Chapter Fifteen

  Icons and spirits clashed like feral beasts, their energies colliding with thunderous force. The swordsman moved with blistering speed, his blue-black blade a streak of frost and steel as it sliced through Ambrose's chains. Each impact created a shockwave of opposing forces, spiritual energy radiating outward and warping the physical environment around them.

  The battle had raged for nearly ten minutes, turning what had once been an orderly drug processing facility into a chaotic battlefield. Walls bore deep gashes where the swordsman's blade had cut through concrete like butter. The floor was marked with scorch patterns where Ambrose's hellfire had touched, creating a stark contrast to the areas covered in frost and ice from his opponent's abilities.

  Ambrose had to give him credit: the man was skilled. Each swing of his sword was precise, his movements fluid and deliberate. Winter frost billowed around him, his dark blond hair waving like a banner as his blade passed through the fiery portals Ambrose summoned, sealing them shut with icy precision. The temperature in the room fluctuated wildly as their powers fought for dominance, steam rising where fire and ice met only to be instantly frozen or evaporated.

  It was rare for Ambrose to encounter someone at this level of combat within Virion. This drug dealer, Anatoly Tarsis, had clearly trained for a moment like this. His underlings, who had been effortlessly dispatched, paled in comparison. But Anatoly? He was a different beast entirely. His power wasn't just in his System level, but in his technique, the perfect harmony between his abilities and his fighting style.

  The concrete basement, their battlefield, was a ruined mess. Walls were cracked, rubble strewn across the floor, and frost clung to the debris where Anatoly's power had touched. Water pipes exposed by their combat leaked, creating small puddles that instantly froze when touched by Anatoly's aura. Ambrose summoned Akaroth, the dragon axe roaring with crackling lightning as it met Anatoly's frosted blade in a shower of sparks. The collision sent vibrations through Ambrose's arm, a testament to the force behind the swordsman's strike.

  A worthy challenge! Akaroth's voice roared in his mind, a rumble of excitement as her edge pulsed with power. The dragon's essence within the axe responded to the battle, drawing on Ambrose's mana to generate increasingly powerful electrical discharges with each clash. The weapon seemed to grow lighter in his hands, more responsive, as if Akaroth herself was adapting to the rhythm of the fight.

  The air thickened, an electric tang of ozone mixing with the icy chill emanating from Anatoly's sword. Ambrose raised his hand as Anatoly unleashed a volley of sharp icicles, blasting them apart with bolts of lightning from Akaroth. The shattering echoes filled the basement, punctuated by Anatoly's rapid movements as he closed the distance once again. Fragments of ice rained down like deadly hail, each shard carrying enough force to penetrate concrete.

  "You're good," Anatoly said, his voice carrying a faint accent that Ambrose couldn't place. "I haven't had a fight like this in years. Makes me almost sorry I have to kill you."

  Ambrose didn't respond. Talking during combat was a distraction he avoided, a lesson learned through countless battles. Instead, he renewed his assault, chains of hellfire erupting from the ground in a rapid sequence designed to restrict Anatoly's mobility while he prepared his next attack.

  Ambrose decided it was time to know who he was truly dealing with. Activating [Retribution's Gaze], he scanned his opponent. The skill connected them momentarily on a spiritual level, giving Ambrose insight into Anatoly's nature, revealing sins and capabilities in equal measure.

  [Anatoly Tarsis – Level 220 Winter Swordsman]: A psychopathic drug dealer. Enjoys torture, murder, and creating new addicts to the drugs he deals. Responsible for over seventy deaths, including three children used as test subjects for new synthetic compounds.

  Of course, Ambrose thought with dry disdain. The scan confirmed what he had suspected, Anatoly wasn't just a dealer but a monster wearing human skin. The revelation didn't change Ambrose's approach to the fight, but it reinforced the righteousness of his mission. Feeding this man to Avalon's Tree would be an act of justice, not merely a tactical move in his hunt for Vorshawn.

