Chapter Fourteen

  Ambrose sat in the house he had claimed as his base in Virion, laying out the operation in his mind. There was no need for paper, no board with maps and pins. His C-Grade abilities and years of honed focus made memorization effortless, even without the enhancements of the System.

  The safe house was sparsely furnished, functional rather than comfortable. The desk where he sat bore scuff marks from its previous owner, the wooden surface worn smooth in places from years of use. His World Eater cloak hung on a nearby chair, momentarily at rest though never truly dormant. Through the window, Virion's neon skyline created a kaleidoscope of colors against the night sky, the city oblivious to the storm about to be unleashed within its boundaries.

  Adam's information was thorough, detailing locations, names, and operations. With it, Ambrose now had a clear path forward. His strategy was simple: dismantle Vorshawn's organization piece by piece, starting from the street level. The lieutenant's comprehensive knowledge of Red Hand's infrastructure had provided Ambrose with everything he needed—a complete organizational chart, security protocols, and most importantly, the chain of command that would eventually lead to Vorshawn himself.

  Drug dens, dealer houses, lookouts, nothing would be left intact. Each strike would destabilize Vorshawn's empire and draw him out of hiding. Like removing foundation stones from a building, the systematic elimination of key elements would eventually cause the entire structure to collapse. Vorshawn would have no choice but to emerge and deal with the threat personally.

  Information is as good as any claw, it changes things, Akaroth rumbled in his mind, the dragon's voice a low, resonant growl. Her consciousness stirred within the infernal dimension, anticipating the violence to come.

  Ambrose silently agreed. The dragon wasn't wrong. With the intelligence Adam had provided, he didn't need to play it by ear or rely on guesswork. The operation would proceed with precision. Each target was already prioritized in his mind, the sequence designed to create maximum disruption with minimal chance of warning reaching Vorshawn before significant damage was done.

  He paused briefly, considering his approach. The past operations against Red Hand thugs had been direct and overwhelming, a straightforward application of superior power. This phase would require more subtlety, more strategy. The higher up Vorshawn's chain he went, the more resistance he would encounter. Lieutenants like Maxwell Crane, Kravos, and Elena Voss would not fall as easily as street-level operators.

  But that would come later. For now, the focus was on destabilizing the foundation, creating chaos that would force the higher-level targets to expose themselves.

  Tonight, it would begin. His target was a major dealer's house, a hub for Red Hand activity in this sector of Virion. Once it burned, the rest would follow. If Vorshawn wasn't aware of the attacks yet, he soon would be. The first strikes might be attributed to rival gangs or internal struggles, but the pattern would eventually become clear. Someone was systematically dismantling Red Hand, and that someone was coming for its leader.

  Ambrose stood, the Forge Icon within him responding to his resolve, reality solidifying around him as he prepared for the night's work. The hunt was about to continue, and this time, he had a clear path to his prey.

  Dexter "The Walrus" Shawn loved three things in life: comfort, food, and women. They were his only goals, the driving force behind every decision he'd ever made. Everything else, power, reputation, respect, was merely a means to these ends. His decisions were simple calculations: will this bring me more comfort, more food, more women?

  In a city as corrupt as Virion, Dexter had carved out a niche for himself, climbing the ranks of the Red Hand with a combination of cunning and cruelty. Some said he was born with drugs in one hand and stolen credits in the other. His early years on Virion's streets had been a masterclass in survival, each day a lesson in the city's brutal economics. He had learned quickly that morality was a luxury few could afford.

  His rise had been steady. From working the streets to earning the trust of an LT, he'd eventually been put in charge of managing this neighborhood. His territory wasn't the largest, but it was profitable, a section of mid-level housing where residents had enough credits to sustain their habits but not enough influence to attract serious attention from the authorities. His men called him the Walrus, a fitting nickname for a man whose massive frame, grayish skin, and jowls resembled the tusks of the marine mammal.

  The System had been good to Dexter, amplifying his natural talents while offering new avenues for exploitation. At Level 153, he was no lightweight, though he preferred to let others handle the physical aspects of enforcement. His [Metal Manipulation] skill provided both offense and defense, allowing him to control his environment without exerting himself—a perfect alignment with his preference for comfort.

  Dexter had lost his arm in a fight years ago, replacing it with a runed metal prosthetic. The limb was a work of art, a testament to Virion's technological prowess combined with System enhancements. It responded to his thoughts with machine precision, the runes pulsing with power whenever he activated his skill. Even his chair, a large, rune-engraved monstrosity, was a symbol of his indulgence. With a thought, it could hover, allowing him to wield his skills while lounging in comfort.

