I Am a Hero With A Hundred Abilities
Chapter 79 - 79: Ch 78. Kane Volcrest

In a shadowed expanse just outside City S, a den pulsed faintly with otherworldly energy—one of the infamous Worldbreaker Dens, this one known as Abyss Horn Hollow.

Within it, the broken bodies of dreadbeasts—hulking, minotaur-like monsters with molten eyes and stone-cracked hides—were strewn across the ground.

The air was thick with scorched blood and Meta Essence residue.

A squad of heroes, draped in cloaks bearing the crest of the Volcrest Family, moved efficiently among the corpses.

Their movements were sharp, practiced—clear signs of rigorous training. This expedition was more than just another cleanup mission; it was a trial, a rite of passage meant to harden the next generation of Volcrest warriors.

As the group settled to rest briefly, one of the younger recruits scoffed, wiping blood from his blade.

"Since we started, he hasn't lifted a finger. We've done everything. What's the point of him even being here?"

He wasn't loud, but the words were sharp—and they drew the attention of a nearby veteran hero. The older man, a silver-haired warrior with a jagged scar running across his lip, turned slowly, eyes cold.

"You can bad-mouth any of us—even the commander—but don't ever soil the name of our leader." His tone dropped low, dangerous. "You're new, so I'll take it as ignorance. Say it again, and I'll slit your neck myself."

The recruit stiffened, heart pounding. He hadn't expected such a violent reaction.

Why was Kane Volcrest so feared? So revered? He looked at the older hero, hoping for an answer—but the man had already turned away, leaving the recruit to stew in his own uncertainty.

Once the rest break ended, they pressed onward, deeper into the den.

Their formation was clean and lethal—strikes timed to perfection, abilities weaving through gaps in armor, dreadbeasts falling one after another.

But amid the chaos, one man never moved.

Kane Volcrest.

He walked silently behind them, a solitary figure untouched by the blood and sweat of battle. His long violet hair swayed with each step, his crimson-trimmed battle tech armor gleaming under the den's faint luminescence.

He didn't issue commands. Didn't offer strategy. He simply observed, silent as a phantom.

The same recruit who had spoken earlier clenched his fists. He wasn't alone—other new recruits shared his frustration.

Even if Kane didn't fight, he could at least act like a leader, offer tactical insight, or rally them in battle. But he did nothing. He just watched.

Then, everything changed.

The squad reached the heart of the den—a wide cavern thrumming with dense, primal Meta Essence. Jagged crystals jutted from the floor like broken teeth, and at its center stood a gate—a shimmering veil of silver flame marking the Guardian's Domain.

Everyone stopped.

The recruits looked around, confused. Why weren't they moving forward?

Then—he moved.

Kane stepped past the entire group, boots silent on the stone. His armor hummed, threads of deep violet energy flickering across the plating. His eyes, previously distant, were now locked with deadly focus on the barrier ahead.

He didn't say a word. Didn't call for support.

He walked alone.

The recruits froze. Was he going in alone? Wasn't anyone going to help him?

They turned to the veteran heroes—but none of them moved. They simply watched, their expressions calm and filled with something the new recruits couldn't identify at first—expectation.

That's when it clicked.

They weren't abandoning Kane.

They were giving him space.

Because something was about to happen. Something only he could do.

And for the first time, the recruits stood still—not with confusion or anger—but in awe, as the true power behind the name Kane Volcrest was about to be revealed.

The moment Kane Volcrest stepped into the Guardian's Area, the atmosphere shifted violently.

It was as if he had crossed into another world—one soaked in deathly calm and crushing pressure. The air thickened, sound seemed muffled, and ahead of him lay the heart of the den:

The Blackpit.

A perfectly still pool of obsidian liquid, its surface too smooth, too silent it felt unnaturally wrong. It exuded no heat, no aura, yet Kane's instincts screamed. His mind sharpened to a singular, primal urge.

Destroy it.

Before he could take a step, a piercing roar tore through the cavern, echoing like thunder made of metal. The sound was followed by a violent gust, and from above, wings blazed through the darkness—massive, scaled, and monstrous.

A dreadbeast wyvern, its wings fused to clawed forelimbs, descended with savage grace. It was larger than most dragons Kane had seen in ancient archives, its skin layered in blackened bone-like armor, its eyes burning with dread.

