Chapter 47:
Ronan stared at the yellow-haired woman—the one who killed Sam—with a gaze as cold as ice. He recognized her instantly. The red armored suit, the confident smirk, and the calm posture amidst chaos. She was one of the strongest among the Red Vanguard, the cursed organization's top enforcers.
He had fought two before—brutal encounters that nearly cost him his life. But he survived. He won.
Now, he gripped his twin blades tighter and crossed them in front of him. Ready.
High above on a rooftop, the woman blew a lazy puff of smoke, her yellow hair fluttering in the wind.
"Tch… Big words, blade boy," she sneered. "Let's see if you can back them up."
With a flick of her fingers, a barrage of bullets shot out from her floating snipers—fast, precise, and deadly. She expected Ronan to drop dead instantly, riddled with holes.
But something else happened.
Ronan moved.
With a blur of steel and motion, he weaved between the bullets, slashing through them with unnatural reflexes. Each round that reached him was sliced cleanly in half, falling harmlessly to the ground.
The woman's eyes narrowed. Her smirk faded. "Huh… This one's got bite."
She pointed her finger like a gun. The snipers responded, firing again—faster, harder. The rooftop cracked beneath the sheer power.
Ronan darted forward, leaping over debris, using broken walls and crumbling structures as cover. Every bullet that struck the stone shredded it like paper. But he advanced, dodging, twisting, slashing.
His plan was simple.
Get close.
End it.
He was a close-range fighter. She relied on distance and overwhelming firepower. If he reached her—it was over.
The woman knew that too. Her palm opened wide, then clenched. The barrage intensified—more bullets, more velocity, more chaos.
Ronan kept moving. Blood began to stain his clothes—some bullets hit, too many to block—but he didn't falter. His eyes never left her. His anger fueled him. His movements grew sharper. Faster.
And then, in a blink, he twisted mid-air and hurled one of his swords like a bolt of lightning.
The woman flinched—just barely avoiding the fatal strike. But it grazed her cheek, drawing blood.
She froze.
Someone… hurt me?
Her hand reached for the cut, trembling. On my face?!
Her face twisted in rage. "YOU BASTARD!"
Her two palms opened. She was done playing. The air cracked as she fired with full power—dozens of sniper shots per second, each deadlier than the last. The rooftop trembled from the force.
Ronan dodged, but the numbers were overwhelming. Bullets tore into him—once, twice, dozens of times. Blood gushed. His body jerked with each hit.
"Too bad," she muttered. "Should've died earlier.
The woman smiled with satisfaction as Ronan's figure began to fade and deteriorate before her eyes. She tilted her head in confusion, watching the form vanish into nothing. Something's wrong, she thought, instincts flaring.
Then she felt it.
Whipping her head to the left, her heart dropped into her stomach. Ronan stood there—alive, unharmed—his blades crossed in an X over his chest. Her eyes widened in disbelief. How?!
She didn't wait. With a furious snarl, she redirected all her sniper drones toward him, unleashing a storm of bullets at blistering speed.
"Too late," Ronan whispered.
In a blur, he slashed the ground and vanished, reappearing right in front of her. Her lips parted to scream, but no sound came. A sharp gust of wind brushed past her.
And then—Phew—her hands dropped to the ground, cleanly severed. Her eyes bulged in shock.
Before she could react, his blade flashed again. Her legs buckled beneath her, sliced through like paper. The sniper drones hovering in the air clattered to the ground—useless without her hands to control them.
But it wasn't the pain that terrified her most.
It was Ronan's expression.
Emotionless. Cold. But beneath the surface—rage. Not wild and flaring, but coiled, calculating. The look of someone who had already decided she wouldn't die quickly but painfully.
"W-Wait! Please!" she cried, crawling backward in panic, her heart pounding like it would burst. "D-Don't come any closer!"
But Ronan kept walking.
"I'll tell you everything! I know things—valuable things!" she pleaded.
Ronan stopped. His face showed no mercy. "Start talking."
She trembled, sniffling, and started to spill everything she knew. "I... I'm part of the Red Vanguard. There are over a hundred of us. But above us are the Dark Emissaries. They're the true elites. We were ordered to eliminate anyone interfering with the cursed serum distribution—"
Stab.
She screamed in pain. The blade wasn't deep, but it hurt more than any wound she'd ever received.
"Talk more," Ronan said calmly.
"That's all I know!" she cried.
Stab. Stab.
Agonized cries tore from her throat. Her nerves felt like they were burning.
"I'll talk! I'll talk!" she wailed. "There's something... a project... 'Project Ultimate.' That's why the Cursed Organization exists! Everything revolves around it!"
"What is Project Ultimate?" Ronan asked, voice as sharp as his blades.
"I don't know!" she screamed.
Stab.
"I swear—I don't know!"
More stabs. More pain. Her cries echoed into the night, each one more desperate than the last.
"I'm telling the truth! Only the Dark Emissaries know the full details!" she sobbed.
Ronan's expression darkened with fury. "Why did you shoot the kid?"
"I-It wasn't on purpose! I was aiming for you! He just got in the way!" she screamed, eyes wild with terror.
Stab. Stab.
"Please—just kill me!" she begged. "End it!"
Ronan stepped closer. "Did you feel anything when he died?"
"I... Yes!" she blurted.
Stab. Stab.
"I lied! I didn't feel anything!" she howled. "He was a fool for jumping in front of you! A damn fool!"
Ronan stopped, staring down at her broken body. "How many people have you killed?"
"I-I don't know..."
Stab.
"Maybe... maybe two hundred!" she cried out.
Ronan's eyes twitched. "Two hundred."
Then he started to count.
"One. Two. Three. Four..."
Each stab followed the count. Clean, calculated, precise. Her screams filled the air—raw, endless pain. Her body convulsed, her soul shattered. She wasn't dead yet. But death would've been mercy.
He didn't stop until he reached two hundred.
Then, he stood over her trembling, blood-soaked body. Her eyes—wide, empty—stared up at him.
"Go to hell," Ronan muttered, and drove his blade through her heart.
It was over.
He walked and collapsed beside Sam's lifeless body, his breathing heavy, the rage finally giving way to silence. He looked down at the twin blades in his hands—silent instruments of vengeance, now soaked in blood.
They were the reason he'd survived.
The first active skill, [Phantom Mirage], allowed him to implant illusions into anyone whose blood touched his blades, making them see what he wanted them to see for few seconds.
The second, [Blitz Breaker], tripled his speed for a brief moment—just long enough to get close, just long enough to end her.
As he sat in silence, he couldn't help but wonder...
Just how many freaks are hiding in this Tryst Guild?
To be continued....