  Anatoly's Icon strained against Ambrose's, the clash of their powers resonating through the building like a physical weight. The Winter Icon manifested as a crystalline structure of impossible precision and beauty, radiating cold that went beyond temperature, reaching for the very concept of stasis and preservation. It sought to freeze

  Ambrose's own power, to lock it in place and render it immobile. His opponent's Icon, while formidable, was like a sword battering against an unyielding anvil. The Forge Icon was simply more advanced, and Ambrose could feel the cracks forming in Anatoly's defenses.

  The structure around them groaned under the strain, dust and fragments of concrete raining down. The building wasn't designed to withstand the forces being unleashed within it, its foundations weakening with each exchange of power. It gave Ambrose an idea. Why continue a direct confrontation when the environment itself could be weaponized?

  While fending off Anatoly's attacks, Ambrose began opening portals at the foundation level of the building. The structure was already weakened, and his fiery portals ripped through stone and concrete, widening fractures and dislodging support beams. Each portal was precisely placed, targeting load-bearing columns and support walls, creating a cascade of structural failures that would multiply exponentially once started.

  Anatoly seemed to realize what was happening, his attacks becoming more desperate, more frenzied. "You think I'll let you bring this place down on us? I've survived worse!"

  Anatoly's blade slashed toward him again, but Ambrose stepped through a portal just in time. Behind him, the basement collapsed in a thunderous roar, a symphony of destruction as the tall, graffiti-covered building above them gave way. The sound was deafening, a cacophony of breaking glass, crumbling concrete, and twisting metal as floors pancaked onto each other. Dust billowed upward, creating a temporary cloud that obscured the scene from view.

  Ambrose emerged onto the street, watching from a safe distance as the structure crumbled in on itself, a choking cloud of dust billowing into the night sky. The street shuddered with the impact, pedestrians screaming and running for cover as debris scattered across a wide radius.

  But no notification appeared in his mind. His foe was still alive. The System would have informed him if Anatoly had perished. The absence of a notification confirmed what Ambrose already suspected, a fighter of Anatoly's caliber wouldn't be defeated so easily.

  Ambrose didn't wait. He lifted Akaroth, feeding mana into the axe. The weapon pulsed in his grip, the air growing heavy as storm clouds gathered overhead, blotting out the moonlight. The metal seemed to liquify, flowing like mercury as it responded to the infusion of spiritual energy.

  Thunder rumbled, rolling across the city as lightning flashed, illuminating the scene. The axe transformed, its form stretching and twisting as it became Akaroth the Mother of Storms, a massive dragon, her scales a mesmerizing blend of blues, shimmering like frozen lightning. Her form was majestic and terrifying, a manifestation of primal power that dwarfed the surrounding buildings. Spectators who hadn't fled at the building's collapse now ran in terror, their screams barely audible over the dragon's thunderous presence.

  With each beat of her enormous wings, bolts of electricity crackled through the sky, striking the ground with deafening booms. Her claws gleamed like jagged ice, and her maw opened wide, revealing a roiling inferno of power within. The air around her distorted, reality itself struggling to contain the conceptual force of a dragon made manifest.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  But Ambrose wasn't done.

  Raising his hand, he poured more mana into the dragon, hellfire mingling with lightning until Akaroth became a monstrous vision of brimstone and storm. Silver-red flames danced along her scales, creating an otherworldly effect that was both beautiful and terrifying. The dragon's presence was overwhelming, a beacon of power that seemed to resonate through the city. Anyone with spiritual sensitivity, no matter how slight, would feel the disturbance, the ripple in reality's fabric that Akaroth's manifestation created.

  Pleased, hatchling? Akaroth's voice rumbled in his mind, a mixture of pride and satisfaction permeating her words. This is what we truly are together. Power incarnate.

