What Should I Do If I Find Out My Wife Is the Pope? Chapter 115: Surpassing the Limit—Inheritance of the Shadow

Chapter 115: Surpassing the Limit—Inheritance of the Shadow Stream God!

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​How… how could this be!?

​A voice—stunned, hoarse—broke through the darkness behind him.

​Fred’s eyes flew wide in disbelief. The mont blood splattered through the air, his body responded on instinct alone—vanishing instantly, swallowed by stealth.

​The pungent stench of blood, torn free from his skin by the sudden rush of power, scattered and evaporated into the gloom.

​Yet when the figure stepped out of the shadows—calm, unhindered, erging from within the very room—Fred saw nothing in those eyes but a void deeper than midnight, a terror so absolute it seed to devour the very light around him.

​Too late, he realized: soone had lain in wait here all along—hiding in this room the entire ti, perfectly masking their presence, eluding even the sharpest magical detection.

​They passed through space without so much as stirring the air.

​This wasn’t the subtle absence of a weakling, the gentle ripple of soone too insignificant to notice. No—this presence lted wholly into existence itself, one with the shadow and the breath of the room.

​Had he not seen it for himself with his own eyes, even a master’s senses would have revealed nothing at all.

​“…Lin Wei!?”

​Though the darkness was nearly absolute, Fred—a Shadowstream Assassin—recognized the interloper imdiately.

​And with recognition ca a bone-deep shock.

​By every right, the figure before him should have been left dead long ago. Lin Wei should have been dealt with, removed from the tapestry of fate.

​So how—how could the man be stepping from this room, unscathed?

​Fred spun around to scan the lounge, his heart dropping as if he'd glimpsed a ghost.

​Where Lin Wei’s mutilated corpse ought to have lain, now only the mangled remains of Fred’s own companion sprawled, pitiful and alone.

​All blood and innards had vanished. It was as if the carnage from re monts before had been scoured from reality itself.

​“This… what is this? So advanced illusion technique?”

​“No—no illusion could feel so real!”

​At our level, only fools fall prey to such cheap tricks.

​After all, illusion spells that conjure convincing realities only work on those far weaker than the caster. Against equals—or even those a hair’s breadth beneath you—anyone would sense the deception the instant they stepped inside.

​Besides... I'd cut him down myself. The feel of steel rending flesh—that was real. Whatever is happening, sothing isn’t right.

​Unless… he’s concealing power on par with the Duke himself.

​Anything else would be impossible. No one could have slipped a trick past .

​Could it be… his specialty is so kind of supre life-protection art?

​That must be it. Only that would explain how I, a Shadowstream Assassin, could fall for such a deception!

​“A sharp perception—you managed to pierce the illusion.” Lin Wei’s voice cut calmly through Fred’s thoughts.

​“Well then… you all must be Duke Ous’s hired knives, correct?”

​As their expressions twisted with confusion, Lin Wei snapped his fingers.

​A surge of pure magical radiance burst behind him, wafting through the gloom—bright, dazzling, holy as the breath of Goddess Alicia herself.

​Darkness dissipated in an instant, blazing brilliance pouring down, turning night into day. The chamber flared with light, throwing every assassin’s silhouette into sharp relief.

​Counting the corpses, there were six in all. Each wore a long, black cloak and an expressionless mask; their outlines a study in utter concealnt.

​Their stealth was impressive—enough to rival even Krulu, one of the Demon Lords’ Four Heavenly Kings and a fad assassin in his own right.

​If soone else had been here, they might have murmured, “Now that’s talent worth cultivating,” or tossed the killers a feline grin and words of high praise.

​Regrets over wasted talent, though, didn’t suit Fred’s nature. He’d never been good at ntoring others, and he had no intention of starting now.

​“Take him!”

​The mont he sensed Lin Wei’s power condense, Fred didn’t hesitate—he gave the order, steel-edged and final.

​His teammates responded as one, fanning out, five separate figures slicing through the darkness to converge on Lin Wei with lethal precision.

​This wasn’t the wild, thunderous spell-flinging of mages—it was sothing cold and focused. Each movent radiated a disturbing, surgical control.

​A flash of silver—a blade as fine as moonlight—and the air itself split, severed by an invisible edge.

​Air, elents, matter—anything before that blade shredded in a heartbeat, cut by an attack so concentrated it bordered on the inhuman.