  His penthouse suite occupied the top floor of a mid-rise building, the space transformed from a standard apartment into a lavish den befitting his status. The walls were lined with screens showing security feeds from throughout his territory, though he rarely bothered to check them. That was what underlings were for.

  Tonight, he was in his element, surrounded by plates of food, piles of drugs, and two blondes sprawled across his bed. The room was thick with the sweet, acrid smell of synthetic narcotics and the heavy aroma of rich foods. Life was good, and he had no problems to speak of. Red Hand's protection ensured that no one would dare challenge his domain, and his position within the organization granted him all the privileges he desired.

  Until the pounding on his door shattered the peace.

  "What do ya want?" Dexter bellowed, his jowls quivering as he glanced at the blondes and the drugs, debating what to sample first. Why not both? he thought with satisfaction. The interruption was irritating but not yet alarming. Underlings were always bringing problems, most of which could be solved with intimidation or credits.

  The door burst open, and one of his lookouts stumbled in, wide-eyed and frantic. The young man's cybernetic eye whirred as it adjusted focus, the implant glowing an anxious red. His natural eye was dilated with fear, sweat beading on his forehead.

  "Walrus! Someone's attackin' us, man!"

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  Dexter frowned, the words not registering at first. No one attacked the Red Hand, not here, not in Virion. It was unthinkable. The organization's influence extended too deeply into the city's power structures for anyone to risk such a confrontation. Even rival gangs respected the boundaries, understanding that direct conflict would be mutually destructive.

  "Ya moost be mistaken, boy. Leave me be." His dismissal was automatic, the possibility of a genuine threat too remote to consider seriously. The boy was probably overreacting to some minor disturbance, perhaps a customer dispute or a territorial scuffle.

  The house shook violently, cutting off any further protests. The vibration was not a typical earthquake or structural tremor; it carried an unnatural quality, as if the very fabric of reality was being disturbed. Chains shot through the doorway, their fiery links wrapping around the boy and yanking him backward into a portal of flickering flames. The silver-red glow of the hellfire cast eerie shadows across the room, momentarily transforming the luxurious space into something alien and threatening.

  "What the fook?" Dexter roared, his chair whirling as he turned to face the intruder. The comfortable lethargy that had enveloped him moments before evaporated, replaced by the sharp edge of alarm. His runed arm activated automatically, metal components shifting and realigning as they prepared for combat.

  One of the blondes stirred, blinking groggily. The System's enhancements were visible in her unnaturally bright blue eyes, cybernetic implants that allowed for heightened sensory experiences, common modification among those catering to Virion's elite. "What's going on? Hey, Sav, wake up!" She shook her companion, who didn't move. Panic flashed across her face. "Oh fuck, I think she ODed. What's—"

  Her words cut off in a shriek as the intruder entered the room.

  He was tall, his hair a wild cascade of fiery red. His one eye glowed an unnatural green, like the open meadows of a dream. Black armor clung to his frame, veins of pulsing crimson threading through the dark metal. A hood draped from his pauldrons, its iridescent runes glowing faintly with an ominous green light.

  The hunger emanating from the cloak was palpable, a living force restrained only by the man's will. It wasn't just a garment but something alive, something ancient and voracious. And yet, even held back, his spiritual pressure was suffocating. It filled the room like a physical weight, making breathing difficult and movement a struggle for anyone unprepared for such force.

  "Whoo the fook are ya?" Dexter growled, his beady eyes narrowing. Despite his outward bravado, a primal part of his brain recognized the danger before him. This wasn't an ordinary threat, not even an ordinary System user. This was something else entirely.

  The stranger's meadow-green eye fixed on him, glowing brighter as a sneer twisted his lips. There was contempt in that expression, but also something colder, more methodical, the look of someone executing a plan rather than acting on impulse.

  Chains lashed out, but Dexter acted quickly, sending the large fridge in the corner of the room crashing into them with a flick of his wrist. His [Metal Manipulation] skill activated instantly, the runes on his prosthetic arm blazing with power as he directed the heavy appliance. The chains recoiled, deflected by the impact. The collision sent food and containers scattering across the floor, adding to the chaos.

  "Ya'll have to doo better than that!" Dexter bellowed, drawing on his mana. He activated [Metal Manipulation] again, this time with greater force. The metal fixtures around the room, light fittings, appliances, even the reinforced doors of his safe, tore free from their moorings, condensing into sharp shards that hovered momentarily before launching toward the intruder.

  The attack failed spectacularly. The mana-infused projectiles crumpled mid-air, as if striking an invisible barrier. The energy behind them was sucked away, devoured by some unseen force. What should have been a devastating barrage became nothing more than a shower of harmless metal fragments dropping to the floor.

