Chapter 44
"You're telling me each of these vials costs ten million yen?"
The calm voice belonged to a young woman seated elegantly on a snow-white leather sofa. Draped in lavish white garments and adorned with jewelry that shimmered even under dim lighting, she radiated class. Her striking pink eyes gave away her identity—Clara.
They were on a luxurious cargo ship sailing through the northern continent's waters. Across from her sat a bald, muscular man known as Slon. Once a notorious drug lord, he had served several years in prison. Upon release, the world believed he had turned over a new leaf—especially after awakening a rare B-rank skill and being hailed as a "reformed" hero. In truth, his operations had only evolved.
Now, instead of drugs, Slon was one of the top underground distributors of Cursed Serum.
Clara's eyes scanned the table lined with vials—over 300 of them—but her tone remained composed as she asked, "Do you have more of this so called power booster?"
Slon narrowed his eyes, suspicion creeping in. Each vial was worth ten million yen. Three hundred meant three billion yen—and she was asking for more?
"You think you can come here and play games, girl?" he growled. "This isn't a damn joke."
He had spent over an hour pitching the serum's benefits. Now, he was starting to think she was wasting his time. The only reason he had tolerated the meeting was because of her ridiculous wealth—her clothes and jewelry alone were worth tens of millions.
Clara didn't flinch. She snapped her fingers, and one of her attendants stepped forward, setting down two large suitcases. With a soft zip, he opened them.
Inside—stacks upon stacks of crisp bills.
"In each suitcase is one billion yen," Clara said coolly. "That's two billion upfront."
Slon's breath hitched. This girl wasn't bluffing. He glanced behind her. Three more attendants stood silently, each carrying two more suitcases.
"O-Okay… my lady," he said, swallowing his pride. "How many vials do you want in total?"
"All of them," Clara replied.
Slon scratched his head. "We only have about a hundred more in storage. Another client has already reserved them."
"I'll pay double," Clara offered without blinking.
He hesitated. "I don't betray clients—"
"I'll pay four times."
He stiffened, clearly tempted.
"Seven times," Clara added.
That broke him. "No, no, no—your offer is more than generous!" he blurted, waving frantically at one of his men. Moments later, the subordinate returned with several crates—each packed with the cursed vials.
Clara's eyes briefly widened. That's at least another 300... making it 600 total. Still, her expression remained unreadable.
"You said you only had a hundred," she noted flatly.
Slon chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his head. "Had to make it seem scarce. Drives the price up, you know?"
"And how did you get your hands on so much of this serum?"
Slon's tone dropped. "Some man in black gave it to me. Said it was his product. I've just been doing the selling."
Clara gave a subtle nod. "Take them," she instructed her men.
They moved swiftly, gathering the crates.
"My payment?" Slon asked eagerly, practically drooling.
She gestured. The suitcases were handed over. Slon grinned like a madman.
The man grinned from ear to ear, utterly satisfied with the fortune before him. But his smile faded when Clara's calm voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Now that we're done cosplaying," she said, "take the money back."
Slon blinked, confused. "What the hell is this?!"
Before he could react, Clara's men sprang into action. With swift precision, they retrieved the suitcases filled with cash.
Fury erupted on Slon's face. "You think you can mess with me, girl?!"
Clara met his glare, her expression unchanging. "This entire meeting was never about a purchase," she said, voice as cold as ice. "My mission is to destroy those cursed serums. I only played along to extract some information."
"You tricked me?!" Slon snarled, his grin twisting into rage. Then suddenly—chaos.
Men clambered up from below deck, catching Clara's guards off guard. Within seconds, a few of her men were overpowered and thrown into the sea. Slon stood tall, his expression dark and resolute.
"I was going to spare your life," he said, cracking his knuckles. "You seemed promising. But no one outsmarts the lion in his jungle. I've been doing this business for years. You're just a spoiled girl playing spy."
He gestured around. "Look around. You may be an awakener, but you're outnumbered. Twenty of my men, not including myself."
Clara didn't flinch. Her pink eyes met his without fear. Then she spoke.
"You've made two grave mistakes."
Slon scoffed. "And what might those be?"
"First," she said, rising to her feet, "I am no ordinary lady."
"Second—" she raised a finger to the sky "—about that outnumbered part... I wouldn't be too sure."
Slon followed her gaze. His face went pale.
Hovering in the sky above them were hundreds of sleek battle drones, their metallic frames glinting under the sun. Among them was some humanoid bots, theirs core pulsing with immense power.
"Normal Prison or ARC?" Slon asked, voice suddenly hoarse. He wanted to know which place of hell he'd be thrown into.
Clara tilted her head thoughtfully. "Oh, you've still got a few deals to make, Slon," she said with a chilling smile.
Slon gulped.
That smile was anything but friendly.
---
Meanwhile — Middle Continent
Screams echoed in the ruined hall as men knelt, begging for their lives. Among them were corrupt nobles, bandits, villains, and even disgraced low-tier heroes. All of them had one thing in common—both their wrists were gone.
But what terrified them more wasn't the blood or the pain—it was the man seated before them.
He sat in silence, biting into an apple as if the scene before him were a mere inconvenience. A black blade, stained with fresh blood, rested at his side. His face was blank—eyes lifeless, voice devoid of empathy.