​Here was energy pushed to its sharpest edge—released all at once in a single, devastating strike.

​Had the target been any ordinary mage, trapped beneath such a flurry of attacks, the only response would have been to raise a magical barrier and pray it held.

​But—

​“Mm…”

​Lin Wei didn’t flinch. No wasted motion. No theater.

​Instead, a wave of force radiated from him, silent and profound, rolling outward in every direction.

​It was indescribable—a sensation as mysterious as it was vast. Ti and space themselves seed to warp and tremble, collapsing inward under so vast, unseen pressure.

​It was like watching ripples bloom across a silent lake, inexorable and hypnotic.

​A hush—the stillness before a tempest.

​They had no chance to resist.

​Energy surged. Four bodies, cut clean at the waist, fell to the floor in silence.

​Their eyes—wide, resolute—held neither pain nor comprehension. Death claid them faster than thought, swifter than fear.

​“How—how can this be?!”

​Fred, Shadowstream’s last survivor, coughed blood and was hurled backward, helpless, through the air.

​He crashed against the wall with a dull, jarring thud; the aftershock from that attack left his bones snapping and his organs torn, even as he barely summoned a last-ditch defense.

​Dizziness washed over him, cold and suffocating, as his life force ebbed away. Despair filled him—quiet, inevitable, the shadow that always cos before death.

​A single blow had annihilated nearly the entire squad.

​This monster… Was he truly one of those legendary warriors said to wield an ancient Legacy?

​But he hadn’t even revealed his Limit Form—he’d crushed them with nothing but his “normal” strength!

​“Damn it!!”

​A harsh, tallic click echoed in the hush, like an ancient lock snapping open at last.

​Wide-eyed, trembling, lips drawn back in a silent snarl, Fred cast aside all restraint—summoning his own Limit Form: Transcendent.

​His gaze, already blacker than pitch, was overtaken by an even more terrifying darkness.

​An unholy aura exploded from him, engulfing Fred where he lay embedded in the wall.

​And then, before Lin Wei’s eyes, Fred lted away—fading seamlessly into the shadows.

​This was power surpassing the LV70 threshold—the might that slumbered just beyond the world of legends—fully unleashed.

​In that mont, Fred’s entire world distorted and shifted.

​Sight. Hearing. Touch.

​Within a twenty-ter radius, every tremor, every flicker of power, lit up in his mind—a web of magic itself revealing a living map.

​It was as if he’d slipped into a world of pure mystery: here, his presence was erased, rendered wholly undetectable to everyone outside its veil.

​And within this darkness, he could pinpoint every flaw in his enemy—watching on, calmly, as if the world itself offered up their weaknesses for his blade.

​His fangs bared, his silver dagger glimring—coated now in a darkness so profound it swallowed all other light.

​This was his ultimate authority: the Shadow Stream’s gift—the art that wiped away all traces of his existence, sapped his foes’ perception, and summoned forth a power as fathomless as the abyss itself.

​A force feared even among those of LV70 and beyond; a might so terrible that even the inheritors of legendary Legacies treated him with the utmost caution.

​Millennia ago, in the age of gods, there was once an assassin whose na sent shudders across the world.

​He made his life in the shadows, extinguishing countless lives—thieves, peasants, knights, nobility, even kings themselves.

​The highest seats of power all eventually fell to his blade, leaving blood-soaked chambers and stories told in trembling whispers.

​Even the ancient popes—masters of nations, n who personified faith—were so shaken by his reputation that they raised monunts to him, commorating his dark legend.

​When the figure of a god crashed to earth, at the place where sunset stains the horizon, it was this assassin who climbed into divinity—seizing the mantle of the god whose na would echo through the ages.

​That legacy was known as… the God of the Shadow Stream, Hassan.

​*Smack.*

​Lin Wei yanked Fred back to reality with a single, resounding slap.

​The blow was so trendous that the air itself seed to ripple. The dark energy shrouding Fred exploded—shattering, dissolving to nothing. His unnatural eyes flickered, clearing instantly as his strength was forcibly wrenched away.

​“I don’t have the leisure to indulge you in so so-called ‘duel between ultimate masters.’”

​“You have three seconds. Tell what reason Duke Ous sent you for.”

​“Otherwise, I’ll be only too happy to send you off to et your so-called patron god myself.”