Chapter 45
A violent battle erupted in a crumbling industrial district. On one side stood a swarm of ruthless bandits and gang members, driven by greed and desperation to seize the elusive Power Booster. On the other side were warriors in white uniforms lined with blue trim — members of the Tryst Guild. Though outnumbered four to one , these guild members were still awakeners — fighters with no intention of surrendering.
The two forces collided with explosive force. Skills lit up the battlefield, elements clashing and striking with deadly precision. The gang had the numbers — outnumbering the guild five to one — yet they couldn't gain the upper hand.
It wasn't due to superior skills. Most of the guild's top members wielded B-rank abilities, comparable to those of the more elite gangsters. The true difference lay in their weapons — powerful arms forged in their Weapon Forge. Every guild member wielded a weapon of at least D-rank, many carried C-rank gear, and a few possessed B-rank weapons. With these, they fought on equal ground, defying the odds.
The battle raged back and forth like an unending tide, both sides bloodied but unrelenting. The outcome seemed destined to come down to whichever side's numbers dropped first.
Then — chaos.
One of the gang members charged straight into the heart of the guild formation, roaring as he activated a powerful explosive skill.
BOOOOM!
The shockwave flattened everything nearby. Several bandits were caught in the blast and died instantly. Smoke filled the air, and for a moment, it seemed as though the guild's resistance had been shattered.
But as the smoke cleared, the truth hit the gang like a hammer to the gut — the guild members were still standing. Wounded, yes. Some barely conscious. But all alive.
Their salvation came from artifacts — protective barriers issued to each squad member. The artifacts required time to recharge, and though some had already used theirs in earlier skirmishes, the partial defenses had been just enough to spare their lives.
Now, with the gang's numbers down to forty and the guild holding steady at fifty, the tide had truly turned.
Despair set in.
Then, footsteps echoed across the battlefield.
A figure emerged.
Clad in crimson armor, a man strode confidently through the carnage. His presence was suffocating, his nonchalant gaze scanning the battlefield like an indifferent god.
He looked first at the battered gang members and shook his head in disappointment. Then his eyes fell on the white-and-blue-clad guild members, and his expression hardened into something cold and contemptuous.
"So... you must be the ones trying to put an end to the serum operation," he said, his voice calm yet menacing.
The squad leader stepped forward. "That's right. The cursed serum must be destroyed — all of it."
The man laughed, a deep, mocking sound. "I see. A bunch of low-rank idealists thinking they can dismantle something they don't even understand."
"We're not afraid of you," the guild member snapped. "We're ready to die for this cause."
"You will," the man replied coolly. "Just like every other hero guild that's tried. They all disappear without a trace."
The squad leader narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
He smile then reply, "I'm a member of the Red Vanguard, the elite enforcement unit of the Cursed Organization."
"So, you're one of those men in black we've heard about?" a guild member asked cautiously.
The man in red armor burst into loud, mocking laughter, shaking his head as if he'd just heard the most ridiculous joke.
"Me? In black?" he scoffed, looking them up and down like they were children. "Don't flatter yourselves."
His eyes narrowed. "If they had sent one of them, you would've been dead the moment you stepped onto the field. No games. No mercy. Just a clean sweep. One goal."
Before the guild could respond, the battle resumed. The clash of skills and steel continued, but the momentum had clearly shifted — and not in the guild's favor. Every attempt to close in on the red-armored man ended in pain and loss.
He was fast — unnaturally so.
His movements were fluid, unpredictable, and worse, he was a teleporter. Each time they thought they had him cornered, he'd vanish and reappear with deadly precision, striking from angles they couldn't anticipate.
Screams of pain echoed through the battlefield as guild members fell, their defenses torn apart. Blood spattered the ground. Their strongest attacks only grazed him.
But finally — a breakthrough.
A coordinated strike managed to land a blow, forcing the scythe-wielding man to stumble back several meters. His crimson armor sparked from the impact.
He smirked, wiping a streak of blood from his lip. "Heh... I have to admit, you're a tough bunch."