"Tell me," Ronan said blankly. "Where did you get the serums?"
Flashback.
When Ronan first arrived, he found hundreds of them gathered. Their plan was idiotic—get rid of the Class S heroes so their illegal businesses could thrive.
Fools.
He'd once crossed paths with a Class S. Barely survived. They had no idea what monsters they were planning to challenge.
Still, Ronan didn't care for their ambitions. In his world, the strong lived and the weak died. It was that simple.
They turned and saw him standing there.
"Probably those clowns acting as protectors," one bandit leader growled, thinking Ronan was one of the white-and-blue suited guardians. "You think you scare us?!"
The leader snarled and grabbed a black vial, stabbing it into his neck—only to freeze.
Something felt... wrong.
He didn't feel the serum enter.
He didn't feel anything.
Thud.
His severed wrist hit the floor.
Eyes wide with horror, he opened his mouth to scream—only to realize his other hand was gone too.
He looked around.
It wasn't just him.
All across the room, wrists fell like leaves in a storm. A blur—faster than the eye—dashed through the crowd. Thud. Thud. Two sounds per victim. Two wrists per man.
Ronan sprinted past them, slicing off limbs with frightening ease. Killing them after they mutated was too much trouble. Easier to just disarm them—literally—before the transformation.
The others caught on quickly and tried to inject themselves with the cursed serum—but something strange happened.
Ronan threw his first sword.
It spun through the air like a reaper's scythe, severing wrists in a single sweep. Those unlucky enough to be too slow screamed before falling silent—dead from the shock alone.
But it didn't end there.
With a swift kick, Ronan launched the severed wrists at other men mid-injection. The grisly projectiles knocked them off balance, interrupting their transformation. Before they could recover, their wrists too were carved clean off in blurs of silver and crimson.
Seconds passed. Maybe ten.
Now, all the men were on their knees, trembling, their arms dripping. They had tried to become monsters—but the true monster was the one calmly sitting before them.
Back to the Present
The man in the green suit—the one responsible for organizing this gathering—finally spoke. His voice shook.
"I was just told to distribute the serums… fast. I had days. They said they'd kill me if I didn't."
Ronan studied him in silence, eyes narrowed. He wouldn't buy that l. If the man was this terrified, he could have easily contacted a Hero Guild for protection.
Sensing Ronan's doubt, the man continued, "You don't understand… the ones in black—just their aura… it could kill me. No one can save me from them."
Ronan's frown deepened. He'd crushed four, maybe six of these secret gatherings. He'd destroyed hundreds of cursed serums. But each time, no matter where he went, they always spoke of them—the men in black.
He stood up. With a flick of his wrist, the pile of cursed serum floated into the air, into into a glowing white sphere. He pressed a small button, shrinking it into a marble-sized sphere.
"She's really something," he muttered, thinking of Clara and her insane inventions.
As he turned to leave, one of the men shouted, "Wait! Aren't you taking us into custody or something?! Why did you even stop us if not for that?!"
Ronan kept walking, his voice cold and distant.
"That's the job of a hero," he said. "I'm not one of them."
The room fell into stunned silence. Everyone knew there were only four categories for Awakeners: Hero, Villain, Assassin, or Helper. But with Ronan's abilities and power, he clearly wasn't a Helper. And now he claimed not to be a Hero either…
So what was he?
"Before I forget," Ronan said, pausing at the door. "Pass a message to those men in black."
He turned slightly, his eyes like frozen steel.
"Tell them… the Tryst Guild is coming for them."
Then he was gone.
The men sat in stunned silence, realizing how deeply this moment would scar their futures. Some were public figures. If word of this got out, their lives were over.
A Few Minutes Later…
Footsteps echoed.
Terror filled their hearts. Had he returned?
The door opened.
It wasn't Ronan.
A man stepped inside, dressed in black. His face showed no anger—just cold indifference. He had a thick beard… but the most terrifying thing was the third eye in the center of his forehead.
He stared at the man in the green suit and spoke with icy calm.
"Where are the cursed serums?"
The man explained everything he could, watching as the figure's calm expression cracked—just slightly—with a twitch of fury.
The green-suited man's heart pounded. He prayed it wouldn't lead to his death.
"So," the man in black said, his voice now sharp, "you lost everything to a stranger who isn't even a hero?"
The man gulped.
The third eye glowed yellow.
His breath caught in his throat.
"Please, I can expl—"
Phew. Splash.
His head exploded like a smashed melon.
He dropped, lifeless.
A scream rang out. "Wait! He was the one responsible! I'm the third richest man in the Gray Region—I can help—"
The man in black nodded.
The man smiled.
Phew. Splash.
Headless.
Another man tried to charge forward. "He's going to kill all of us!" he screamed.
Phew. Splash.
Dead.
Panic erupted. Then silence. A creeping realization dawned.
They were all going to die.
The room filled with desperate, hopeless cries… then one by one, they faded into nothing.
Seconds later,
The door opened again.
The man in black stepped out, face calm once more, not a drop of blood on him.
"Invalid test subjects eliminated.
Project: ULTIMATE continues."
To be continued...