey on helpless boys again?"

Masaru squirmed out of Reika’s grasp. "I’ll catch up later," he said, walking quickly behind Akane and Eve.

Soon, Masaru was led to a private chamber where the registered contestants waited. The atmosphere was tense. Some sat in meditative stillness, others paced or whispered strategies.

Then, a voice cut through the silence.

"I suggest you all forfeit now," declared a young man standing confidently near the center. His skin had a faint, scaly texture, and a short horn protruded from under his messy red hair. A pair of reptilian golden brown eyes shimmered with arrogance.

"My presence here alone already changes all possible outcome narrowing it down to one. The results has already been decided by me, I will win and that’s already guaranteed"

Masaru rolled his eyes. "There’s always one," he muttered. "Third-rate egomaniacs like this are usually the first to fall."

Another voice—raspy and aged—spoke up.

"That’s bold talk, even for a Ryukar."

An old man sat in the corner, blindfolded, with a weathered katana resting beside him. His aura was calm, yet terrifying.

"You... You’re a blind swordsman?" Masaru thought to himself as he didn’t expect to see something like this in real life. "Wait a minute. This gramps look like one of those mountain-slicing old masters from manga!"

The old man chuckled. "Not every day you see a Ryukar in the flesh. But dragons or not... arrogance leads to downfall."

"A Ryukar, doesn’t that translates to like Half dragon or something, if that’s the case then maybe his arrogance is justified, to think stuffs like dragons also exist, did I maybe Isekai into a parallel world by mistake?"