  Anatoly emerged from the rubble, shoving broken stone and debris off himself. His pristine appearance was gone, replaced by a battered warrior covered in dust and blood. One arm hung loosely at his side, clearly broken, but his sword remained clutched firmly in his other hand. His determined eyes locked onto Ambrose, but they quickly widened as he looked up and saw the dragon. For the first time, fear flickered across his face, the realization dawning that he was outmatched.

  "Obliterate him," Ambrose commanded, his voice cold and precise.

  Akaroth's throat glowed, a searing light building within. With a beat of her wings, she sent gales of wind hammering into the ground, rattling the debris. The air vibrated with the raw intensity of her power, the very atmosphere becoming charged with potential energy. The temperature plummeted, then soared, then plummeted again as conflicting elemental forces sought equilibrium.

  Anatoly tried to move, raising his blade in a futile defensive posture, but Ambrose was prepared. Chains from [Infernal Sanctuary] erupted from the ground, wrapping around his legs and holding him in place. The silver-red flames of the chains cast eerie shadows across the ruined street, their burning edges searing into Anatoly's flesh despite his cold aura. The winter swordsman slashed at the chains, cutting himself free, but the delay cost him dearly.

  Crimson lightning and stygian fire erupted from Akaroth's maw, slamming into Anatoly with devastating force. The combined elemental fury overwhelmed his defenses, shattering his Icon's protection and engulfing him completely. The impact sent a shockwave through the street, creating a crater as earth and debris exploded outward. Windows shattered for blocks in every direction, the concussive force registering on seismic monitors throughout the city.

  When the smoke cleared, Anatoly lay at the center of the crater, his body a blackened husk, his flesh charred beyond recognition. His sword, once a formidable weapon of ice and death, had melted into a useless lump of metal beside him. His Winter Icon flickered weakly, a dying crystal that had lost its inner light.

  Ambrose descended into the crater, Akaroth transforming back into her axe form and flying into his hand. The weapon hummed with satisfaction, the dragon's essence content with the demonstration of their combined power. Anatoly groaned weakly, his voice barely audible through burned lips.

  "Who…what…are you?"

  Ambrose stood over him, silent. Alice would have cracked a one-liner, something witty and cutting. She had always found the right words for such moments, turning even the most tense situation with a bit of humor. But Ambrose didn't care for theatrics. He was a weapon with a purpose, and that purpose was being fulfilled.

  Without a word, he opened a portal beneath Anatoly, sending him to Vivienne. The Lady of the Lake appeared in the portal's view, her ethereal form shimmering into greater solidity as she realized what was happening. She raised an eyebrow at the charred figure before summoning a crystal, encasing him without hesitation. The process was elegant and efficient, the crystal forming around Anatoly's body with liquid grace before hardening into an impenetrable prison.

  "Another addition to our collection, Sir Knight," Vivienne observed, her voice carrying the gentle rustle of leaves. "The Tree appreciates your diligence."

  Ambrose closed the portal and opened another, stepping through to his base. The transition was seamless, a moment of disorientation as he moved from one reality to another. The safe house welcomed him with its spartan simplicity, a stark contrast to the chaos he had just left behind.

  Progress had been made, but there was still work to be done. Anatoly had been a major distributor, his operation a significant node in Red Hand's network. His elimination would disrupt supply chains, create confusion among lower-level operators, and force Vorshawn to adapt. Each such disruption brought Ambrose closer to his ultimate target.

  For now, the focus remained on Vorshawn Red and the completion of his current mission.

  The hunt continued, methodical and relentless, drawing ever closer to its target.

  "I want him found, Smith!"

  The chief's fist slammed onto his desk, rattling the stacks of papers piled on top. A balding, stocky man in a rumpled suit, he had a prosthetic hand etched with runes that glowed faintly in the dim light. The hand was a top-of-the-line model, likely costing more than a year's salary on a detective's wage. Its presence raised obvious questions about how a public servant could afford such luxury, questions Chelsea had learned not to ask.