  Dexter frowned, beads of sweat forming on his brow. This was beyond anything he had encountered before. His instincts screamed at him to analyze this opponent, to understand what he was facing. He activated [Analysis], a skill he rarely needed but maintained for precisely such situations.

  [Ambrose Severen – Level ??]: The Knight of Avalon.

  The information was sparse, incomplete. The level reading returned as indecipherable, suggesting either an error in his skill or an opponent whose power exceeded what his current level could properly assess. Neither option was comforting.

  "The knight of woot now?" Dexter muttered, confusion giving way to dread. Avalon was just a name to him, a distant realm he had heard mentioned but never encountered directly. The title meant nothing, but the power behind it was undeniable.

  Ambrose didn't respond. Instead, he unleashed his spirit, the force of it erupting like a volcanic wave. The spiritual pressure that had been merely suffocating now became crushing, a tidal wave of raw power that filled the room and threatened to tear it apart.

  The room buckled under the pressure. The chair's runes flared briefly before the metal groaned and collapsed beneath Dexter's bulk. Walls cracked, the floor trembled, and debris rained down from above. The screens displaying security feeds shattered simultaneously, glass fragments adding to the destruction.

  Dexter groaned, his massive frame pinned by the overwhelming weight of Ambrose's spiritual pressure. What had been a comfortable domain moments before had become a cage, and for the first time in years, he felt genuine fear. Struggling to lift his head, he met the knight's glowing green eyes, the heat of the Forge Icon radiating from him like a hammer poised to strike.

  "Whoo…are…ya?" Dexter croaked, his voice barely audible. It was a desperate question, the last gasp of someone trying to understand what was happening to them, what force had suddenly disrupted the carefully constructed comfort of their existence.

  "Normally, I'd ask questions," Ambrose said, his tone calm but edged with disdain. "But you don't know anything worth asking."

  The assessment was accurate. Dexter wasn't high enough in Red Hand's hierarchy to possess valuable intelligence. He was a cog in the machine, significant in his domain but ultimately replaceable and uninformed about the organization's higher functions.

  With effortless strength, Ambrose lifted Dexter by the collar, his eyes glowing with power. The Walrus's substantial weight seemed inconsequential, held aloft as easily as a child might lift a doll.

  A spark ignited within Dexter, a tiny needle of pain that quickly swelled into an all-consuming inferno. It wasn't physical, not entirely. It was deeper, a fire fueled by the weight of every sin he had ever committed. [Retribution's Gaze] activated, turning Dexter's own evil against him, forcing him to experience the suffering he had inflicted throughout his life.

  Dexter screamed, the sound strangled by the intensity of the agony. Memories surged through his mind: the woman he'd injected with too many drugs just to see what would happen. The addicts he'd preyed upon, exploiting their weaknesses for profit and amusement. The women he'd abused, treating them as objects rather than people. The bodies he'd buried, lives ended for convenience or example.

  Every crime, every cruelty, every act of depravity fed the flames burning through him. His eyes steamed, and his blood felt as though it had turned to ash. The pain was beyond description, beyond endurance, yet there was no escape from it.

  "Fook! Fook!!!! Agh!"

  The last thought that passed through Dexter's mind before death claimed him was a single, bittersweet revelation: Finally…I'm getting what I deserve.

  His body slumped in Ambrose's grip, life extinguished as the cumulative weight of his sins proved too much to bear. The Knight of Avalon released him, letting the corpse fall to the floor amid the wreckage of what had once been a monument to indulgence and exploitation.

  Without a word, Ambrose opened a portal to Avalon. The Tree would receive another soul tonight, another contribution to its growing power. Dexter "The Walrus" Shawn was just the beginning, the first of many who would feed Avalon's hunger while simultaneously advancing Ambrose's hunt for Vorshawn Red.

  The terrified blonde who had witnessed the execution cowered in the corner, expecting to be next. Instead, Ambrose merely glanced at her, his expression unreadable.

  "Get out of here. Find help for your friend if she's still alive. And stay away from Red Hand territory from now on."

  The mercy was calculated rather than compassionate. The survivor would spread the word, the story of what had happened here, the fate that had befallen the Walrus. Fear would spread through Red Hand's ranks, creating confusion and uncertainty that would make his subsequent strikes more effective.

  As he tossed Dexter's body through the portal, Ambrose surveyed the destruction. One node eliminated from Vorshawn's network. Many more to go. The hunt continued, methodical and relentless, toward its inevitable conclusion.