Now he understood why the Guardian's Area was so vast. It had to hold this.

The beast landed, causing the very stone beneath them to crack. With a thunderous bellow that shook the entire den, the wyvern challenged him.

But Kane didn't flinch. He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't even speak.

He didn't have to.

Because his ability {Bloodstorm Path} was always active.

A cursed bloodline trait unique to the Volcrest Family, it amplified the power of its users the more they withheld themselves—silent, restrained, composed. But when unleashed, when that silence broke…

They became monsters.

And Kane was about to break.

The air thickened again—this time with the scent of iron and ozone, as if a storm had bled into the cavern.

Red and violet lightning sparked wildly around him, arcing along his limbs, crawling up his spine.

Then, without warning, he moved.

A manic grin split across Kane's face, wild and bloodthirsty. With a thunderous boom, he surged forward, lightning crackling in jagged bursts. The wyvern reared back and unleashed a cone of blazing fire.

But it wasn't enough.

Kane raised a shield of writhing violet energy, absorbing the blast as he closed the distance. Just meters away, he raised a hand—then fired a concentrated bolt of purple lightning straight into the wyvern's chest.

The beast was sent crashing into a nearby wall, its roars echoing in fury and pain.

Kane didn't stop.

He followed, a red lightning arc streaking behind him. He was everywhere at once—blurring around the wyvern with explosive force, each strike heavier than the last, each movement faster. His armor pulsed with glowing crimson cracks, and his body danced with unrestrained brutality.

From the outside, the Volcrest heroes watched, eyes wide. Their leader hadn't said a word the entire expedition—he hadn't needed to.

This was why.

The shockwaves from the battle shattered the edges of the chamber. Debris rained. Fire lit the ceiling. The den itself trembled beneath the force of the clash.

Half an hour had passed.

And from the smoke and silence, Kane emerged.

His armor was cracked and bloodstained, one gauntlet scorched, but his expression was once again serene, as if the battle had never happened.

The madness in his eyes was gone, replaced by that unreadable calm.

He passed the gathered heroes without a word.

And none dared speak.

Even the recruits, who had once questioned his place, now stood in awed silence. All doubts were erased. Kane Volcrest was not a silent coward.

He was a storm waiting to be unleashed.

And now they all understood.

And the Crownspire Ascension will know his name as well.

****

Ethan's eyes narrowed with satisfaction.

"Everything is how I made it to be."

The Power Trait alone was more than enough for now. The others—Mind, Soul, Reality, Space, and Time—would awaken only when the gauntlet evolved further.

To evolve it, he needed to kill.

More specifically, he had to slay with the gauntlets themselves—bloodshed was the catalyst for its growth. Brutal, yes. But necessary.

"Good thing," he said darkly, "there are enough dreadbeasts for me to hunt."

Then his gaze flicked to the top of the interface again.

Name: No Name

He tilted his head.

"What should I call you?"

The gauntlets pulsed in response. Not violently—but warmly. As if awaiting his answer, as if it, too, wanted a name. Ethan felt the bond deepen for a brief instant.

He smiled.

"I've got it. I'll name you—"

Ethan's eyes gleamed as the name formed on his lips—an instinctual blend of power, purpose, and legacy.

"Tenebris Fang."

The moment the name left his mouth, the gauntlets reacted violently—not in rejection, but in awakening.

A pulse of crimson and obsidian energy surged from them, wrapping around Ethan's arms like living fire. Symbols, once dormant, ignited across the gauntlets' surface—ancient runes of binding and growth, now thrumming with life.

The metal shimmered faintly as if drinking in his essence, syncing with his will.

Ethan staggered for a second as the soul-bound tether between him and Tenebris Fang stretched deeper. The gauntlet wasn't just bound it had become one with Ethan.

Ethan could feel its hunger, its eagerness, and—most of all—its loyalty.

"Let's go," Ethan said, his voice low, charged with anticipation. "Let's see what you're really capable of."

****

Across different cities, prominent heroes were preparing for the Crownspire Ascension.

They trained relentlessly—refining techniques, mastering abilities, and pushing their limits. Weapons clashed, meta essence flared, and sweat mixed with blood as each contender sharpened their edge.

The Crownspire Ascension wasn't just a tournament—it was a battlefield of ambition, and only the strongest would rise.