He glanced around at the field littered with bodies. Of the fifty guild members that had started the mission, only about thirty remained — most injured, some barely standing.
And yet... he called them tough.
Fear crept into the eyes of the survivors. For the first time since this mission began, they had suffered real losses. Deep ones. A third of their force, gone.
The man adjusted his grip on his scythe. "Since you're such a challenge, I suppose I'll clear out the trash first."
Without warning, he vanished.
Flash.
He reappeared behind the gang members — the very same criminals they'd been fighting for him moments ago. Some of them grinned, thinking they were being reinforced.
The grin didn't last.
"Invalid test subjects must be eliminated."
Their faces twisted in horror — but it was already too late.
Fshhh. Fshhh. Fshhh.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Heads dropped to the ground. Lifeless bodies followed.
Blood pooled. Limbs twitched. The rest of the gang tried to run, others fought back — but weakened from their prolonged fight with the guild, they didn't stand a chance.
It was a massacre.
The guild members could only watch in stunned silence.
Their enemies — wiped out in seconds by one of their own.
Whatever this cursed organization was... they weren't just evil. They were insane.
If they treated their own allies like this, what mercy would they ever show to outsiders?
Tim, the squad's current leader, felt the cold weight of reality settle over him. His knuckles clenched, sweat dripping down his brow.
That man... with that scythe and teleportation...
If we continue to fight him ...
We won't survive.
"Everyone, go!" Tim roared. "I'll hold him off!"
The guild members froze. Leaving him behind meant sending him to certain death. But Tim's voice cut through their hesitation.
"Get one of the commanders! They're the only ones who can take him on!"
Reluctantly, they nodded and bolted toward the exit.
But they didn't get far.
"Oh no you don't," the red-armored man sneered — and vanished.
By the time he reappeared, all the gangsters were already dead. He stood directly in front of the fleeing group, scythe raised.
He swung.
Tim barely managed to intercept the blow, but the sheer force knocked him back, leaving a bleeding gash on his arm. Before he could recover, the man hurled his scythe toward Tim's chest with a spinning howl of wind.
Tim moved to dodge—
But he couldn't.
His eyes darted down in horror.
A small, black robotic insect clung to his chest, its tiny limbs latched tightly into his skin.
It's restricting my movement!
Panic surged through him as the spinning scythe closed in, death just inches away.
This is it... I'm going to die.
BAM!
A thunderous crash echoed through the air as a massive hammer smashed into the scythe mid-flight, sending it clattering to the ground.
Tim's eyes widened in disbelief. Then he looked at the hammer — a massive weapon etched with a white "T" encircled by glowing blue chains.
A smile broke across his face.
He's here... Thank the gods.
The red-armored man's expression twisted in confusion. He had expected to see Tim's head roll. Instead, his weapon had been crushed mid-air.
Then, his body tensed.
Something's above me.
CRASH!
Glass rained down as the building's rooftop shattered. A figure descended like a comet, his fist slamming squarely into the red-armored man's face, sending him flying through the air.
He twisted in midair, landing roughly and skidding several meters before coming to a halt.
As he looked up, his gaze locked onto his attacker — a young man in his twenties with short black hair, sharp features, and a well-defined jawline. His shirt had been torn away, revealing a sculpted torso — a perfect six-pack layered over dense muscle, his entire frame radiating raw strength.
The stunned guild members recognized him instantly.
"Sir Ron!" they cried, their voices rising in joyous disbelief. "Welcome!"
Ron raised his hand, and the massive hammer that had crushed the scythe flew into his grip. He slung it behind his neck with practiced ease.
He surveyed the battlefield, his expression hardening as his eyes landed on the fallen.
Another senseless slaughter.
Another massacre by this cursed organization.
Ron's voice was low, but it burned with fury.
"So... another one of them, huh?"
He took a step forward, eyes locked on the red-armored killer.
"I'll show you exactly why you shouldn't mess with the Tryst Guild."
To be continued.....