  "I'm working on it, sir," Chelsea replied, her voice even. She maintained her professional composure despite the chief's outburst, years of navigating Virion's corrupt system having taught her when to push back and when to appear compliant.

  The office around them reflected the chief's personality, cluttered and aggressive, with trophies and citations displayed prominently despite the general disarray. The air was thick with cigar smoke, the ventilation system having long ago given up its battle against the chief's habits.

  "Working on it?" The chief lit a cigar, taking a sharp puff before exhaling a cloud of smoke directly toward Chelsea. The gesture was deliberately disrespectful, but she didn't react. "He's destroying this city! I've got the mayor breathing down my neck, the press swarming like vultures, and an ulcer the size of Virion! You've got three days, Smith. Three days to bring me results, or I'm calling in SpecOps to clean up this shitshow."

  The threat wasn't idle. SpecOps would take over the investigation, applying their brutal efficiency without concern for collateral damage. Chelsea had seen their work before, entire city blocks cordoned off and citizens disappeared without explanation. Their involvement would make everything worse, especially for the innocent caught in the crossfire.

  Chelsea held back a sigh, nodding curtly. "Understood, sir."

  What she didn't say was that she suspected the chief's urgency had less to do with public safety and more to do with protecting Red Hand's interests. The building that had collapsed earlier that night had been one of their major distribution centers, a fact that wouldn't appear in any official reports but was known to anyone paying attention.

  She turned on her heel and walked out of the office, only to find herself face-to-face with Vorshawn Red.

  The encounter was so unexpected that Chelsea nearly collided with him, stopping just short of physical contact. The gang leader's black hair gleamed like polished obsidian, his alabaster skin striking against the tailored darkness of his suit. His features were refined, almost aristocratic, giving him an appearance more suited to corporate boardrooms than criminal enterprises. His sharp features exuded elegance and menace, but it was his eyes that truly unsettled her.

  They were soulless voids, miniature black holes that seemed to draw in all light. Not merely dark in color, but somehow absent, as if the space where eyes should be had been replaced with patches of absolute emptiness. Chelsea had interrogated murderers, faced down armed suspects, and witnessed the aftermath of horrific crimes, but nothing had prepared her for the visceral wrongness of Vorshawn's gaze.

  "Excuse me, miss," Vorshawn said politely, his voice soft. "I have an appointment."

  His tone was cultured, almost pleasant, devoid of the threat that Chelsea instinctively knew lurked beneath. She tried to analyze him, to assess his level but returned only an error message, suggesting either an item or capabilities beyond what her.

  Chelsea sputtered, stepping aside as he brushed past her without a second glance. The brief moment of contact sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with temperature, a primal warning that screamed danger on a level beyond conscious thought.

  Her skin crawled, a shiver running down her spine as she hurried away, rubbing her arms instinctively. She didn't dare look back, didn't want to see if those void-like eyes were watching her retreat. The implications of Vorshawn's presence in the chief's office confirmed what she had long suspected about the department's corrupted hierarchy.

  As she reached her desk, Chelsea's resolve hardened. The chief had given her three days, and she intended to use them. If Vorshawn was concerned enough to make a personal appearance, it meant the mysterious attacker was having a real impact. For the first time in years, someone was actually hurting Red Hand's operations, creating an opportunity Chelsea couldn't afford to waste.

  She pulled up the latest reports, searching for patterns in the attacks, signatures that might help identify their perpetrator. The building collapse wasn't an isolated incident but part of a systematic dismantling of Red Hand's infrastructure. Whoever this Knight of Avalon was, he had become Chelsea's unlikely ally in the fight against Virion's corruption.

  If she could find him first, before SpecOps or Red Hand, perhaps they could work together. Or at the very least, she might learn something that could finally bring down the criminal empire that had held Virion in its grip for too long.

  The hunt was on, from both sides. And time was running out.